I have two brothers. Mike is the older, Joe is the younger. So, yes, I'm smack dab in the "troubled middle-child, Peter/Jan Brady syndrome, black sheep, gotta-be-independent" middle of them. We're almost equally divided by three years each. We get along pretty well...now. We've had our ups and downs, but now that we're adults, and there is nothing evil trying to ooze darkness over the relationship, we're all rather amicable. Which is good, considering some of the crap we used to pull on each other.
On Thanksgiving we were all together, and when that happens, we usually toss around the same stories about our youth, much to the chagrin of the wives who heard them all before. Like the one about when I squeezed my younger brother's nose hard while wrestling, and he wound up with a nice black and blue on the tip of it. I love that story. Or when I put a hot spatula on his arm because he was bothering me while I was making pancakes. Another knee-slapper. Then we sit around complaining about the crap on TV, or comparing bellies, or updating each other on the latest "mom" horror story.
I'm sure it wasn't easy for our parents to raise three boys. We weren't hellions by any stretch of the imagination, but we were still three boys. And we enjoyed torturing each other. Actually, we really enjoyed torturing the youngest...
I can remember Mike and I tying the "baby" of the family to the bed, using the belts from our robes. We'd tell him it was part of a game. Then we'd leave him and go about our business, until his screaming caught the attention of our mother. Sometimes, we would lock him in the cedar-lined bedding closet. We'd tell him that was part of a different game. Then we'd leave and go about our business, until his screaming caught the attention of our mother. We even wrapped him like a mummy in cloth bandages. Then left him. He couldn't scream that time. We bandaged his mouth too tight.
We were big wrestling fans as kids. Not that soap opera crap that goes on now. The real wrestling, with true athletes like Andre The Giant, Bruno Sammartino, Chief Jay Strongbow, and George "the Animal" Steele. Those guys were awesome. And we would do our best to imitate our heroes with major bouts that always turned into real fights. Whether someone kicked someone else a little too hard in the neck, or a punch landed unintentionally to the gut, the fake wrestling became three brothers pounding the crap out of each other. Until it caught the attention on our father. Once, I kneed Mike in the back really hard, and he actually threw me across the basement into our game shelves, which promptly collapsed on me. Good times. Of course, this was the same guy who beat the crap out of a punk from the neighborhood who hit me for no reason.
Once, Joe wanted to be Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka, and attempted a flying leap off the wrought iron railing in our living room. His chest landed squarely on my knee, knocking the wind out of him. Sure, he could have died. But he didn't. Which makes it much easier to laugh at the story. Especially if you were the one on the floor watching him fly at you off the railing. It's priceless stuff.
I believe that this is how we bonded. We worked out our aggressions on one another, then would make up. Until the next wrestling match. We could kick each other's ass, but would stand up for each other if anyone outside tried to push one of us around. I guess that's how brotherhood works.
Today, Joe is a psychologist. I suppose all those years being tied to the bed and wrapped like a mummy made him want to help others who suffered similar abuse. When he starts spewing some of his psycho-babble with us, we lock him in the closet until he shuts up. Since my dad died, Mike has really stepped up, taking on a lot of responsiblities, helping my mom with finances and house stuff. Believe me, I'm thankful for that. When we get together, we always laugh at the stupid stories, no matter how many times we tell them. Like the one where Joe was going to catch a beating from our father and he filled his pajama bottoms with books to soften the blows. As if my father wouldn't notice. Or the way Mike would come into our bedroom every night and cut some truly nasty butt gas. Every night. Like clockwork.
When I turned away from the family during my ill-fated second marriage, all it took was a phone call after it ended to have them back in my life. I'll never forget that. They were there for me in an instant, and they forgave any stupid crap I did or said in my possessed state. They even helped me move into my new place. I know I would do the same for them in a heartbeat. Despite being thrown into shelving as a kid. I guess that's also how brotherhood works.
Next time we're together, I think I'll challenge them to a wrestling match. I would love to see Joe trying to climb onto the wrought iron railing to do a "superfly." Better alert the emergency room.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
The 70-year-old virgin.
My father used to tell a story about my mom. When he was working, he had voicemail, long before the time of cell phones. He told us that when my mother would leave a message, she would start her messages by saying, "Hello Joe, this is your wife...Janet." He would tell us, "Good thing she said her name, I wouldn't know which wife was calling." I'm telling this story just to give you an idea of the naive little person that is my mother.
She just turned 70. She's older, but not very much wiser. I love her dearly, but she really is a very naive 70. And more than just a little behind the times. She's never touched a computer, let alone a cellphone. My mom once told me to be careful about dating women I meet on online dating sites. Like I'm a ten year old boy in a chatroom with a bunch of priests. (Didn't want to go the "child molester/priest route," but somehow it works.) To her, the internet is a place where sickos hang out looking for their next victims, and people get your credit card number to steal your identity. In her mind, the idea of owning a DVD player is like placing a hungry crocodile in her living room. The most high tech piece of equipment in her house is a cordless phone. Of course, it sits next to the couch where she watches TV. The handset is never further than a foot from the base, totally missing the point of being "cordless."
I'm sure that there are many seniors out there who are just as techno repellent, but I also hear of alot of older folks surfing the net and carrying cells. I would love that to be my mom. Just once, I'd like to hear her tell me about a site she visited, or about something she bought off the 'net. Although, if she discovered an online slot machine, there goes my inheritence.
When my dad died 12 years ago, my mom was totally lost. She probably hadn't written a check in thirty years, had no idea how much money was in the bank, and knew that you had to put something in the car to make it run. It was actually a good thing that my dad knew he was terminal during those last months. He took care of everything before he died. My mom didn't have to worry about a thing. In fact, when we heard what he left her, we realized why we spent most of our childhood choking down peas and pasta or ground meat casserole dinners. He was saving all his money for her to blow on lottery tickets and monthly trips to the casino.
My mother takes pride in her house. And has for the 30+ years she's lived there. That's probably why she hasn't changed the decor in as many years. Oh, the wallpaper has switched from red flocked paper, to flower prints, to textured white Sanitas, and I remember at one time there were green rugs instead of the rusty brown ones there now. But the bathroom is still a lovely avacado, the paneling is still holding up the drop ceiling tiles and the lamps still have cherubs on them. Okay, there's no plastic on the couch and the 42-year-old fridge was finally replaced last month by a new model. I chalk it up to her being so used to her surroundings that changing it would be like getting a nose job at her age. She couldn't wake to a new face looking at her in the mirror. It wouldn't be comforting.
So, why did I title this blog "The 70-year-old virgin?" Well, that's how I see my mom. Sure, no one can imagine their parents having sex. Not that anyone would really want to either. (Unless they're one of those Internet sickos my mother always talks about.) But you see, my dad was very outgoing, upbeat and fun. I could imagine him having sex. He was that kind of guy. My mom? Never. I honestly don't think she ever did. Okay, I'm kind of sure she did. At least three times. There's no denying she's my mom. I have the same round nose as her. And W.C. Fields. But she just seems too damn naive to have known what to do. I'm getting a little creeped out thinking about it, but for the sake of art...So, just like a young virgin, who seems uncertain of the ways of life, she's definitely cherry when it comes to the world around her. And just so you all know, I never thought I'd ever refer to my mom as a "cherry."
So now, at this age, my mom will probably never write an e-mail, text a friend, see a movie in high def, know the joys of On Demand, understand what a blog is, listen to music on an iPod, or drive anything but her beat up '89 Honda Civic. And that may not be fine with me or my brothers, but it's absolutely fine with her. Because she's happy being cherry. And I guess that's pretty good at 70.
She just turned 70. She's older, but not very much wiser. I love her dearly, but she really is a very naive 70. And more than just a little behind the times. She's never touched a computer, let alone a cellphone. My mom once told me to be careful about dating women I meet on online dating sites. Like I'm a ten year old boy in a chatroom with a bunch of priests. (Didn't want to go the "child molester/priest route," but somehow it works.) To her, the internet is a place where sickos hang out looking for their next victims, and people get your credit card number to steal your identity. In her mind, the idea of owning a DVD player is like placing a hungry crocodile in her living room. The most high tech piece of equipment in her house is a cordless phone. Of course, it sits next to the couch where she watches TV. The handset is never further than a foot from the base, totally missing the point of being "cordless."
I'm sure that there are many seniors out there who are just as techno repellent, but I also hear of alot of older folks surfing the net and carrying cells. I would love that to be my mom. Just once, I'd like to hear her tell me about a site she visited, or about something she bought off the 'net. Although, if she discovered an online slot machine, there goes my inheritence.
When my dad died 12 years ago, my mom was totally lost. She probably hadn't written a check in thirty years, had no idea how much money was in the bank, and knew that you had to put something in the car to make it run. It was actually a good thing that my dad knew he was terminal during those last months. He took care of everything before he died. My mom didn't have to worry about a thing. In fact, when we heard what he left her, we realized why we spent most of our childhood choking down peas and pasta or ground meat casserole dinners. He was saving all his money for her to blow on lottery tickets and monthly trips to the casino.
My mother takes pride in her house. And has for the 30+ years she's lived there. That's probably why she hasn't changed the decor in as many years. Oh, the wallpaper has switched from red flocked paper, to flower prints, to textured white Sanitas, and I remember at one time there were green rugs instead of the rusty brown ones there now. But the bathroom is still a lovely avacado, the paneling is still holding up the drop ceiling tiles and the lamps still have cherubs on them. Okay, there's no plastic on the couch and the 42-year-old fridge was finally replaced last month by a new model. I chalk it up to her being so used to her surroundings that changing it would be like getting a nose job at her age. She couldn't wake to a new face looking at her in the mirror. It wouldn't be comforting.
So, why did I title this blog "The 70-year-old virgin?" Well, that's how I see my mom. Sure, no one can imagine their parents having sex. Not that anyone would really want to either. (Unless they're one of those Internet sickos my mother always talks about.) But you see, my dad was very outgoing, upbeat and fun. I could imagine him having sex. He was that kind of guy. My mom? Never. I honestly don't think she ever did. Okay, I'm kind of sure she did. At least three times. There's no denying she's my mom. I have the same round nose as her. And W.C. Fields. But she just seems too damn naive to have known what to do. I'm getting a little creeped out thinking about it, but for the sake of art...So, just like a young virgin, who seems uncertain of the ways of life, she's definitely cherry when it comes to the world around her. And just so you all know, I never thought I'd ever refer to my mom as a "cherry."
So now, at this age, my mom will probably never write an e-mail, text a friend, see a movie in high def, know the joys of On Demand, understand what a blog is, listen to music on an iPod, or drive anything but her beat up '89 Honda Civic. And that may not be fine with me or my brothers, but it's absolutely fine with her. Because she's happy being cherry. And I guess that's pretty good at 70.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Happy Thanxgiving
Remember Thanksgiving? It was a pretty cool day, where family would get together and enjoy a huge meal, before falling asleep on the couch. Kids used to go to school the day before and reenact the history lesson, where Pilgrims met Indians and shared a meal. Often, you would get to see relatives you hadn't seen in a while. It was all very Norman Rockwell-esque, even if you lived in the bowels of South Philly.
I remember sitting around a huge table at my grandparents house for hours, just eating and talking and eating. The meal started with the traditional Italian Wedding soup, also called "escarole soup," but bastardized into just "shcatole soup." Then a big antipasta, including hairy little anchovies, proscuitto (we call "brajhoot") and provolone cheese that smelled like a fat guy's feet in the summer. Mmmm. Then, came the pasta course, with ravioli, spaghetti, meatballs and sausage. At this point, you're already feeling like an over-stuffed cannoli. But, what's a Thanksgiving without the turkey? And that came next, complete with all the trimmings. Gut busting, stuffed to the hilt, going to explode, where's the couch 'cause I'm gonna pass out, full. Until dessert.
Today, things have changed. Family traditions have passed away like the loved ones who spent hours in the kitchen preparing the meals. Relatives marry and move away, or have other families to spend time with. And what's left are the immediate kin, my brothers and mom who all live in proximity. But, we'll get together and laugh, maybe pull out the old 8mm home movies and crack up at ourselves. Watching big family parties from the '60s, when kids sat playing in the living room and adults sat around them, smoking like the Bowery during the Industrial Revolution.
But that's not all that changed. Oh sure, families gather for turkey, but meals are cut short because of the games on the big screen or cell phone calls. People are far too busy to prepare the giant meals. And Thanksgiving is simply the day the big sales circulars arrive, and everyone has to get home early to get some sleep before waking at 4 in the morning to get to Wal-Mart and stand in line for a $200 computer.
We're not allowed to say "Christmas" anymore, because we may offend someone. So the "people in charge" have come up with "X-mas." So, maybe we need to call it "Thanxgiving." It's become the first day of a long weekend, a day that's just part of the holiday season. And that sucks.
Maybe I sound bitter. Maybe I'm just being too nostalgic and have to change with the times. But I wish my kids could have experienced the 5-hour marathon of family dining. I miss that, like I miss my dad and my grandparents. And you just can't get brajhoot like that anymore.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Fat Squirrels and other distractions.
I may have mentioned before that I take walks in the morning. Well, I try to. Usually three or four times a week, for 40-45 minutes or so. I do it first thing in the morning because after work, I usually feel like that saying, "my get up and go has done got up and went." It's basically my exercise regimen, since I just can't bring myself to join a gym. The whole financial commitment doesn't sit right with me, and the thought of a locker room with naked guys walking around is just gay. Put a bunch of guys together anywhere, and if they're naked, it seems gay. I don't care where it is. It's just weird and I don't do it.
Anyway, it was a nice, crisp, Fall-type morning, so walking was a pleasure. I walk around a local park that's a city block square, one of the only tree-lined areas you'll find in South Philly. Most streets in South Philly don't have trees. but that doesn't stop dogs from finding places to pee and poo. I don't wear earphones, because I don't have an iPod. I know, I'm technologically impaired in that sense. But that's okay, because I like the fact that my mind can wander a bit and I often get good ideas while I'm walking.
This day, however, I couldn't get focused. The reason? Too many squirrels. They were everywhere. There are usually several here and there, but for some reason, the squirrels were out in full force. They must sense winter in the air, and they're doing their collecting before hibernating, because the little furry-tailed rodents were freakin' everywhere I stepped. And not just squirrels, but fat ones. Plump, grey John Goodman squirrels who were not going to let me get in their way of finding more nuts to forrage. I had squirrels playing "Chicken" with me as I walked down the sidewalk. They were coming at me, I was coming at them, and it didn't matter that I towered over them, they were coming straight at me. Who was going to sidestep? Would it be the fat tree-dwellers or the chubby dago in sweats?
As I said, with all this squirrel-related dodging going on, I couldn't get a good line of thinking. So my mind wandered. Here are some of the random thoughts I had in between squirrel attacks:
• I heard an actress the other day on the radio talking about how nice a guy Will Smith is. There's something I don't get. If I had his fame and fortune, I'd be the happiest son-of-a-bitch in the world. I'd be pissing rainbows and burping sunshine. Everybody would be going on and on about how nice a guy I am, and I'd say, "Look at my money and fame! Of course I'm a nice guy. Why should I be an asshole?"
• Who the hell is Rihanna? I heard that painfully awful "Umbrella" song once and I wanted to stab my ears with a ball-point pen. Does she really need to be made into a mega-superstar for that?
• I wish my goatee wasn't so rough and pinchy. What kind of conditioner can I use on my facial hair to make it as smooth as the fur on those goddamn squirrels I'm almost stepping on!
• I don't play the lottery, but if I did, and I won, I'd probably win like $250,000, which, according to statistics, would spoil my chances at winning the really big $10 million plus jackpot. Because if I was ever that lucky to win, I wouldn't be THAT lucky.
• Are these squirrels coming at me going to get the hell out of my way?
• Damn, my shin hurts.
• My mother just turned 70. I wonder what that feels like. I wonder if I'll get to see firsthand what that feels like.
• What does squirrel stew taste like?
• I used to like Billy Joel. What the hell happened to him. I saw him in concert like eight times, had every album he made, knew all his songs, and then one day, I just moved on. Now, I can't listen to his stuff. It really gets on my nerves. So, I guess it's good that he's not making music anymore. Because I might feel bad and buy his new CD since I have all his other stuff. Oh well, guess that saves me $15.99.
So, I approached the squirrels, closer and closer, and they approached me, looking at me with their beady little eyes, just like their sewer rat cousins. So who would win this game of chicken? Would I have to sidestep, breaking my steady stride, to get around them, or would they finally scatter a millisecond before I stomp on them? Who would win...
Damn squirrels. I hear they carry rabies.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Heaven help me.
I was having dinner with the kids the other night, and I asked them about their day. We have this ritual where I ask them to tell me one interesting thing that happened to them in school today. Usually their answers are topical, such as "This girl threw up," "Some kid made fun of my hair," or "I fell at recess." Well, on this particular night, my son told me that a priest had come into his class and was talking about heaven. I asked what they thought heaven was like.
At that point, my Catholic school upbringing flooded my memory like a bath in holy water. Their answers were so clearly influenced by their Catholic Church primers. My 8-year-old daughter's first thought was that she would get to meet John Lennon, her favorite Beatle. (She thinks the young Lennon is really cute. I think she's got moxie for that choice.) My son imagines a place where all your family is waiting for you. And he'll finally get to meet my dad who died a couple months before he was born. (Which got me a bit choked up, I must admit.) They both agreed that you walk in clouds, with everything bright and white. Angels lift you up and St. Peter is waiting by the gates. It all sounded so perfect, so idyllic. And yet I realized how innocently wishful it was. It's unfortunate how cynicism can play such dirty pool with our once hopeful visions.
Now, I must admit, being whacked on the side of the head by crusty old dried-up nuns through most of my grade school years was probably not the most efficient way to ensure that a child grows to be a card-carrying member of the Jesus Club. Sister Jamesita back in grade school was a true warrior for Christ, yanking sideburns as if they were the long-lost remnants of her unrequitted sexual longing. She would delight in tortures of all kinds, and I'm sure some orgasmic pleasure would course through her body as she came waddling on her pudgy legs down the aisle to administer a quick knuckle to the noggin. All that aside, I still managed to maintain some semblance of faith and belief in a higher being, but the whole peaceful heavenaly bliss after death thing has become a tough sell.
It's a belief that gets harder to hold on to. After a couple failed marriages, failure to win even one tiny little lottery, hair on my back, and a dented PT Cruiser, I got pretty cynical about things getting better once I pass on to the great beyond. I seriously doubt that we don white robes, get handed a harp and spend eternity floating through a fluffly cloud filled paradise. As my kids went on about how they'll meet Elvis and play with their deceased cat Willie, I began to fill with dread that someday they'll have the same conversation with their kids and be thinking what I'm thinking. That there just may be nothing. All gone. Zilch, nada, etc. And is that really better than two divorces, no lottery, waxing, and dents? Maybe this is heaven. Here and now. Life is heaven and the better we live, the better it is for us, because once it's done, there's nothing. Spending time with the kids, being with someone who makes you happy/crazy with desire and passion, seeing a really great movie that gives you goosebumps, biting into a perfectly prepared filet mignon. Maybe all that stuff is what heaven really is, and the dudes who wrote the Bible were full of crap about it coming after death.
Okay, I'm getting really deep here, and I don't mean to. But as I get older (and older still), the thought of death and heaven does pop into my brain more often than when I was a youthful whippersnapper eager to live forever. So I guess what I really need to do is enjoy what I've got here. After all, I did live through hell during my second marriage, so why not heaven? We all should live by that tired old cliche, "Make every moment count." And enjoy heaven on earth. And maybe, I could hit the lottery, nothing big, just a few grand to pay off some nasty bills and get a new car...Then, when I'm near death, I could worry about what's coming next, and hopefully not crap myself.
It would be cool to meet Elvis though.
At that point, my Catholic school upbringing flooded my memory like a bath in holy water. Their answers were so clearly influenced by their Catholic Church primers. My 8-year-old daughter's first thought was that she would get to meet John Lennon, her favorite Beatle. (She thinks the young Lennon is really cute. I think she's got moxie for that choice.) My son imagines a place where all your family is waiting for you. And he'll finally get to meet my dad who died a couple months before he was born. (Which got me a bit choked up, I must admit.) They both agreed that you walk in clouds, with everything bright and white. Angels lift you up and St. Peter is waiting by the gates. It all sounded so perfect, so idyllic. And yet I realized how innocently wishful it was. It's unfortunate how cynicism can play such dirty pool with our once hopeful visions.
Now, I must admit, being whacked on the side of the head by crusty old dried-up nuns through most of my grade school years was probably not the most efficient way to ensure that a child grows to be a card-carrying member of the Jesus Club. Sister Jamesita back in grade school was a true warrior for Christ, yanking sideburns as if they were the long-lost remnants of her unrequitted sexual longing. She would delight in tortures of all kinds, and I'm sure some orgasmic pleasure would course through her body as she came waddling on her pudgy legs down the aisle to administer a quick knuckle to the noggin. All that aside, I still managed to maintain some semblance of faith and belief in a higher being, but the whole peaceful heavenaly bliss after death thing has become a tough sell.
It's a belief that gets harder to hold on to. After a couple failed marriages, failure to win even one tiny little lottery, hair on my back, and a dented PT Cruiser, I got pretty cynical about things getting better once I pass on to the great beyond. I seriously doubt that we don white robes, get handed a harp and spend eternity floating through a fluffly cloud filled paradise. As my kids went on about how they'll meet Elvis and play with their deceased cat Willie, I began to fill with dread that someday they'll have the same conversation with their kids and be thinking what I'm thinking. That there just may be nothing. All gone. Zilch, nada, etc. And is that really better than two divorces, no lottery, waxing, and dents? Maybe this is heaven. Here and now. Life is heaven and the better we live, the better it is for us, because once it's done, there's nothing. Spending time with the kids, being with someone who makes you happy/crazy with desire and passion, seeing a really great movie that gives you goosebumps, biting into a perfectly prepared filet mignon. Maybe all that stuff is what heaven really is, and the dudes who wrote the Bible were full of crap about it coming after death.
Okay, I'm getting really deep here, and I don't mean to. But as I get older (and older still), the thought of death and heaven does pop into my brain more often than when I was a youthful whippersnapper eager to live forever. So I guess what I really need to do is enjoy what I've got here. After all, I did live through hell during my second marriage, so why not heaven? We all should live by that tired old cliche, "Make every moment count." And enjoy heaven on earth. And maybe, I could hit the lottery, nothing big, just a few grand to pay off some nasty bills and get a new car...Then, when I'm near death, I could worry about what's coming next, and hopefully not crap myself.
It would be cool to meet Elvis though.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Let's do a meeting. In hell.
I friggin' hate meetings. Plain and simple. Meetings suck the life out of everything that touches them. There are some places where meetings are held for every little issue that pops up. I like to think I work in a creative environment, where free thinking is held with the utmost regard, where anything that takes away from that creative thought should be avoided. Not the case. There are meetings to start an idea, meetings to present an idea, and meetings to discuss the start and presentation meetings of the idea. For me, it's the equivalent of a Black and Decker drill being driven directly into the back of my skull.
Here are the phases I generally go through during most meetings:
1: Disgust. I enter the meeting room already pissed that I had to leave my desk and the hundred due dates waiting for resolution to come into this meeting. I'll toss my pad down on the conference table, throw my pen, and collapse, sighing, into the chair. Everyone else does the same. Except for the schmuck who called the meeting. We'll get into that person in Phase 2.
2. Show some minor initial interest. I do my damnedest to listen to what's going on, try to stay focused, and maybe even add a tidbit of meaningful bullshit to the already overflowing bullshit that's going on. But right there is the problem. What could have been done in a memo, an e-mail, or a phone call, now takes several people, puts them in a room, and adds several pounds of crap. Let's face it, most of what goes on at meetings is people trying to prove that they're actually worth something in the company. It's that person who called the meeting who is trying to show that they really do add some value. Finding their raison d'être. So they hold a meeting. And thus the bullshit is spewed. What could be said in a sentence now needs a Powerpoint chart, a diatribe that could filibuster an bill on Capital Hill, and endless senseless comments from the other jerkwads in the room trying to prove they also have a reason for being.
3. Drifting. Soon, usually about 5 to 8 minutes in, I start drifting. My mind starts to wander off in all directions. It's kind of like my morning walks. I get up at 6 AM or so and go out for a 40 minute walk. I don't have an iPod or Walkman. I just walk and my mind goes all over the place. Probably in part, due to the fact that I'm depriving my brain of any real circulation or oxygen, because I'm actually out of bed that early and doing some exercise. But I do have some great brain farts during those walks. In meetings, my brain goes toddling down that same highway of vapid thoughts. "What's for dinner?" part of my brain asks as the meeting drones on like the endless hum of a 20-year-old refrigerator. "Well, I did thaw out those chicken thighs," the other side of my brain suggests. "I wonder what it would be like to kick this guy in the neck," another part of the brain chimes in on the dinner discussion. It's when that part of the brain starts making comments like that when Phase 4 usually kicks in:
4. Total Disengagement. I'm now gone. Blacked out. My mind is now in some foreign territory where wind howls endlessly over bleak flatlands. Where broken earth sits parched and barren. My mind is out there. There's is little I can do at this point. If anyone were to ask me my opinion at this point, I might just jabber a line from The Big Lebowski or some nonsensical hogwash. Once, I was at this point in a meeting with the president of the company, who was talking about goals for all our employees, or some meaningless bullshit like that. He looked at me, and my mind was lost somewhere out there, in a scene from Dune. He asked what I thought of his colorful, yet incomprehensible chart. My brain went into shock. Every neuron and electron was down for the count, not one of them firing at all. My mouth opened and out came, "Yeah, people working more efficiently helps the company." I swear. That's what I said. I had no idea if it was even in context. But I think everyone else around me was just as brain-dead, and it probably made sense to them, because they all nodded in agreement, happy that it wasn't them who was called on to comment.
5. Fighting the Doze. Now, the only thing left to do is to remain awake. My eyes are fighting to stay open. "Stay open! Damn you!" that tiny part of my brain still somewhat alert warns my eyelids. It screams from deep in the recesses of my skull, "Focus on something! Anything! Move the eyeballs! Blink! Don't fall asleep!!" You look at other people. Your eyelids slowly start to droop, and your vision becomes a gauzy blur of colors and shapes. This is what the world must look like to a 2-day-old baby. Then, as your body becomes Jell-O and the last little flicker of light left in your belfry starts to dim, the tough little corner of your cerebellum gives you a quick kick in the brain nuts and you snap out of it with a shudder. You hope no one around you saw you jump. But that only lasts a moment before the Axis of Ennui takes over again...You fight it over and over and hope and pray for:
6. The end. As the meeting winds down, my brain begins to charge up again. Pistons suddenly start firing. Gears slowly start grinding. The whir of a turbine starts whining. Carefully and cautiously, the mind comes back to life, leaving behind the desolate desert that was the thick of the meeting. But now, I'm expected to go back to my desk and resume working. The mind still isn't functioning at full throttle. I need a jolt. An e-mail that makes me smile. A cup of coffee that burns my senses back to "go-time."
Soon, things go back to normal. And then the inevitable. "Let's have a follow-up to that meeting."
Someone will get kicked in the neck someday.
Here are the phases I generally go through during most meetings:
1: Disgust. I enter the meeting room already pissed that I had to leave my desk and the hundred due dates waiting for resolution to come into this meeting. I'll toss my pad down on the conference table, throw my pen, and collapse, sighing, into the chair. Everyone else does the same. Except for the schmuck who called the meeting. We'll get into that person in Phase 2.
2. Show some minor initial interest. I do my damnedest to listen to what's going on, try to stay focused, and maybe even add a tidbit of meaningful bullshit to the already overflowing bullshit that's going on. But right there is the problem. What could have been done in a memo, an e-mail, or a phone call, now takes several people, puts them in a room, and adds several pounds of crap. Let's face it, most of what goes on at meetings is people trying to prove that they're actually worth something in the company. It's that person who called the meeting who is trying to show that they really do add some value. Finding their raison d'être. So they hold a meeting. And thus the bullshit is spewed. What could be said in a sentence now needs a Powerpoint chart, a diatribe that could filibuster an bill on Capital Hill, and endless senseless comments from the other jerkwads in the room trying to prove they also have a reason for being.
3. Drifting. Soon, usually about 5 to 8 minutes in, I start drifting. My mind starts to wander off in all directions. It's kind of like my morning walks. I get up at 6 AM or so and go out for a 40 minute walk. I don't have an iPod or Walkman. I just walk and my mind goes all over the place. Probably in part, due to the fact that I'm depriving my brain of any real circulation or oxygen, because I'm actually out of bed that early and doing some exercise. But I do have some great brain farts during those walks. In meetings, my brain goes toddling down that same highway of vapid thoughts. "What's for dinner?" part of my brain asks as the meeting drones on like the endless hum of a 20-year-old refrigerator. "Well, I did thaw out those chicken thighs," the other side of my brain suggests. "I wonder what it would be like to kick this guy in the neck," another part of the brain chimes in on the dinner discussion. It's when that part of the brain starts making comments like that when Phase 4 usually kicks in:
4. Total Disengagement. I'm now gone. Blacked out. My mind is now in some foreign territory where wind howls endlessly over bleak flatlands. Where broken earth sits parched and barren. My mind is out there. There's is little I can do at this point. If anyone were to ask me my opinion at this point, I might just jabber a line from The Big Lebowski or some nonsensical hogwash. Once, I was at this point in a meeting with the president of the company, who was talking about goals for all our employees, or some meaningless bullshit like that. He looked at me, and my mind was lost somewhere out there, in a scene from Dune. He asked what I thought of his colorful, yet incomprehensible chart. My brain went into shock. Every neuron and electron was down for the count, not one of them firing at all. My mouth opened and out came, "Yeah, people working more efficiently helps the company." I swear. That's what I said. I had no idea if it was even in context. But I think everyone else around me was just as brain-dead, and it probably made sense to them, because they all nodded in agreement, happy that it wasn't them who was called on to comment.
5. Fighting the Doze. Now, the only thing left to do is to remain awake. My eyes are fighting to stay open. "Stay open! Damn you!" that tiny part of my brain still somewhat alert warns my eyelids. It screams from deep in the recesses of my skull, "Focus on something! Anything! Move the eyeballs! Blink! Don't fall asleep!!" You look at other people. Your eyelids slowly start to droop, and your vision becomes a gauzy blur of colors and shapes. This is what the world must look like to a 2-day-old baby. Then, as your body becomes Jell-O and the last little flicker of light left in your belfry starts to dim, the tough little corner of your cerebellum gives you a quick kick in the brain nuts and you snap out of it with a shudder. You hope no one around you saw you jump. But that only lasts a moment before the Axis of Ennui takes over again...You fight it over and over and hope and pray for:
6. The end. As the meeting winds down, my brain begins to charge up again. Pistons suddenly start firing. Gears slowly start grinding. The whir of a turbine starts whining. Carefully and cautiously, the mind comes back to life, leaving behind the desolate desert that was the thick of the meeting. But now, I'm expected to go back to my desk and resume working. The mind still isn't functioning at full throttle. I need a jolt. An e-mail that makes me smile. A cup of coffee that burns my senses back to "go-time."
Soon, things go back to normal. And then the inevitable. "Let's have a follow-up to that meeting."
Someone will get kicked in the neck someday.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)