I hate job hunting.
I was let go from my last job last November. Beyond the inherent “go fuck yourself” underlying and unspoken message that comes with a company tossing you out on the street just in time for the holidays, this was a bit of a mixed blessing.(1)
I was hired by a small company two years ago, and loved working for them (laid back group, I had a good role, they didn’t take themselves too seriously, etc.). However, that company was bought by a mid-sized one and I immediately didn’t like the new group of corporate overlords (very intense, very serious, and a little inflexible regarding my job and work that requires A LOT
of flexibility). Among last year’s “highlights” were being so busy in a four month period that I worked more weekends than I had in the previous five years combined (not a joke or exaggeration, I calculated this). At one point, I was so busy that I barely slept the night before I needed dental work done
and my dentist practically tied me down and knocked me out because I was so tense from stress and lack of sleep.(2)
Nevertheless, going back out into job hunting wasn’t exactly a preferable choice for me, especially at a point in my career where I crave stability in a volatile job market and economy. My real concern about hitting the want ads again wasn’t whether I’m jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire with a new company, or breaking up an already established and comfortable routine for a new one. Nope, it’s reading/analyzing job ads, submitting my resume, showing up for an interview and discovering that interviewers and companies can be just as freakish as anyone you meet via online dating sites (and thank God I’m out of all of that nonsense these days). Then again, in a way, job hunting isn’t unlike online dating – everything may look kosher in the ad and the company website, but you won’t know for sure until you’re face-to-face with a potential new boss in their office or conference room.(3)
This isn’t the first time I’ve job hunted against my will (layoffs are a bitch), so I have the routine almost down to a science – post resumes everywhere, hunt the job sites with every applicable keyword I can think of, and network through friends and colleagues. Combined with my hatred of wearing suits, visiting strange places and meeting new people is still a bit of a task for me as a bit of an introvert. However, I always maintain that interviews for their own sake are worth it as practice for polishing up your first impression, thinking on your feet and explaining/defending your qualifications and track record skills. In the past, I’ve sat in interviews ranging from ones that went ridiculously (almost easily) well, and one where I was visibly sweating, nervous as Hell and completely out of league for the company and position.(4)
This time around, I’ve had some interesting interviews, and a few of them are experiences worth sharing…The Military Tribunal:
One of my first interviews was shortly before I was out of work (I was already job hunting for something better, I didn’t know it’d become a necessity so soon), with a company founded and run by a group of veterans. I thought I was going in for an hour-long conversation with my potential boss (that part happened as expected), but I was escorted into a conference room with the six executives and subjected to another hour and a half of esoteric and fancy tap dancing questions, as well. In what I can only guess was a set of questions they’ve rehearsed and thrown at others, they seemingly and randomly fired away one query after another, leaving me mentally and physically drained. The follow up with the potential boss afterward was briefly interrupted by one of the execs stopping by, slapping me on the back and offering a definitive and booming “GOOD JOB YOUNG MAN!”
Full disclosure – I turned down their offer because they were relocating, and the new office is too far and inconvenient for comfortably commuting.Sensing a Disturbance in the Force:
Another early-on interview was shortly before Christmas. This was a company that had a fantastic-looking website and a strong history of work and accomplishments. When I arrived at their office, it was in an office park that was more for cozy medical, lawyer or real estate practices – the sort of professional space that more resembled a town house. Walking into and through the office, the energy level was busy/frantic, yet it felt like more of a show. People were running around or milling about without any obvious purpose, I heard people in a meeting talking about their holiday plans instead of the presentation on the wall, and a few people were standing in other people’s offices mentioning “urgent issues,” but sounded more like “where are we going for happy hour tonight?” conversations. My “spidey sense” was detecting a bit of a show for my benefit, and my guard instantly went up. The HR person who first interviewed me spent a lot of the time talking me up about how much they liked my resume and what a wonderful place the company is. The rest of the interview was with what can best be described as a worn out, hopeless and utterly humorless proposal director, and the company’s owner, a shrewd woman who clearly had gone over my resume in microscopic detail. Over the years, I’ve learned to trust my instincts, and while I may not be able to put my finger on why a place, situation or person bugs me, I heed a mental “red flag” when I get one. Something felt very wrong about the company and people I spoke with, and I couldn’t shake it. The interview was in the morning, and by mid-afternoon they called and emailed me with a job offer, which seemed not only way too fast and convenient, but also a bit desperate. Fortunately, this was all on a Friday, so I had the weekend to mull it over. I spent some time researching the company, curiously not finding much on it, then finally one anonymous review from a former employee on a job site. Their account said, in not so many words, “IF APPROACHED BY THIS COMPANY, RUN – DO NOT WALK – AWAY FROM THEM!”
Ominous warning indeed, and thankfully I found a LinkedIn
connection between the one of the company’s former employees and a friend of mine. I emailed him for any insight he could give me, and within an hour he called and gave a carefully-worded-but-insightful account of how crooked the owner is and how they went through employees like toilet paper. In his own words, he “could not condone accepting a job offer from them.” That Monday I emailed my refusal of their offer, and within minutes the owner followed up with an email asking me why and with specific reasons. I made it a short answer of not being in alignment with what I need or want, but I suspect she knows the word is out on her and her company.Stay on Eye Contact:
The old saying is dress for the job you want, not the job you have. One more recent interview (that went extremely well), included a female associate who apparently enjoys wearing sweaters with dipping necklines and a habit of leaning forward to read documents in front of her (e.g., my resume on the conference table). I like to think that I make a good first impression and can keep a professional demeanor, but except for one other instance in an office environment, I’ve never had such a difficult time not staring or even glancing at someone’s “assets.”(5)
I must’ve managed it pretty well because the company is having me in for a second interview.Ramshackle Décor is the New “Shabby Chic:”
Now, I’ve been to companies that can best be described as “startups,” where they have limited resources, less-than-impressive looking office spaces and more casual dress codes (the pros and cons of which can be debated elsewhere). However, this particular interview was for a company with a corporate website that looked as if it was built using 10 or 15 year old programming, and had been in business for about as long. Thing is, the office space looked like they opened up shop last week – cables ran up and down hallways and between offices, no two pieces of hopelessly worn and frayed furniture matched, and the coffee maker sat proudly on top of a pedestal of milk crates (my personal favorite). Further, I’m sitting in their office all decked out in a suit while my interviewer was a man who is at least 10 years my senior and dressed in little more than an old t-shirt and jeans. I haven’t heard back from them, but don’t expect to…in all honesty, it’s not because the interview sucked (it went well), but because I doubt they’ll be in business next week.Who is Selling Who on this Job?:
This recent interview was for a position at a huge company (as in, international). I tend to dislike large companies because you’re a tiny cog in the big machine, along with layer-upon-layer of bureaucracy, and written-in-stone processes and procedures. In this case, the interviewer spent most of the 90 minutes talking about the job and how the company runs, which amounted to “if work comes to our office, then we’re doing it no matter how busy you are, and you will do it our way, just like it always has year after year.” So much in fact, that it felt as if he was trying to convince me to take the job rather than me selling my experience and qualifications for it. In the course of a 90 minute conversation, I think I spoke for maybe 10 of them, and felt as if they had possibly scared away people in the very role I had applied for (or rather, I hoped they had only been scared away).Beware Companies Owned by Married Couples:
A few years ago, I worked at a company owned by a married couple. This couple is notorious for being a pair of hustlers and grifters, constantly scheming for more money and business. At first glance, one might call them sharp and smart, but then you quickly realize that they’re only “street smart” and ruthless (and I’m being generous when I say “street smart”). This particular interview reminded me of that couple because I discovered when I arrived that my interview would be with the company’s owners…who also happen to be a married couple. The husband is a car salesmen-like hey-buddy-let’s-make-a-deal-before-you-c
an-change-your-mind kind of way talkaholic, and the wife a cold and calculating sphinx. The interview was mostly him talking and yammering away or asking me direct questions (and periodically interrupting me as I responded), and her quietly and carefully sizing me up. Although it was a good conversation, I still can’t shake the impression that the more he talked, the less he was telling, and wife has a poker face vibe where she knows far more than she lets on. Having already made the mistake of working for a married couple, I’m pretty sure I won’t repeat that mistake.(1) They did give me a two month severance and even offered to be a reference, so they appreciated what I did for them over the past year.
(2) It’s never a good sign when your dentist holds a drill in your mouth and doesn’t need to turn it on due to your body vibrating.
(3) And unlike meeting an online date for that first date over coffee, you can’t rely on a friend texting you a fake emergency, or excusing yourself for a pretend trip to the bathroom and sneaking out the back door.
(4) True story, I applied for a position that was way over my experience and qualifications, but I threw my resume over the fence just for the Hell of it. My shock of being invited for an interview paled by comparison to how advanced the job responsibilities were. In retrospect, this was well before sites like Facebook or LinkedIn were in use, so I’m relieved that the interviewer probably didn’t Google me or know someone I did (on a professional basis). Of course, if his memory about notable events is anything like mine, he’s still telling that story to friends and coworkers…not that I blame him.
(5) I used to work in an office where a coworker was down on all fours working on a banner during a “casual Friday,” and she not only preferred wearing low-hip-hanging jeans, but apparently wasn’t fond of wearing panties, thongs or any other kind of underwear.
It’s a commonly shared sentiment that going to the dentist isn’t the most fondly thought of or highly anticipated experiences. Certainly, there isn’t much to look forward to when facing the “new prisoner 'fresh fish'” violation of someone shoving their latex-gloved hands in your mouth, as well as using
medieval torture devices sharp dental instruments and high-pitched whirring former concentration camp devices power tools. Worse yet, our only recourse as a victim patient is praying or hoping (for those who are of the atheist variety) that the dentist doesn’t have a stroke, heart attack or epileptic seizure while probing, scraping or drilling into the recesses of your mouth. And then there’s the instinctive fear we all have during any visit to a doctor – what if they find something wrong?
Strangely, I’ve never had a fear or hatred of visiting my dentist. Except for a few token cavities, I’ve never had any major problems. At least, nothing that required above-and-beyond services. To put it another way, I don’t look forward to visiting my dentist, but I never truly feared or loathed the experience either. The closest of come to dreading the dentist was having my wisdom teeth pulled, which wasn’t so bad because they 1. knocked me out for the procedure, and 2. used laughing gas to loosen me up and I definitely remember enjoying that a lot. My Dad can attest to collecting me from the recovering room, giggling away despite a mouth full of cotton and a gallon of Demerol in my system (I’ve had worse times with certain ex-girlfriends and coworkers).
Something Wicked, This Way Comes
About a year ago, I began noticing an off-and-on distinct sensitivity in my lower left back molar. At first, I figured it was just some passing sensitivity that made itself known whenever I ate or drank something really cold or bit down too hard on some food. The sensation was less like pain and more of my jaw’s way of saying “DO YOU MIND? THAT’S FUCKING ANNOYING!” Even after mentioning the issue at my two routine checkups last year, my dentist didn’t spot anything out of the ordinary (whether this is indicative of good or bad skills on the part of my dentist I leave to you to judge). This wasn’t of any relief to me, but as long as my jaw was falling off, how bad could it be (not unlike the “what could possibly go wrong?” moment in a movie)?
As luck would have it, this was the same lower molar that I not only had a filling in, but needed the filling redone years ago, and the idea that something being off was still rolling around in the back of my mind. So, one morning at work this past Spring, as I stepped into a meeting chewing gum, I heard and felt an unmistakable CRACK from that back molar. Again, it wasn’t painful, but definitely a bit of a shock and weirdly curious when your chewing gum suddenly goes from chewy to “kind of crunchy.” Quickly excusing myself to run to the bathroom, I spat out my gum to find a corner of my molar lodged in mint-flavored gum resin, complete with a small bit of cavity filling. A quick examination in the mirror definitely showed the cracked molar and a sip of my coffee made my jaw’s previous protests seem like a mere whisper to the sudden screaming it made now.
Timing is Everything
In what was possibly the most uncanny timing of any medical issue I’ve had to date, my next routine checkup was just a few days after the incident. While I could live with the experience of only chewing on one side of my mouth and avoiding piping hot and icy cold beverages for those few days, it’s enough to say that I was actually
extremely eager looking forward to my dentist appointment for a change. I’ve been going to my dentist’s office for at least 15 years (if not longer), and I can’t even remember the last I walked in and made a complaint about my mouth to her. This time though, the inevitable “So, any problems?” question was answered with a fast “Now that you mention it…”
After doing her usual,
blood-drawing thorough cleaning and examination, she confirmed that the tooth was indeed cracked, and a crown was going to be needed. Not wanting to waste any time, she proposed an appointment for just a few days later, which fell in the middle of a final review for a proposal my company was scrambling to wrap up. Nevertheless, I’ve always maintained that no job is worth my health or life (I am not in a hurry to test this), so I agreed to the appointment, knowing that the day before and the rest of that day were not going to be fun for me. The tradeoff was we opted for a gold crown since it was more durable than porcelain, and hey, who doesn’t want some gold in their mouth?
The day before the appointment, the proposal hit its review deadline, and I found myself buried in about a hundred pages of text material written by those who are better suited for managing business deals or developing software applications. And in one case, a technical piece that was submitted late at night and written by an absolutely brilliant engineer to whom “English as a Second Language” is a profound understatement. In short, I was left to format and edit the material well into the night and early morning, finally reaching the end of my workload somewhere around 3:30 AM. I collapsed into bed and fell asleep, only to be jarred awake by my alarm clock, making me feel as if I would’ve been better off not going to sleep at all.
Bleary eyed and in a less than charming mood, I strolled into my dentist’s office. After sharing a few pleasantries with the receptionist, she asked when I wanted to make my next appointment. I immediately replied that I preferred to be reminded to make my checkup appointments closer to when they’re due since I never know what my schedule will be like six months ahead of time. She laughed and replied, “No, I meant when do you want to come in and finish your crown?” I was taken aback – it takes two appointments to get this thing done?
As it turns out, yes, yes it does.
Having set my next appointment for the “installation” of my crown, I settled into the dentist chair for the longer and more involved “preparation” session. My dentist walked in, said a little hello and instructed her assistant to start injecting the painkillers since this was going to involve plenty of drilling. Like Bill Cosby mused about, I’ve also been impressed and confused by how dentists can have a conversation with anyone slurring and drooling like they’ve been shot in the ass with an elephant-sized tranquilizer dart. As she began drilling into my molar, I was reminded of two things: 1. lack of sleep tends to make me fidget and tense, and 2. my high tolerance for pain killers meant that I was still feeling a bit of discomfort as the drill did its work. The net result of both issues was my dentist constantly reminding me to relax and practice breathing exercises, and her giving me a dose of “the good stuff” to numb my jaw and left cheek to the point that an angry ex-girlfriend could slap me and I wouldn’t feel it for weeks. 90 long minutes later, the molar was prepped, the mold made for the crown and a temporary plastic crown was in place.
And I had the joy of going into work for the start of a weekend-long review session with a sore jaw and what felt like the mother of all chewing gum wads stuck back in my mouth.
Hail to the King, Baby
Two very long weeks passed by with work remaining busy as Hell and my never getting used to the plastic crown in the back of my mouth. Finally, the day came to get the permanent crown put in and I was in the dentist off bright and early. This time, work was still busy but not as wild, so I was able to get a good night’s rest in and the appointment didn’t require any major work or painkillers. The assistant went right to work removing the plastic crown and clearing out the cement that held it in place. It’s enough to say that as the plastic crown popped out, I had a new standard set for bad breath (as in, what the Hell died in my mouth?). Unfortunately, she also insisted on rinsing out my mouth and newly exposed and severely reworked naked molar with cold water, making me curl my toes so that toenail marks were left on the soles of my feet.
At long last, the dentist walked in with the little piece of gold and after a few test fittings, she permanently cemented the crown into place, with strict instructions to avoid chewing on that side for another day to ensure the crown was firmly in place. Almost immediately, it felt better than that plastic wad and I could drink hot and cold drinks again (brushing my teeth with lukewarm water was a new experience for me during this time).
Now, here’s hoping for a long and uneventful six months until next time I’m in the dentist chair.
I’ve always preferred dogs to cats.
Growing up and over the years, my family always had a dog. Our first was a long-haired dachshund named Oscar (that I recall, we had another before that who was eventually given to my grandparents, which was a surprise to me because I thought that dog had always belonged to them), who was my best friend. I cried my eyes out when he was accidentally hit by a car backing out of a driveway (he was also 13 years old, and blind and deaf as a stump by then). Then there was Casey, a golden retriever that caused so much damage as a puppy that my Dad was more than ready to get rid of her, but somehow survived housebreaking to become a great dog. My favorite memory of her was once when I was housesitting, and my parents had adopted two kittens, Petey and Smudge. I was cleaning up after dinner and kept seeing the kittens running down the hallway, then sliding back across the hardwood floor. After a few rounds, I took a peek to see what was going on and the kittens were playing with Casey’s tail, which made her kick them away in annoyance. I think the kittens thought it was fun, but not so much for that poor old dog who was just trying to sleep. We had a terrier-mix named Teddie whose cuteness was inversely proportionate to her mischievous and frequently sadistic personae (this may not have totally been her fault as she was eventually diagnosed with some terrible back issues that eventually required putting her down). One of Teddie’s favorite games was to drop a ball next to you or on your lap, and patiently wait for you to reach for it, only to snatch it away, practically with a sly smile on her face. It was a weird combination of mean teasing and denying herself you throwing the ball for her to chase after it. And now my parents have a yellow lab named Gracie who may be the sweetest dog who ever lived and a Coton de Tulear puppy named Tuli who looks like a 10 pound makeup puffball running around (as best as I can tell, Gracie isn’t 100% sold on her yet).
The irony is I’ve never owned a dog, but I have owned three cats.
I adopted my first cat Pistol because a friend in college was going to adopt him until she found out that all three of her then room mates were allergic. He was a little ball of black fur and big yellow eyes who won me over that night and was with me all the time. I didn’t name him Pistol, he was dubbed that by the vet who owned the litter because he was the first to wean, first to climb stairs and first to break something. If I recall correctly, my friend picked him for that very reason as he was stomping all over the other kittens who were trying to sleep. Even knowing that, I took him in and had to laugh when the little shit managed to destroy a computer keyboard and an answering machine within the same week (some cursing may have been involved, too). Some of his best moments were backhanding a kitten that tried to annoy him and chasing after my parents’ cats for fun. I had him for seven years until he was scared off by a roving trash truck, never to be seen again.
About 11 years ago I ended up owning two cats, partially thanks to an ex-girlfriend who also wanted to get one because we were kicking around the idea of moving in together. We were searching around for kittens, but they go pretty fast, so we went the rescue group route. One day, at a Petco or Petsmart, we were eyeing a cute black and white tuxedo cat named Diamond. She was affectionate and laid back and was growing on us pretty fast. As I was filling out the paperwork to adopt her, I noticed a pathetic looking black cat in the next kennel and asked the ever dangerous “what’s his story?” The volunteer went on to explain that they had “Blackie” for two years and no one would take him because he was a black cat, which was more than enough to convince the ex-girlfriend to give me the “Oooohhhhh, we have to get him, too” look. This was tough on me because 1. I have a soft spot for animals and hate to see them in kennels or suffering, and 2. Admittedly, I’m especially pliable by girlfriends.
The best way to describe the difference between Diamond and Remy is simple. One summer, I watched a spider make its way across the living room, with Remy following along and pawing at it, almost playing with it. A few days later, I watched Diamond lay patiently in the hallway, watching another spider make its way along until it was close enough for Diamond to pop out a claw and impale it without a second thought. I still remember the first few weeks of owning them – Diamond made herself at home instantly, even figuring out ways to manipulate me in ways I hadn’t thought possible. Her finest “trick” was waking me up one Saturday morning by chirping at me in bed, then running out to the kitchen to ring the metal food bowl like a bell to let me know they were out of food. Blackie – who I re-named Remy because naming a black cat “Blackie” is like naming a zebra “Stripes” – spent most of the first month hiding under the bed. It took another week or two after that for him to be in the same room and even a week or two after that to let anyone touch him. Of course, once that line was crossed, he turned out to be the neediest, clingiest animal I’ve ever known (and it’s no wonder another ex-girlfriend of mine with similar qualities loved him so much that she almost took him with her when we broke up).
Of course, the ex-girlfriend who convinced me to get these cats dumped me two months later, and despite at least two fights that touched on them, she still “left me with the kids.”
Over the years, Diamond and Remy weren’t the worst pets you could ever have – they were affectionate, usually social (although Remy still bolts like Hell from people or his shadow, whichever he sees first, but becomes your new best friend after one petting), and pretty easy to care for. The downside for them was they loved clawing at my furniture and as time went on, “redecorating” my home with cat vomit. Remy especially developed some sort of digestive issue that had him vomiting so much that he lost half of his body weight (and nearly my sanity). One thing that always amused me about him was whenever a someone else stayed over at my place, Remy would curl up against their backside, which one person often referred to as being “ass raped by a cat.” Diamond was usually cool and collected, and loved sitting on top of anything I happen to be working on.
The thing is, as wonderful and as frustrating as pets can be, there is the inevitable downside we all have to deal with at some point. It’s a fact of life we can’t escape.
A year ago, a few friends and I noticed that Diamond was not only losing weight, but eating like a horse and still not gaining it back. She was still running around, being her same old self, so I didn’t think much of it until one of her check ups at the vet, who noticed her way-to-thin-to-be-normal condition and weighed her. Diamond had lost half of her body weight in just a few months. A few blood tests told us the obvious – Diamond was suffering from a hyperthyroid condition, which isn’t unusual for cats…though usually in much older ones. The vet went over the options, which mainly involved surgery, special diets or a procedure to inject her with mildly radioactive iodine, but the diet was more trial-and-error than was worth the trouble, and the radioactive drugs would’ve meant trying to figure out how to store her waste for at least 90 days and get Remy to use a separate litterbox. That and all of the options were expensive as Hell with no guaranteed results. A few months later, another vet visit to monitor Diamond’s condition brought on the next diagnosis – Diamond was also in renal failure. So now she was wasting away and peeing like crazy (plus having the most septic breath of any animal I’ve ever known). Again, there were options, but all pricey and without any real promise of making a difference, so we agreed to let nature take its course.
The winter went by well enough, Diamond was eating and doing what all cats do – sleep, claw at furniture and use the litterbox, but in the past few months, her behavior had changed. No matter where I was, she was always under foot (i.e., her way of saying “hey, pay attention, something’s wrong with me”), and her appetite was starting to trail off. Not to mention her breath was reaching new levels of disturbingly bad. But it was this past week that things took a turn for the worst – Diamond stopped eating and was quickly and steadily weakening. It was as if a switch was flipped and she was shutting down. The vet warned me that I would know when her time was near, and it was clear that the moment had arrived.
Though my family has had its share of pets, I was never there whenever it was time to put one down, so the reality of Diamond’s end was a new experience for me. Saturday evening had me so concerned about her weakened condition and zero interest in food (I even tried grilling some chicken, her favorite) that I stayed in because 1. I wanted to keep an eye on her, and 2. I couldn’t live with myself if I went out and came home to a deceased pet. A very unsettled night’s sleep later, and her condition was even worse. Her movement was unsteady and hindered, and her energy level so low that she couldn’t even follow me around. I contacted my vet’s office’s on-call doctor, and he told me the painfully obvious – I could wait until Monday morning when the vet office opened, or go to the animal ER.
I’m still not sure what was bothering more, my nervousness about what I had to do, or how little resistance Diamond gave as I gently put her into the carry-all. Diamond was always less than thrilled about being manhandled, and even less enthusiastic about being shoved into a travel kennel. Walking into the ER with her, the vet tech manning the front desk took one look at the poor cat and knew why I was there. The vet on duty assessed her condition and matter-of-factly asked if I was actually expecting any super-heroic attempts to save her, but I explained that I knew it was time to let her go. So he took her back to get her ready, and a tech brought her back, catheter already in and wrapped up in a blanket. So there I was, alone holding this cat who normally gave me maybe a minute to hold her, but was so weak that she had no choice. She was miserable and looked at me with an expression I’ve never seen before, a look that’d crack even the hardest hearted person. For years friends and family alike have heard me bitch and moan about how much I’ve grown to not like cats, but here I was getting a little choked up over a sick feline. On one hand, I just wanted to comfort her as best I could, but on the other I hated seeing her so miserable, and I paged the vet to let him know that I was ready.
He asked if I wanted to leave and I told him I wouldn’t. I read or heard somewhere not too long ago that when an owner leaves their pet with strangers like that, they look for you, and I couldn’t do that, even to this furry demon who used to revel in waltzing over my head when I was waking up. The vet laid her on the exam table, letting me pet and stroke her as he injected the sedative, and her eyes almost immediately turned glassy, stoned but still some twinkle of life in her. He explained what he was doing with the euthanasia mix, and put his stethoscope on her chest as he injected the drugs into her.
I’ve never watched an animal die before, and for whatever reason, I always imagined it being like watching their eyes close and falling asleep. The sedative made her so out of it that I couldn’t tell if she knew whether or not I was there and still petting her, but I kept myself in her front of her so she could see me and I watched as the light faded out of her eyes. A gentle pat of the vet’s hand on her told me it was done, and I was almost stunned by how fast she went. The vet and I had a small laugh because Diamond was notorious for extending her claws all the time, especially when being held. As the vet tried to collect her, the blanket was caught by one of her claws and wasn’t coming loose. I joked that even now she was stubborn and aggressive – she went as she lived. The vet asked if I wanted to spend any more time with her, but I told him I didn’t need or want to, I just wanted to leave.
It felt a little surreal walking back out to my car with an empty carry-all, almost as if I was forgetting to bring Diamond home with me like any other vet visit. I even took my time driving home, like I normally do whenever I have a pet in the car and trying not to go too fast, tossing them around. I caught myself looking behind me to check on Diamond, even though she wasn’t there, and spent some time wandering around outside to clear my head and process through the mixed bag of feelings, memories and images spinning around in me. Diamond beating the Hell out of Remy for his being too clingy, or chasing one of her favorite toys, or nonchalantly planting herself in the middle of papers I had on the floor while working on something. When I finally did go home, Remy was his usual nervous-but-happy-to-see-you self, but oblivious to Diamond’s absence.
Now that it’s been a few days, I’m still getting used to Diamond not being around. I catch myself thinking that I see her in the corner of my eye, when there’s nothing else around. I expect her to jump on the couch and invite herself to walk across me. I hesitate before turning on the bathroom faucet because she used to sleep in the basin. The reality has finally started to sink in with Remy, who spent the past night or two looking around for her, and didn’t eat much until today (which he kindly threw up with a hairball...I think he'll be fine). I still don’t like cats and am pretty sure I’ll never own one again (check in with me and the next girlfriend, with my luck, will most likely have a cat), but I actually miss having Diamond around. The home feels a little bit empty without her, and I didn’t think I’d feel that way about it.
So, apparently there's a partially-substantiated rumor that CBS is developing not one, but two new Star Trek TV shows. One is being described as a CSI meets Star Trek vehicle, and it was bugging me about why the idea sounded so familiar. Then it hit me, I had thought of the idea almost five years ago (Don't believe me? Well, check it out!). Granted, it isn't the fans demanding the show like I joked about, but it's pretty damn funny how far ahead of times I was in predicting that kind of Star Trek show might happen.
I can just see it now, a Horatio Caine type officer having the following conversation:
Ensign: Sir, it appears that the victim was killed by someone using the Vulcan Death Grip!
Captain: Then I guess that someone didn't want the victim to...(takes off sunglasses)...live long and prosper.
[cue in The Who's Won't Get Fooled Again]
UPDATE: It turns out this article is pure satire. More fool me for not doing a snopes check on it. Still, I was way ahead of them on that joke.
The holidays are done, and I’ve neglected to send out holiday cards…again...
It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year!
The completion of another revolution around the Sun is done, and the potential of this next year looms just over the horizon (I’ll make a sacrifice to the Flying Spaghetti Monster in hopes of sparing myself the unlikely wrath of Neil deGrasse Tyson’s nerdrage over my mixed metaphor of Earth’s orbit around the sun and spinning on its axis).
repressed memory almost forgotten Festivus tradition, tis the season to infiltrate mailboxes with fanciful recycling festive style kindling holiday cards and subject friends, family and people we may actually love to exhaustive letters reminiscing about the highs and lows of the past 12 months. Yes, it’s those letters sandwiched in folding cardstock emblazoned with the latest entries for the Awkward Family Photos award – people adorned in ugly Christmas sweaters and outfits, depicting inappropriate and/or tasteless jokes, envy-inducing beautiful people with their beautiful children, or single friends posing with their child/significant other surrogates pets.
The holiday letter is a time-honored tradition that ranks somewhere below receiving fruitcakes, but still above awkwardly kissing the drunk relative sporting the “under the mistletoe” joke headband. And then there’s actually reading the letters – an act that begins with an exasperated sigh, but is a welcome change from once again paging through the toilet-side, summertime-relevant Newsweek or dog-eared Cosmo with the What Kind of Lover are You? quiz you keep taking to nail the “Sensual and Uninhibited” score instead of always getting “Milquetoast and Apologetic.” Indulging in the shakeup of your regular daily constitutional, you delve into the never-ending pictures and details (or “deets” as the kids say today) about the big vacation (Mom’s glow-in-the-dark sunburn, Dad in a grass skirt next to hula dancers, an inappropriately-affectionate Mickey Mouse posing with the kids…), job and career highlights (their promotion to full partner is a thoroughly ego-crushing blow to your Employee of the Month Target gift card), spiritual awakenings (“Atheist veganism saved us – it can save you, too!” or INSERT INSPIRATIONAL BIBLE QUOTE HERE), and the TMI dramas life tossed their way (the “weird spot that was just a birthmark” health scare). Often, reading these is about as cherished as taking Grandma to Christmas Mass just to prove that you’re still a good Catholic, though you’ll never admit to her about eating bacon cheeseburgers during Lent or needing prophylactics in Costco-esque quantities. And despite our grumblings, we secretly enjoy these letters, relishing in the aching satisfaction of silently correcting paragraph-length run-on sentences, misspellings and the eyebrow-twitching misuse of “their,” “there” and “they’re.”
Now is the time for reflection about the waning year – to hail the triumphs, assess the damage and recover from the New Year’s Eve hangover that’s part of the to-be-failed-in-days-or-weeks resolutions or promises of not repeating the same mistakes in the new year (and this time, you’ll mean it).
Having said all of that, please to be enjoying my very own Year in Review holiday letter.
Working for the Man, Not Working for the Man, Then Working for the Man Again
After a relatively quiet 2012 holiday season, 2013 heralded itself with a busy workload with piles of proposals to analyze, develop and submit…only to be derailed by an unforeseen layoff in February (on EXACTLY the third anniversary of my working there – to the day). The end of 2012 was a confusing one for that company, where a rash of layoffs followed an otherwise rousing upper management speech assuring everyone that all was well in the company. The layoffs mainly applied to project associates whose contracts had ended, so with no new work, it was understandable to let them go. But right around New Year’s, the layoff crosshairs began fixing on back office personnel, generating a collective sense of “what the fuck?” paranoia and steadily declining morale throughout the office. January was fraught with anxiety as many wondered who was next on the chopping block given the piecemeal layoffs steadily thinning out the office herd. And like a bolt out of nowhere, I was given my walking papers, much to the
surprise astonishment utter shock of all who regard a proposal manager as one of those “Wait, don’t we kind of, you know, NEED him?” corporate roles.
Not being my first time unemployed, I gave myself a day to
get a little drunk and do whatever the Hell I wanted recover and regroup from the shock and awe, then hit the ground running, firing off newly-revised resumes and surfing the job sites. One of the little twists this time around was the infamous Congressional Sequester, forcing many government contractors to stand fast until they knew which agency budgets were still ripe for plundering worth pursuing for contracts. Also, in the three years I spent at my now previous job, I established a good reputation as a proposal manager and coordinator, and I was no sooner walking in the door with a bankers box full of personal work items and flair when my phone was ringing with calls from several partners and groups my company had worked with. Unfortunately, most of them were companies I didn’t want to work with for various reasons (which I’ll leave out of here so as to not get sued). Coincidentally, this layoff was just a few months before the 10 year anniversary of my first ever layoff.
Since proposal people are always in high demand in the DC area, it was just a few weeks of hunting job sites, researching companies and enduring interviews before landing a new job. My last interview was a three-hour ordeal I could’ve lived without – I already had a job offer from my now current employer, but I wanted to have the interview just for kicks and giggles (it was more of their kicks than my giggles). I was scrutinized and hounded by team of executives and project managers, all of whom expressing a suspicious and abject fear of a bullying vice president who was the first and last person I talked with, thus confirming first-hand his status as a complete tool. At the end of the second hour, I was absolutely certain that I didn’t want to work for that company or their vice president from Hell. In the meantime, I landed a new job at a small, Tysons Corner-based IT contractor in need of more infrastructure for growth. In the months that followed, I built everything I needed from scratch and helped push through several proposals with some wins to thank for them. By Thanksgiving, the company had announced its being sold to another IT group, and we all relocated to new digs in Chantilly. As of this writing, both companies are in the middle of restructuring, so all the unanswered questions we have about
assigning the swanky corner offices who sits where, the new pecking order who reports to whom and will we still get bonuses? maintaining timesheets and salaries are still up in the air.
Oh, the Places You Will Go…
The new company I started working for hired me just weeks before my big Hawaiian vacation was scheduled, and they were kind of enough to let me go on it, despite only just starting there. I was forced to cancel my last big vacation for October 2012 (California wine country) due to work commitments and was thanked for that sacrifice by being laid off, so a change of scenery was just what the doctor ordered. Hawaii has been on my travel bucket list for a long time, and I spent a wonderful week on Oahu, touring Honolulu and Waikiki, seeing Pearl Harbor and attended my first luau. It was a fun trip and leaves me wanting to see the other islands – so another trip will need to be planned sooner or later.
Due to a lack of paid time off and funds, I had to pass up on two opportunities to visit Italy this year. My aunt organized renting a villa in Sorrento (near Naples) in June/July, which my parents went out to for a few weeks. The other trip was a Tuscany winery tour in the Fall, which ended up being cancelled anyway.
The other big trip for this year was finally flying out to San Francisco. Steve H. ( jharish), a friend going all the way back to high school, has lived out there for a several years, and in addition to inviting several of us to attend his partner’s big charity event (Project Nunway V), he and his partner decided to get married. It was a glorious few days of touring parts of the city, hiking around Alcatraz Island, eating amazing food, seeing the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence dress up in sci fi-inspired costumes and attend a gay wedding complete with drag queens (as well as pirates, Scotsmen and assorted other costumed types...and is any gay wedding complete without at least one drag queen?). I need to go back and see more of the sites that I missed this time.
Love, Exciting and Meh…
Not too surprisingly, my standing as an eligible bachelor about town remains unchanged, as well as unchallenged. I elected to be a bit more transparent about my sharing interesting date stories this year, and managed a couple of short-term (i.e., measured in weeks) dating relationships that ended with the same “You’re a great guy, but I’m a piping hot mess/emotional train wreck and can’t handle having a stable, available and responsible boyfriend” excuse (I suspect this is the 21st Century equivalent of “It’s not you, it’s me”). At this point, my preferred MO for meeting new people is to greet them with a firm handshake, utilize kind but direct eye contact and mercilessly grill them until they crack and admit that their lives are falling apart (a friend whose proclivities include a bit of BDSM complimented this practice, comparing it to her gently caressing someone’s cheek before slapping the shit out of them). So far, the most interesting “first and only date” with someone was the woman I refer to as “Empty!” We met for drinks and she proved to be the most graceless, tactless, self-absorbed human being I’ve ever met. Toward the end of the date, I was frequently distracted by a lesbian couple next to us laughing on and off about my date, who was frustrated enough over her dried-out glass that she stood up on the floor bar rail and yelled “HEY! EMPTY!” to the overworked bartenders. Fortunately, she left after that and the lesbians bought me a few rounds.
So, there you have it, sports fans – the highs and lows of my past journey around the Sun.
Peace, love and eternal grooviness.
Years ago, Steve H. ( jharish) gave me a little piece of advice as a fellow artist/writer/creative person – never, ever throw away your work because you’ll never know what you can learn from it later on.
As usual, he was way ahead of me in his artistic wisdom.
This sagacious counsel came at a time when I was still contemplating a possible career as a comic book artist and wanted to build up a portfolio of work.(1) This was during my college years and Steve was writing a comic book story based on/inspired by our high school D&D campaigns. I spent a summer living with him and his parents since mine had relocated to New Jersey and I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of living in exile away from my circle of friends. When I wasn’t working two back-to-back, part-time jobs to build up spending money for the coming school year, I was penciling and inking character sketches and page layouts, figuring out illustrative problems and getting his feedback (usually over his repeatedly playing the Beatle’s White Album or Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, but also while munching on the late night smores he mastered making). The initial pages I drew were stilted and hopelessly amateur, but I had a some epiphanies about my style and concepts, and the second version I began drawing looked much more composed and energized (though from what I remember of them, more professional artists might rank them as “still needing development”). When I went back to college, I left at least some of not most of the pages with Steve, and as the years passed, they disappeared for one reason or another. I think I may have one or two pages hiding somewhere, but otherwise, I’m pretty sure they’re gone forever. At the same time, I was working on a minor in studio art, and kept a few pieces. After leaving grad school, I spent a week going through my artwork, separating out pages of squiggly-drawn exercises from compositions worth keeping.(2) And even though I have zero interest in pursuing a comic book career (it’s a moot point, I discovered that majoring in English proved me to be a much better writer than artist), it still gnaws at me a bit that I didn’t save those pages I worked on for Steve. Of the few pieces I have from way back then, I can see aspects of my style that I’m glad I outgrew and others that have remained consistent.
Recently, I went through my old blog entries on here. Part of it was to clear out some really dumbass things I posted, and the other goal was building a PDF backup of my “greatest hits” entries in case the website ever disappeared or somehow lost my posts. As I was reading through my earlier entries (i.e., the ones that involved my actively writing and not successories/demotivational collections or reposting the Internet), I was reminded of Steve’s advice and had several revelations while reading through this almost seven-year old blog.
Over the past few years, the frequency of my posts on this blog has gone from “multiple times a day” to “barely once a month” or even “months between entries.” Some of it is due to moving on to other things (e.g., my travel blog wineabout, which I’m having a lot of fun recording my travel memoires in), some is life getting in the way, and the rest is that brilliant distraction known as Facebook. One of the overall goals in my travel blog is playing around with my writing style, which many have praised for the “voice” I’ve developed in it.(3) In comparison to my older blog writing, Steve’s advice is finally ringing true to me. I’m seeing huge leaps in both the quality of the content, the cohesion in my narratives, and a clear honing of my humor and satirical ramblings. I’ve been trying to get back into my creative writing for a while now,(4) and I plan on re-reading some of my earlier story writing…as painful as that will be…and see what still works and what needs changing.
Blogs (the personal ones) are generally a mish mash of venting frustrations and sharing any ideas that might be on someone’s mind, for better or worse. To that end, looking back at my past entries, I really wonder about why I thought some things were actually clever or amusing, or needed to be posted in the first place. My political rants are a mix of thoughtful introspection and knee-jerk ragefests which are much ado about nothing since no one in power would ever see or care about what little old me thinks. There are a few jewels of introspection about odd, weird or funny things I experienced or that came to mine. I’m still kind of proud of my successories, especially since they helped train me to be much more efficient about my use of humor and satire. But most importantly, I can see a real progression in my writing, and I like the development I’ve seen in it over all of that time.
I just hope I still think this when I look back at my current writing in a few years…
(1) Mom and Dad, aren’t you glad this wasn’t my final career choice?
(2) Not only do I still have some of my “greatest hits” from those classes, but a few hang on my walls at home.
(3) Heavily influenced by Christopher Moore and Anthony Bourdain, as well as a smattering of other writers.
(4) I may have mentioned this before, but it’s really hard to sit down and write at the end of the day when you write for a living. It’s like a professional athlete training all day, and then trying to "unwind" by going to the gym afterward.
It’s interesting how the odd USB cable can stir up so much.
Packrats – They Start When They’re Young
Like many middle class, American kids, I had a pretty decent toy collection – a wide assortment of everything Mattel ever made for their Star Wars line, the renaissance of G.I. Joe action figures and vehicles, and games and assorted tidbits belonging to whatever else. Among my treasured belongings were the AT-AT and Millennium Falcon play sets, my G.I. Joe F-14 Tomcat, a “sound and lights” Starship Enterprise, and the famous Mego Batman, Superman and Robin action figures. I’m sure my parents breathed a sigh of relief when I outgrew those toys, especially on the cusps of the “bigger and better” toy craze just starting to hit its stride as I was moving into adolescence. There was a mix of awe and horror on my street when one of the neighbor’s kids received the USS Flagg G.I. Joe play set – a monstrosity of toy that required its own corner of their basement (I’ve dated women who were smaller than that thing).
Growing up, I tended to collect my share of brick-a-brack here and there from my daily adventures and things that somehow ended up tucked away in my closet, hiding under the bed or stuffed away in my desk. I used to dread the inevitable (but often needed) CLEAN YOUR ROOM ultimatum from Mom or Dad (second only to the parental “nuclear options” of BATH TIME! and NO TV FOR A WEEK!). This was especially harsh on weekends when homework was done, the sun was shining and friends were calling for me to play outside. I was the kid that probably spent more time complaining about my chores than actually doing them (I’m dreading being on the parent end of that conversation with my future children some day).
I was an army brat growing up, which meant moving frequently, which meant packing up all of my earthly belongings every few years. During those times, you discover seemingly long lost miniature guns and accessories to every action figure and play set (and sometimes forgotten about), as well as a more than a few missing game pieces and have-no-clue-what-they-belong-to bits and pieces. Nothing is quite as sobering as seeing everything you own packed up in boxes,(1) and you can imagine having to repeat the experience multiple times throughout your childhood (on the other hand, this may beat having to move often without the opportunity of packing your things). I have a somewhat vivid memory of getting so focused on digging through a box that I dug my way into it and needed to dig my way back out.
Things escalated during my teenage years. Toys were replaced by whatever I needed for my hobby-of-the-week, assorted models and toy rockets I used to build (the models were in varying levels of quality depending on if I played with them like toys, and the rockets were a pain in the ass to build at times, but watching them fly 200 or 300 feet in the air while scaring the crap out of onlookers was worth the effort…this was obviously well before 9/11), assorted RPG minutiae, my interest in drawing,(2) or the big ass telescope taking up a corner of my room.(3) Plus, and let’s be honest, teenagers aren’t known for their tidiness, so my room was a mish mash of stuff piled on/in my desk or shoehorned into my closet. I’m not even going to touch the subject of things teens hide from the parents, or rather, things they think they’re hiding from parents who already know about them (my parents and I still honor a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy about this).
College was a whole new deal where everything I needed or wanted had to be squeezed into half of a dorm room with another human being.(4) In retrospect, I took a lot of stuff with me that I probably could’ve left at home, but being an introverted and not-thrilled-about-not-knowing-anyone young man, I wanted as much familiarity with me as possible. I still remember moving out of the dorm room at the end of the school year and was amazed at how full the van was. Following years met with streamlining what I took with me as much as possible, and even more so when I started grad school and had to cram myself into an even smaller bedroom. The apartment bedroom was my first experience in apartment living, and at the time, my roommates and I saw the apartment (which my two roommates were already living there) as a palace. In retrospect, it was a little bit of a
rundown well-lived hovel shithole flat, having suffered the wear and tear of more than a few college students, various pets (some we inflicted on it owned) and God only knows what else. My “favorite” annoyance with the place was how my bedroom was at the very end of the apartment unit, so during the Spring, Summer and early Fall it was hot no matter what the AC was set at, and during the winter it was so cold that the large, single-pane window would cover over with a thin sheet of ice ON THE INSIDE. But the bunk bed I used allowed room for a desk to work on, my drawing desk and a bookshelf. I somehow managed to stow all of my clothes and art supplies in the closet, which was permanently left open due to too much stuff poking out.
What a Difference Today Makes
Anyhow, time passes and over the years I’ve had multiple opportunities to purge myself of too much stuff I’ve collected. Ironically, I’ve become a bit of a neat freak as an adult, and more than a few people have marveled at the lack of clutter in my condo. Oddly enough, my few “messy” habits are 1) leaving dishes in the sink, 2) letting mail pile up on my desk throughout the week, and 3) waiting until the hamper is overflowing with laundry to clean and fold. Also, I have mementos and knick knacks all over the house, but most of it (OK, pretty much all of it) has its own place, and I’ve taken to heart the rule-of-thumb of “if you haven’t touched it in a year, then you don’t need it.” Since I moved into my condo 11 years ago, I can count maybe two other times of going through everything and made the resulting garbage, recycling and Goodwill piles. In this case, it’s probably been a good four of five years since I last did this.
Apparently, I decided a few weekends ago that it was a good time for another great purge.
That Sunday was greeted with grey clouds and rain, so I spent the morning nursing coffee, checking email and dealing with a few odds and ends. I pulled out my tablet with plans to take it with me someplace to grab a bite to eat when I realized its battery needed recharging. I keep all of my electronics charger and USB cables and other accessories in a desk drawer in my office, and as I dug into it for the charger cable, I found an unrecognizable USB cable. I sat there for a few minutes, racking my brain and going back over a mental checklist of everything I owned that needed or used a USB cable. Then it hit me, the confounding cable belonged to a digital camera I didn’t have anymore. So it was a good time to clear out the drawer and survey the contents, and a lot of it were accessories and miscellaneous parts to items that were long since gone. This escalated quickly to examining the remaining drawers. In them, I found old magazines, house paint swatches, and assorted holiday, birthday and “I’m so happy you’re my boyfriend” greeting cards. Almost all of this stuff ended up in a loose to-be-recycled pile on the floor, except for anything with sentimental value (e.g., wedding invites, the last birthday card I received from my grandparents before they passed away, etc.). It’s amazing how much crap you can store in a desk.
No, the cat was neither dead nor otherwise stashed away in my desk, however, empirical evidence
suggests that piles of crap have the same effect on cats as catnip.
Fairly happy with clearing out my desk, I couldn’t help but turn my attention to the long-neglected walk-in closet in my office.
Condo living means making the most of the limited space you have, so closet space is precious and you don’t have a garage to toss things into and forget about. The walk-in closet to my office was effectively my garage – holding tools, old paint cans, my old drawing desk, pictures I have nowhere to hang and other odds and ends I use or need maybe once or twice a year. Well, it was time to go through there since it was a tad crowded in there. The purge brought about the onslaught of empty boxes, an old entertainment stand I could never seem to sell on Craigslist, and an old bed set that had seen far better days (for reasons involving different pets and ex-girlfriends). This was in addition to tools, wrapping paper, bags and other items that were haphazardly stored in the closet as I repeatedly needed them.
My cat’s reaction to trash makes me wonder if the couch would fare better by my leaving piles of paper around the place.
A few hours and multiple trips up and down my condo building’s stairwell cleared out the closet and it was organized again…ready for a few more years of me tossing stuff into and forgetting about. Sadly, what I consider a lot of junk stored up is probably nothing compared to some people I know,(5) but that’s the “joy” of having even mild OCD – every little molehill seems like a mountain.
On a side note, Goodwill appreciated what I dropped off and I noticed a few dumpster diver neighbors going through what I left out for the recycling truck to take away.
(1) The reaction to this is either “Holy shit, I have a lot of crap!” or “Holy shit, I thought I had more crap than this!”
(2) My parents gave me a large drafting/drawing desk for one of my teen birthdays which I used religiously throughout high school and college. Today, it’s tucked away in a closet because it’s the one piece of furniture I have no place for in my condo, but refuse to get rid of (one ex-girlfriend who had plans for moving in someday noted this to her closet-envying ambition and frustration).
(3) You might be wondering, why didn’t I just pack it up after using it? Mainly because the construction and design were neither idiot-proof nor efficient (compared to modern, consumer-available ones). Basically, it was easier to leave it assembled rather than waste time trying to put it together whenever I wanted to go out on the back porch and try to stargaze through the Washington, DC area’s always hazy or light-polluted night sky.
(4) I seriously doubt he’ll remember me, but I have to give props to my freshman year college roommate. As a former high school football player, frat boy and all-around “cool guy,” he was the polar opposite of a shy, geeky kid with space-sharing issues. That guy put up with a lot of my nonsense and somehow didn’t mind the sheer amount of crap I kept on my side of the room. I should add he always treated me with respect, never let his fraternity interfere with our living space, and his girlfriend was amazingly kind to me. Well, that is, his second girlfriend. His first girlfriend was a talks-through-her-nose bitch who always acted like I was a squashed bug she scraped off of her shoe.
(5) One friend in particular comes to mind. She had a condo of similar size and in addition to having everything precariously stacked and set aside everywhere, she also kept every box to everything she ever bought. You didn’t wander around her condo as much as follow the “trails” she laid out. Also, I'm reminded of one time I went condo hunting with my friend Mike and we looked at one property that was lined with bookshelves containing every issue of various magazines (including Life, Time, Dragon and National Geographic), as well as probably every book he ever owned. Every wall was lined with these shelves, the kichen so full he had cookware stacked on top of the stove, and a rolltop desk in the living room was jam-packed with every piece of junk mail he ever received.
Male bonding is a funny thing
Men bond over shared experiences – fraternity brothers reliving their college days, sports veterans recalling past glories, and war buddies fondly remembering harrowing moments and absent friends. When you spend time as a “nerd,” “geek” or “freak” in high school, it’s sometimes hard to find that kind of bonding, but for my crowd, there was D&D.
A few years ago, I wrote about a book I read by Paul Bibeau called Sundays with Vlad, which is about his life-long and often humorous fascination with vampires. While it’s a great book to read in its own right, his experiences mirror those of many of us who have ever been labeled as a “nerd,” “geek” or “freak.” And having spent my own childhood and adolescence in the “non-conformist” crowd, I always feel a great amount of kinship towards anyone who can relate to the characters on The Big Bang Theory. In his book, Bibeau offers a quote that strikes a very sympathetic and humorous chord for me:
"There are four things I'll be embarrassed about for the rest of my life, and here are three of them: losing an arm-wrestling contest to a girl when I was a kid, being sexually harassed by a female boss in my early twenties and not doing anything about it, and the time just after 9/11 when I actually gave $20 to the Republican party. But the fourth stings more than the rest…I've played role-playing games before."
And thus, my own tale of male bonding comes into play here (no pun intended).
Why does this quote strike so close to home?
Back in high school, I was a smart but introverted kid, and feeling a little isolated at the time because the person I considered my best friend in middle school was off at a military school (but that’s a different story). I wasn’t exactly fitting in with the “in crowd” whom I had an almost instant dislike for. I didn’t do drugs, smoke or skip classes, so I was summarily rejected by the Future Prison Inmates of America. I wasn’t athletically inclined at the time, so I wasn’t making friends in any of the school athletics, and I hadn’t really figured out what clubs I wanted to join. It’s sufficient to say that except for neighbors, my circle of friends was pretty small, but part of that was from my army brat background (i.e., you didn’t get too close to anyone since you would lose them when you moved again).
For years, I had a copy of the Dungeon & Dragons Basic Set, which included the infamous The Keep on the Borderlands, a D&D adventure that any experienced RPG player will tell you is where they either cut their teeth in the game or avoided like the plague for being the painfully generic adventure that is was. Thing is, I didn’t really know what to do with it since I didn’t know anyone else who played. However, with study hall in the middle of the day (in my World History classroom, which is still my favorite high school class by my favorite high school teacher…even if he did turn out to be a bit of a freak),* I had some time to myself at school. Like the other kids, I rarely did much studying in study hall – it was usually sneaking comic books inside textbooks or sketching on notepads for me. I don’t know what came over me one day, but I brought in my copy of the The Keep on the Borderlands and was reading through it during that time.
Little did I know or realize that someone was observing me reading that little piece of D&D lore. I forget if it was that same day or later on, but as I was waiting outside for a late bus to go home, a guy who looked vaguely familiar walked up to me. Besides the inherent awkwardness of any random stranger walking up to you, he opened up with the most original opening line I’ve ever heard: “There’s a big zit on your face, can I pop it?” As luck or fate would have it, that was my first encounter with Stephen H. ( jharish), and as time went on, we became friends and I was eventually invited to join his D&D group. This gaming group were all fellow high schoolers – a good group of guys, and as it turns out (and not too surprisingly), all part of the same social class of nerds, geeks and not-quite-normal types.
June 1990 – one of our last official D&D sessions. Clockwise from the Bottom: Stephen H. (in the red shirt), Keith,
Spyke, Neil, Alex (a.k.a., “Dungeon Master” and “Great Conqueror Wyrm”), Dave, Vic and Erik. I’m not in the
picture because I was the one taking it, and Jon wasn't there for that session. In the middle is the map of
“Quillanor,” the world we played in.
Every Friday afternoon, we gathered at whoever’s house was hosting that week and spent from late afternoon to well into evening on whatever quests and adventures Alex had drummed up for us. The popular spots to play were in Alex’s, Dave’s or Erik’s parents’ respective basements, but sometimes my parents would let me host. Steve’s parents allowed us to play at their home from time to time just so they could observe what they considered a satanic game. While we genuinely enjoyed playing, there were times where we’d fall into chatting about whatever, putting Alex on task to bring us back on mission (sometimes using more Draconian methods like dolling out “random damage” to whomever was taking the group off topic). Occasionally there were petty fights and temper tantrums over disputes and irritations (especially over some dumb ass things considering this game dealt with absolutely nothing tangible),** but it was these sessions where we all bonded. It was out small circle of friends and we reveled in hanging out at school and our beloved Friday nights, as well as playing other RPGs from time to time and our “Laser Tag” craze that had us out in the woods day and night trying to shoot each other with toy ray guns. Of course, eventually it came time for us to part ways for college or go off into the real world, but somehow, we managed to keep in touch (a few less so than the rest of us). We’ve even reached the point where we experience mini-reunions at each other’s respective weddings, and share congratulations as several of our group are having kids.
As the years have gone by and I’ve gone from emotionally-distraught teen, to trying-to-figure-out-who-he-is twenty-something, to man-child-trying-to-finally-grow-up thirty-something, those days of RPG playing have been a pleasant memory. Not that any of us veered too far away from our collective geeky and dorky roots. We still love or had our fair share of sci fi movies, science and eclectic/eccentric misadventures and odd/weird/what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you people we’ve encountered over the years. Maybe I just outgrew my interest in it, maybe I found other distractions like work, dating and my artistic endeavors, but I haven’t even touched anything related to D&D in almost 20 years. The closest I’ve come to any of it is a quick glance at the RPG books in the bookstore. Funny thing, I’ve noticed in my love life that admitting you used to play D&D isn’t always the most enticing thing a woman wants to hear. Many women I’ve met who discover this about me usually follow up with “But do you still play?”
It’s About Time for a Real Reunion
As the years have trudged by, this small circle of friends kept in touch. Sadly a few disappeared or lost contact for whatever their reasons, but a core of us always kept in contact and saw each other whenever the opportunity presented itself. In a group email to all of us in February, Alex pointed out that the D&D campaign we played began 25 years ago as of Fall 2012. That was a sobering and nostalgic reminder to us that a lot of time had passed and we all had fond and vivid memories and lasting friendships thanks to that fantasy game.
In the bevy of emails that followed, a plan emerged for a reunion, a chance to get all of us together to reminisce and catch up. Ideas for meeting were kicked around – everything from meeting at a fun destination like Las Vegas (though most of us weren’t fans of that place) or Dave’s cottage in Canada (logistically not easy to coordinate), but ultimately, it made sense to get together where it all started – Northern Virginia. Fortunately, several of us are still in the area, so it was easy to get to and make accommodations. As Spyke had the largest living space (i.e., a house, complete with an entire wall dedicated to all things gaming and sci fi), he volunteered his home as the hang out for the weekend. Our original idea was to meet in the Fall, but there were too many conflicts with that timeframe, so we decided to go for an earlier date over the summer. As an added bonus, all but one of missing former game players were back in touch and equally excited to see us all in one place again (although Dave and Neil had to drop out because of work commitments).
This past weekend was the big reunion. Alex even prepared a small mini adventure to play around in, but I think we were more excited to just be together again and enjoy the camaraderie. It’s a strange experience to see some of them after a very long time, even if I've seen some of them with a bit more regularity. In many ways, you see how we’re all basically the same geek guys we remember, and how time and maturity have molded and changed us. There was a lot of “remember when…” conversations, some old and fondly remembered in-jokes, and a Hell of a time trying to remember how that damn game worked.
As Dave observed when he Skyped in for a few minutes, those gaming days could’ve been yesterday. The only difference now was our hair was thinner, we were a few pounds heavier, and the beverages of choice involved alcohol instead of soda. Even now, we’re all abuzz about getting together again next year (one or two wish it could be even more often), and some hopeful that we’ll see more than a few more reunions in the future. Personally, I'm less interested in the game and more with being in their company again like old times.
June 2013. Top (From Left to Right): Alex, Jon, Spyke, Erik. Bottom (From Left to Right): Steve, Keith, me.
* My World History teacher (who I’m keeping anonymous on purpose) had a great way of putting major events in perspective to modern day. He was a fantastic encyclopedia of what happened and when, and encouraged students to keep open minds. Unfortunately, he was allegedly a bit of a pervert (e.g., he enjoyed re-arranging the class seating assignments by making the cheerleaders in their very short skirts sit at the front of the class) and was consequently “invited” to retire a few years after I graduated.
** Having some notorious anger management issues back then, I was often guilty of these, some of which were encouraged by the others for sheer entertainment value.
This isn’t how I thought owning my first motorcycle would end.
Over the few years that I’ve been riding, several friends and other riders I’ve met along the way have shared differing views about and experiences with their first “starter” bike. Some sentimental roadsters still have their first rides, the prized and usually having-seen-better-days steel horse in a collection of two-wheeled travel companions. Other riders of the less-sentimental variety either passed theirs on to their kids when they came of age, gave them to friends who were starting to ride, or sold them off. And sadly, others lost their first bikes in an accident, left with a good scar or injury to remember them by. And a resolute few won’t touch any other bike. To them, the first and only bike is like love at first sight with a high school sweetheart, you’re hooked from the very first moment you hop on and hear the irresistible growl as you tap the starter.*
My first bike was nothing particularly special, but now it’s a fond memory.
A few years back, I was enjoying life free and clear of a now ex-girlfriend who represents two wasted years of my life. I was traveling a little more, spending more time with friends and family, and doing whatever I wanted. I have a few friends who ride and the appeal of experiencing the world like one can on a bike was growing from a seed of temptation into the new growth of curiosity and interest. All it took was one of my local friends getting her license and first bike and I gave in. Within a month I had my license and weeks afterward my first bike.
As I said, the bike wasn’t anything special – a Kawasaki Vulcan 500. A small cruiser that – like many other cruisers today – was designed to resemble a Harley. It was nothing more than a generic, small, crafty bike to ride, with a fire engine red tank and fenders. At the time, bikes were in heavy demand due to high gas prices, so when my bike popped up on the dealership’s website, I had to bolt from work early to put down a deposit before the four other interested buyers beat me to it. As soon as I saw it, I knew I found my first ride. The day I signed the papers, I had to ride it home through a mother of a thunderstorm, and I still rank that ride as the stupidest thing I ever did (with possible exception of the above-mentioned ex-girlfriend).**
My first few rides were short and cautious, trying to get a feel for the bike and grow my confidence as a rider. I took to heart the fact that my motorcycle riding class teacher said he saw I was definitely ready for a bike, but there’s a huge difference between a pylon-studded, empty parking lot and the unforgiving roads and even less charitable car drivers on them. I’m sure my bike and I became familiar sites around Reston and Herndon in those first two months, riding around, half training myself to trust my skills and half praying I didn’t do something to get myself killed. Soon, the bike seat was as welcoming and familiar as an old, faded, fraying, perfectly-fitting pair of comfortable jeans that everyone owns. Finally, I was brave enough to push myself out of the nest and take off on longer rides and on busier main roads. As time went on I was able to enjoy more than a few memorable rides and chalk up some pleasant memories – going down to Charlottesville, meeting Mike in Romney, WV on his ride from Chicago to Northern Virginia, my first group ride, riding up to Harrisonburg, PA (my Dad’s hometown), driving up to New Jersey with Ryan to pick up a Triumph he bought off of an ad on Craigslist, a ride or two up to Harpers Ferry, WV, finding my “moment of zen” more than a few times along the Winchester loop, digging out of Snowpocalypse 2010, and possibly being a bad influence on a little girl who may very well end up riding someday.
Somehow along the way, my little red cruiser got its nickname “the Red Devil,” but it was on the Charlottesville ride where that changed. Part of my reason for going on that ride was to find the house my family lived in for a few years when I was a kid. Trick is, the house was – and still is – on a gravel road. Though I learned quickly to loathe gravel roads for obvious reasons (my first experience being an absolutely miserable mile and a half on one to reach a winery), the house wasn’t too far down the road. Just a few hundred yards. Sadly, as I spotted the house from the road, I hit the brakes harder than I should’ve, and at 5 MPH, I flew off the bike and it toppled on its side. After brushing myself off and standing the bike back up, the bike was left with a sizeable dent on the right side of the tank. From then on, it was known as “the Dented Red Devil,” earning snickers, criticisms and even a few thumbs up from fellow riders.
But things change and life gets in the way.
Over the past year, work was busier, other aspects of my social life took priority and the Dented Red Devil saw more time in the parking lot than on the road. I didn’t lose interest in my beloved bike, I just had other things to do or deal with. As last Fall arrived and I realized my lack of riding and contemplating other bikes to invest in were a reality, I decided I’d sell the Dented Red Devil and use the funds as a down payment on something new to ride. As spring arrived, I prepped her for a few last spins on the road, but the battery was dead. I thought I hadn’t hooked up the trickle charger properly, so after a few more tries and getting barely enough juice to see a light or two pop on, but not nearly enough to start the engine, it hit me. God, karma or the universe was speaking to me and it said “it’s time to sell the bike.” So, I invested in a new battery and cleaned her up so I could take some pictures and post an ad or two to sell it.
Problem is, some higher power has a sense of humor and it reared its ugly head on June 8, 2013. I wasn’t home when it happened, but I found out through a few neighbors and someone who claimed to be a friend of the other bike’s owner that the biker came home from a ride in the afternoon and stupidly threw the weather tarp back on her bike without letting it first cool down. Within a few minutes her bike tarp caught fire, and then set fire to the other bike tarps sitting in the motorcycle parking spaces, including my trusty bike. By the time the fire department arrived, the gas and oil were lit up and there was nothing else to do except watch as it burnt itself out. I heard another neighbor ran out with a fire extinguisher in hand, but the fire fighters gave them a “Seriously?” look. The fire destroyed three bikes and two scooters and anything not metal was black, tarry slag on the asphalt. I was lucky enough to catch the tow truck driver as he was hauling away the culprit bike a few days later and he gave me the rider’s phone number and insurance company. I left her a voicemail to at least trade insurance info, but she never called back, so I gave her info to my insurance and they’re trying to resolve things. This past weekend, the junker arrived to haul away the remains of the Dented Red Devil.
Top: The Dented Red Devil from both sides after the fire. The silver bike next to it is the one that started the fire.
Bottom: What was left of the license plate, and my last view of the bike as it was hauled off.
So, I didn’t get to hang on to it, pass it on to another rider, or go off into the sunset.
So long, Dented Red Devil, you were a great bike and fun ride.
My remaining trophy of the Dented Red Devil, a plate from the side of the gas tank.
UPDATE7/5/2013: In what I was pretty sure to be a done deal, my insurance won out over the other biker's. Her insurance tried to argue that since the fire department ruled the fire as "unintentional," then the fire wasn't her responsibility. My insurance pointed out that since her bike fire spread to mine, as opposed to my bike spontaneously combusting by itself, then it was her insurance responsibility.
* I’m talking about the bike, not the high school sweetheart.
** In my defense, the salesman and I estimated that I had just enough time before the storm hit, but was about half way home when all Hell broke loose. After I got home, the news claimed it was a potential tornado cell that passed through Northern Virginia.
For those who don't know, I took a badly needed vacation to Oahu, Hawaii back in March. As with other big trips, I tend to take A LOT of pictures and write down copious notes to remember everything and translate into more coherent prose later on. Well, I FINALLY finished typing up the notes and posting everything, so enjoy!
Oahu, Hawaii Trip 2013
Like many people, I sometimes have a hard time remembering my dreams.
It doesn’t matter if it’s a heart-racing nightmare, a surreal journey or a sensual/erotic romp, I tend to forget what I’ve dreamt about not long after I’ve woken up.* In the past, I’ve tried writing down quick notes about particularly interesting or intense dreams when I wake up, but if I don’t have time I try committing them memory, but only to forget them as the day drags on. Once in a while I’ll have one that definitely stays in my memory, and to this day, the ones I definitely recall include:
1. Several very erotic dreams, usually involving people I know and/or dat ed, or whomever my brain came up with. One dream in particular involved a person who was a mix of several ex-girlfriends (their personalities and that they have very similar features). The funny thing about that one particular dream is I remember the person being a lot of fun to be with, which is completely not like one of the ex-girlfriends this person resembled.**
2. One particular nightmare I had was of my trying to escape an old castle and get away from some kind of axe murderer. This dream ended with him basically tearing me apart from behind and I refused to fall asleep when I woke up from it. Also, this nightmare stands out because I had a date the day after I had it, and the date described her own nightmare that same night that was almost exactly the same as mine. We were both freaked out by this.
3. Another nightmare was of me wandering through a dustbowl type abandoned town in the middle of nowhere. As I walked around, I kept hearing something like wind chimes and a distinct and repetitive “thump.” As the thumping got louder, I eventually turned around to see something that best resembled a demonic, glowing red eyes kangaroo that attacks me.*** I woke up yelling out loud from that nightmare.
4. One dream I remember from my early childhood was exploring the neighborhood I lived in. For some reason, everyone had either a full-sized swimming pool (either in- or above-ground), or one of those blow-up and/or plastic kiddie swimming pools. I was fascinated by them because I would jump into each pool and discover that each of them was a portal to somewhere under the sea with all kinds of sea life and things to see. Some portals could be seen in the distance, or others I had to swim to and emerge in another neighbor’s backyard. The other cool part of this dream is I was able to swim underwater without any breathing apparatus.
I know a few people who have re-occurring dreams on a pretty frequent basis. I don’t normally have those, or at least, I don’t remember them if I do. The only one in the past that immediately comes to mind involves the people I know at the time I have the dream, and we all have super powers. For some reason, we’re all outside and some unseen calamity is happening and we’re trying to do something about it. None of our powers are really defined, but I remember how one person might be similar to the Flash, etc. I have that dream about once or twice a year and I usually wake up from it with a huge adrenaline rush.
However, I’ve been having a re-occurring dream over the past two years that I can’t make heads or tails of. I dream that I’m back in college and it involves a class that for some reason I keep forgetting to attend. While I’m in the class, the professor discusses either an exam we’re having soon, a major paper that’s due or a book we’re supposed to be reading, and I’m panicking because I either haven’t read the material or prepared the paper and it’s all due within a day or two. The compelling part of the dream for me is how I’ve been forgetting to attend the class to the point of forgetting it even exists. Some of the other students in it are people I know, but they’re acting pretty much like normal students.
Normally, I don’t put a whole lot of weight in dreams since I chalk them up as my subconscious trying to work out something that’s obviously on my mind, but the re-occurring dreams make me wonder why they come up as they do. I’ve never done any serious research on dreams, but I almost want to at this point because of this re-occurring one.
* I tend to have nightmares when I’m hungry and/or haven’t had a lot to eat, and the sensual/erotic dreams tend to be the most common – as in incredibly frequent and it doesn’t matter whether I’m dating someone or not (one or two ex-girlfriends have appreciated this).
** This particular ex-girlfriend was terrible to the point of boring during sex. I blame no one else but myself for putting up with that as long as I did with her…but that’s a story for another time.
*** The “monster” in this dream reminds me about how some aspects of dreams will seem incredibly important, intense, scary or fascinating while in the dream, but silly or stupid when you explain them to others.
A few years back, I caved and wrote up my critical analysis of Star Trek (2009), so I thought I’d do the same with Star Trek Into Darkness.
WARNING: THERE BE SPOILERS A PLENTY BELOW!
To get the obvious, short-answer out of the way – yes, it’s a great “popcorn” movie that’s fun to watch, looks and sounds amazing, and each of the characters has their moment in the sun. It has the same sense of humor as the first movie, and pays some worthy homages to the original Star Trek. That being said…
Reboots are Tricky Things
As many fans and critics alike pointed out years ago, the original Star Trek franchise was pretty stale, having exhausted every imaginable and relevant theme, characterization and plotline. With mixed results, Hollywood has been on the “reboot” bandwagon for a while now (e.g., Good = the Daniel Craig James Bond and Christian Bale Batman movies, Bad = Superman Returns and Conan the Barbarian).* Star Trek (2009) was a pleasant breath of fresh air given the re-development of the characters, look and feel and story ideas. The new actors are talented and allowed to add their own mark while giving credit to their predecessors. If diehard fans had any true grievance with the reboot, it was all about how J.J. Abrams enjoyed some pretty divergent artistic license from the Star Trek canon.** Abrams has admitted on several occasions that he’s not a big Star Trek fan and this is a good thing – he’d take this on without any need to “re do” what’s already been done before. Again, he made clever and fun references and homages to the original material while having some fun re-defining it and exploring some “what if…” storytelling.
The problem with Star Trek Into Darkness is that the playful fun of mixing things up was a bit muddled, and even lost at times. This movie makes a lot of references and borrows heavily from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, but does so to a fault.*** There’s a bit of role-reversal with the story banking on the emotional impact of Spock’s death in Star Trek II by making Kirk the dying character instead. However, his death scene in the new movie is almost comical when Spock yells “KHAAAAAAAAAN!” because the emotional investment is non-existent.**** Star Trek II had the massive advantage of fans following and loving the characters for almost two decades beforehand, plus Khan’s motivations were given gravitas, having been developed from the episode Space Seed (i.e., he had some legitimate reasons for being pissed off), so Spock’s death then had a truly cathartic impact. This time around, the storytelling legwork wasn’t there, plus a crucial plot point at the beginning of the movie already gave away how Kirk’s death would be “fixed,” stealing a lot of thunder from his death scene. Plot twists work best when you don’t see them coming, and the writers not only told you what they were going to do, but did so with the biggest storytelling “wink and a smile” they possibly could.*****
Redefining Characters Should Amount to More than “Meh…”
Okay, admittedly and like I pointed out above, this is a big-budget “popcorn” flick, so you don’t go into the theater expecting Hamlet, but a little sense is needed to buy into it. On the plus side, the writers gave each character their time to shine – Kirk has to confront some facets of personality that were fun and admirable before, but problematic and even dangerous given his responsibilities as a starship captain. Spock has lingering issues from the destruction of Vulcan that impact his personal/love life. McCoy, Scotty, Uhura, Sulu and Chekov all have welcome moments in the spotlight, too (though maybe not as much as one would hope – I still feel that Karl Urban’s Dr. McCoy is one of the highlights of these movies and he isn’t used nearly as well as in the previous movie).
When it comes to Khan, things just don’t add up. His motivation is murky and a bit unbelievable – he’s pissed at an evil Admiral Marcus because the he's cast aside for no longer being of use to the Admiral (effectly casting Khan in the same role on an epic scale as Glenn Close’s jilted lover in Fatal Attraction)? First, how would someone from 300 years ago be of worth designing advanced weapons and starships that he has no knowledge of to begin with? The original canon establishes Khan having a background in engineering, but he’s from 300 years in the past, and that’s a lot of catching up to do before being the head of development of future technology. Second, if he’s so damn smart and capable, why create so much convoluted and wanton destruction and death just to get back at one man? Obviously, killing their mentor (Admiral Pike – and albeit as collateral damage) gives Kirk and Spock the personal motivation and hate to go after Khan, but when you think about it, it’s a lot of needless death and destruction for revenge. One might argue that Khan had no problem with making innocents suffer (e.g., the Genesis Device scientists, Enterprise and Reliant crew members) in his quest to get back at his primary target (Kirk) in Star Trek II, but something about his blowing up whole sections of cities is somehow out of character. There's a difference between a power-hungry warlord and an unpredictable terrorist (and frankly, not every modern villain needs to be a contemporary comparison to terrorism and/or 9/11). Finally, there’s a vital trait missing from this new version of Khan. Ricardo Montalban and the writers back then engendered Khan with a true sense of charisma – he was brilliant, clever, charming, confident, warm, complimentary and respectful (even to his enemies and underlings), and had the above-mentioned legitimate motivations for his actions. He wasn’t bad for bad’s sake, he was a classic antagonist with faults and admirable qualities that made us like him and consider his point of view even though he's a monster. Benedict Cumberbatch’s Khan is an ice cold and calculating creature – a colorless, bland villain (which is what I hoped they would avoid, and said as much four years ago). He has the steely-eyed glare of a shark tracking its prey, but there’s no passion or zeal and we get none of the original Khan’s charismatic attraction. In short, the writers and producers banked heavily on Khan’s reputation and legend from the original canon without providing any of the same worth to his character in the new context. Khan in this new movie could be named “Piney Applebiscuit” and would be just as close a match to the original character as this “Khan.”
Plot is More than a Bunch of Devices
The plot is understandably simple for this kind of escapism movie, and it does move along a nice pace. If the movie lacks anything in the plot, it’s that the motivations discussed above don’t always make sense or work, and a few plot devices are lackluster challenges, at best. Khan’s superior traits offer several opportunities to save the characters, offering a lot of anticlimactic “deus ex machina” storytelling (e.g., Khan saving them from the Klingons, knowing a way to get on board an enemy ship, his blood having super-healing properties). The U.S.S. Vengeance is simply a badder, meaner ship to go up against, but so what? We know as soon as we see it that 1) it’s going to kick the shit out of the Enterprise, but be thwarted by a clever plot twist, and 2) Khan will get control of it. What makes Star Trek II’s plot engaging is Kirk and Khan are evenly matched – both had equivalent resources (ships and crew), and character strengths and weaknesses (e.g., Khan’s blinding need for revenge and obtaining the Genesis Device versus Kirk’s experience as a starship captain and his wavering self-worth). This time around, their positions swing wildly from one having the upper hand to the other, so the plot is simply a chess match of making sure characters are magically in the right place, at the right time.
Despite the nitpicking above, it really is a fun movie to watch. It doesn’t take itself too seriously, and offers the same enjoyment you get from Star Trek (2009), it just misses the mark when trying to balance reverence versus redefinition. It seems there are early plans for a third movie (the lead on for this is the Enterprise beginning its famous five-year mission at the end of the movie), and I hope they figure out a way to embrace the show's sense of exploration while using a better and lighter hand when borrowing from the original. Personally, I’m still hoping to see the return of Harry Mudd, a favorite character of mine and who would be a gold mine of fun in the new movies. If you're a fan who doesn't take their fandom too seriously, you'll appreciate it and like it, if not, it's a fun way to kill a few hours.
* Not that the original Conan the Barbarian was the end-all, be-all of great movie making, but the reboot was a shamefully God-awful movie across the board.
** As God as my witness, I left the theater after Star Trek (2009) hearing two fans bitterly arguing over what certain characters did or didn’t do and divergent events from the canon “history.” This kind of reaction, plus many fans’ hardcore insistance of labeling the new movies as an “alternate universe,” sometimes makes me wonder who’s more stuck in the mud about their beliefs and perceptions – those kinds of fans or the Tea Party.
*** And as one friend pointed out, they basically remade Star Trek II with Star Trek (2009) given the revenge themes and doomsday weapon plot device.
**** Especially since their close friendship isn’t even remotely established. In fact, their dramatic issue in this movie is how they still don’t completely trust or understand one another.
***** The resulting huge plot hole is needing to take Khan alive when they had 72 of his people already, meaning they had 72 other resources for bringing Kirk back. Not to mention that they just established a way for people to never die in the Star Trek universe, so Khan and his people just became the universe's most valuable commodity.
It just hit me that last week was 10 years ago that I was laid off for the very first time in my life. I can’t believe that much time has passed. Oddly enough, I should’ve realized that when I was revising my resume a few months back.*
Let’s hop in the way-back machine to April 2003 – this was a pretty significant time and turning point for me. After a particularly cold and snowy winter,** Spring had definitely arrived and life was returning to the area. I was dating my then girlfriend and it felt like things were finally thawing out from the long winter. I was working at a small training company as a project coordinator (I’ve written about it before), which basically meant I was making sure training course materials were put together correctly, shipped and received where they needed to be. I had been doing the same job for almost three years with very little hope of any promotion, not to mention I was fairly bored and irritated that my recently-completed Masters degree wasn’t be moving me along to any better work there.*** On top of all that, I was making way below what I should’ve been earning anywhere else, and raises were “token” at best. Given my frustrations, I took to doing some job hunting, and somewhere along the way management got wind of this.****
Now, something to understand about this piece-of-crap company is that the owners are INCREDIBLY cheap. How cheap you ask? They only invested in a network a year or two earlier. Before that, each floor had its own, dedicated dial-up phone line which was only accessible by one person at a time using their own AOL accounts.***** In addition, the office was in various states of disrepair and neglect, and frankly, I was embarrassed when clients and other companies showed up for meetings.
The management was prone to being rabid packrats, frequently losing and/or forgetting about materials they needed or wanted to keep in piles and boxes all over the office. One particular conference room was the collective “dump site” for books, papers and assorted junk no one knew what to do with or didn’t want in their offices. During one of the frequent slow periods in my work, I was charged with clearing out that conference room, finding documents originating from dot-matrix printers, books belonging to former employees, marked up papers from previous (and completed) project development efforts, etc. The real fun came when I was put in charge of clearing out and organizing the company’s library of print-ready training materials. It took several months of careful removal and inspection, but I found old surveys for clients we no long had, books and magazines, more support materials for projects long since completed, and even old floppy disks – and not just the five-and-a-quarter inch disks, but the eight inch variety! They didn’t even have the equipment to read them, and even if they did, we were pretty sure that the less-than-ideal storage conditions ruined their viability anyway. Those eventually became targets for one of my coworkers on his shooting range.
Why do I bring these things up? Because their frugal and mismanaged ways (i.e., saving money any way they can and losing track of what they kept), while not being the most skilled business managers, plus a little bit of “fuck you” thrown in, led them to decide that it was time for me to go. I wasn’t happy there and they knew it, I wanted to do more and they weren’t letting me, and since another person was willing to absorb my duties into her own, they drop-kicked my ass out of the place. No severance either. Just a “see ya and good luck” and didn’t care if the door hit me on the ass on the way out. The irony is this is a group of experts who helped other companies and agencies develop their workforces, but completely neglected their own (doctors do make the worst patients…).
This stands out in my mind because it’s the first time I was ever laid off or fired from a job in my entire life. Up until then, I managed to leave every other job on my own terms (usually due to going back to school), but this was the first time I’d be unemployed in my adult life. My ex-girlfriend, to her credit, was very supportive considering she had been laid off once or twice, as well as one or two of her other ex-boyfriends.****** But still, it was a new experience for me, and one I wasn’t really prepared for given the ability of most people to coast their way through that damn company.
In a sense of coming full circle, I was hired at another company three years ago who was a bigger, more resourceful and sharper competitor to the crap training company that let me go. In addition, the CEO worked at the same little company at the beginning of her career (long before I was there). That CEO stepped into my interview because she saw my resume and where I had worked previously, and wanted to get her own take on me (she has a much higher opinion of them than I do, but that’s to say that she knows they’re a bunch of fuck ups, too).
Once in a while, I’ll drive past that little company (it isn’t far from where I work now), and it has barely changed. I even recognize some of the cars in the parking lot and people in their office windows. Given how small, inept and badly run, it’s a minor miracle they’re still in business at all (a few of us who previously worked there figured the company would’ve folded years ago). On top of that, my LinkedIn account has been bringing up a lot of “People You May Know” hints showing people from that company (again, many of whom are still there). My friend Michael ( mphtower) and I still muse about that place from time to time (he used to work there and got me my first job at that place - see the link above).
Damn, I can’t believe it was 10 years ago. It seems like a lifetime has passed since then.
* Since I haven’t been posting much on here – FYI – I was laid off from my last job of three years (as in, to the day) in early February. I landed a new job within four weeks, so BOO-YAH bitches.
** This was after the horrendous snow storms of Winter 2003, which I thought were pretty bad until “Snowpocalypse 2010” hit, making 2003’s massive amount snow seem like a mere dusting.
*** There was, almost literally, nowhere to go career-wise in that God-forsaken company.
**** This is interesting to me considering that the management typically didn’t seem to care about anything the staff did as long as they did their jobs. Not to mention that it was almost taken for granted that most of the staff were constantly job hunting anyway.
***** Surprisingly, this wasn’t that big a deal until they hired a full-time, in-house web programmer who spent much of the time hogging the dial-up line claiming he needed to do web-based work. It was after he was caught just IMing people all day that he was scolded for denying others access to their email.
****** Sadly, her support was extremely short lived as the piece-of-shit bitch dumped me just a few weeks later. In fact, the Saturday we had our last fight and break up was the same day my Dad had his stroke. This was the woman I thought I was going to marry someday and we even adopted a couple of cats together in anticipation of bigger things between us (and I was stuck with the damn cats…and I don’t like cats).