balding angrily

For me, it’s Architecture in Helsinki. They’re making me do a twist-and-bob-butt-scoot dance in my office chair. It’s like they kicked me in my spleen, if my spleen was full of happiness and bursting it caused happiness to spill all over my body.

Thanks, Crumpet.

So, yeah. I’m already sick of Gillespie.

I spent the last two days in small offices at small desks learning what makes me tick. Before I invest a lot of money in re-educating myself for a change in career, I wanted to spend some time and a smaller amount of money understanding my suitability to different professions. My worst fear is that I would spend 2-3 years in school and many thousands of dollars only to learn that I don’t like teaching…or whichever profession I choose.

This two-day experience was designed to learn my aptitudes - my inherent strengths, those things that, if used in my job, would give me a sense of worthiness. That’s the theory anyway.

Not that I doubt that theory. It’s just that it’s a theory, and one of the things I found out about myself is that I don’t do abstract analysis. In other words, ephemeral, non-structure-based concepts elude me. I excel at structural analysis. In other words, my bag is pulling apart concrete concepts based on things that can be seen and touched, 3D things. Not that I need to see something, but I can easily imagine a 3D, touchable, structured thing. I’ll get to why that pisses me off at the end.

Here are some highlights to the testing:

• I picked up tiny paper clip-sized pins from a tray and put them in small holes.
• I picked up the same pins and transferred them from one set of holes into another set of holes using a tweezer while a woman with a stopwatch observed, making me feel like a trained monkey.
• I arranged on a dry-erase board little hexagon tiles with words like “cow, milk, farm, eco-system, natural resource, wheat, grain” written on them while the same woman with a stopwatch observed. With my arms, bent at a simian angle, moving rapidly in front of me, and hunched over the dry-erase board, I looked like a trained monkey.
• I held a board with a tiny hole in it at arms-length and pulled it to my face while concentrating on another board held by the same woman with the stopwatch. Her board had an X on it, and I had to keep my eye on the center of the X while she held the board at different areas on her body. At one point she held the X over her crotch.
• I was given the question, “If you woke up one day to find that you didn’t have to ever sleep again and that neither did anyone else, what would you do with your time? What would you encourage other people to do?” I had to think up as many ideas as I could in a short amount of time. Since I was writing fast and coming up with ideas off the top of my head, one of my ideas was, “Wear pink underwear - the kind with little frills.” Then I got embarrassed and wrote, “Not because I’m a sicko or anything - just because, you know, I have all this time. Why not try something new?”

From these and other tests, the woman with the stopwatch determined that I excel at structural analysis, that I’m an excellent brainstormer, and that I catch on to patterns quickly.

She suggested that if I teach, I should teach higher education or prep school kids. She seemed to think that I would get very impatient in a classroom with children that didn’t get a concept fast enough. She said that I’d be great one-on-one with a kid that wasn’t getting a concept, but not a whole group of kids.

And I suck at moving pins from one set of holes to another set of holes. I can understand this - what with my fat, hairy fingers and all.

The list of possible professions in which I would use all my aptitudes was long, but this structural analysis thing seemed to be really important. Also, I need a combination of working by myself and with other people. And when I am doing something routine, my ideaphoria, or brainstorming, aptitude kicks in and my mind starts to wander. I’m a daydreamer.

Given all this and more, apparently I make a perfect architect. Fuck you, Stopwatch Lady.

Though Gillespie’s adventures so far pretty much follow what you know of what I think of my job, I should say that work has actually become much, much better. I’m working with a guy who I really like, and he’s done a great job of making me feel valuable.

It’s easy for me to imagine Gillespie’s dull drudgery of a day. Hell if I know how to turn it into anything engaging.

He felt the cartilage in his ankle, twisted under the opposite butt cheek, threaten to pop. With a hiss he straightened his legs and came up from beneath the desk where he was checking his cell phone charger. His phone had been acting wonky and the stickers were starting to peel from the hard plastic buttons. He wondered if he could slip out unnoticed and buy another cell phone.

He decided against it.

He stood, looked over his cube walls, turned around, looked at his plant, and sat down in his chair with the faded upholstery with a sigh. He passed the remaining hour in five-minute bits that stretched to busting in which he imagined the blood pumping through his brain catching on a fatty deposit and killing him. Or worse, paralyzing the left side of his face.

When the computer clock hit 4:55pm, he hit the Start-Shut Down button. Without waiting for it to complete its shut down, he walked purposefully to his car, mentally preparing himself for an evening with his parents.

The following is an experiment. I gave myself a title and then started writing what came to mind. I’m not sure if I’ll continue or not. I don’t have a story outline or any clue where it might go. These kinds of things are usually disastrous when read in one sitting, but they can be fun if read episodically as written.

*******************************************

Gillepsie heard the concerned question of the office manager, “Have you seen him at all today?”

He remained under his desk thinking, I could stay here. There’s only an hour left. Who would miss me? Dana might, but she’s always concerned. Greg might, but he’s at a meeting the rest of the day.

For the last month, Gillespie had been half-consciously trying to get fired. Between spending half-hours in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet with his head in his hands; walking to Starbuck’s via the newsstand via the pet store via the stationary store; lobbing under-the-breath insults at Greg, his account manager; stealing co-workers Lean Pockets and Push-Pops; having hour-long phone calls with his therapist in an open office where anyone could hear the details of his mostly masturbatory home-life; and wearing corduroy just-below-the-balls shorts on Casual Fridays, he knew/didn’t know that his time at PMK was limited.

Gimme-gimme _more. Gimme _more. Gimme-gimme _MORE.

Say what you want about this week’s Britney/VMA/Chris Crocker hubub; her robots can create an insidious brain-worm. Given this particular one is tied to a moment of infamy, I say she’s already made her comeback.

Chicago is…

It’s New York City without the people spitting on you. It’s my new favorite city. We stayed near Rush and State, the center of the hip-and-cool-party-people night-life. The weather was beautiful. Birds were singing, police gave out candy instead of tickets, and pan-handlers smelled like flowers. When we got back, I was ready to pack everything and move up there.

We had a waiter that told racist jokes. We had a cabby that got all scrunchy when we wanted to pay with a credit card. We had a tour guide that took us aside and told us in a hushed voice all the latest hot gossip about Frank Lloyd Wright. Jen-An regaled us with poop stories. Owen didn’t know how to lay on the beach and waste away. He got flustered and had to “do something.” I met some fellow Filmspotters, and ate a Mediterranean mound of chicken wrapped in phyllo. We got in-room massages in which I learned that my hands and forearms are the most intimate places on my body a person can touch.

And we ate Riesens along with lots and lots of other good foods.

Buy my shit. I want an iPhone.

It’ll be here on Thursday.  All my dreams will come true, and I’ll be the most popular boy on campus.  Passers-by will throw sex at me.  I will never get sick again.  If I had cancer, it’d be cured.

Jen-An, Owen, Jerry and I went to Chicago last week. The highlight of my time in Chicago was fulfilling a lifelong dream of mine. Family Guy stole my dream and made it a parody, so you may already know where this is going. I wanted to sit in front of Georges Seurat’s masterwork at The Art Institute and listen to The Dream Academy.

In Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, I identified with Cameron. I never wanted to be Ferris. I wanted to be - and be with - Cameron. He wasn’t my first movie crush, but he was important. The scene where the camera switches between Cameron’s eyes and those of the little girl in Sunday Afternoon on the Isle of La Grande Jatte was powerful for 14-year old me. I understood the longing in that exchange.

A little later, I started exploring Sondheim and rented the PBS performance of Mandy Patinkin in Sunday in the Park with George. I didn’t know it was about Georges Seurat’s famous painting until the end of Act I or that it was a multi-Tony-nominated musical; I thought I was making a discovery. The story is about the character of Seurat who isolates himself in pursuit of his art. That’s what I got out of it anyway.

Again, there’s that theme of loneliness with this painting. As a lonely little fella, I connected with this painting.

It’s breath-taking in person, and I nearly cried sitting there looking at it. I feel like Seurat painted it just for me, and I’m sure I’m not the only one. I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels like that scene is Ferris Bueller’s Day Off was filmed just for me. Or that “Sunday,” the song from Sunday in the Park with George, was written just for me. Or that Seth MacFarlane and Co. wrote the parody in Family Guy just for me.

I’m sure that these things are loved by many, many, many people. How Eleanor Rigby of us.

There are real punch-lines in life, and unfortunately the punch-line of this story is this. I yelled at a stranger, “Because you’re fat and ugly!” I’m not proud of it. And it’s not funny. And it speaks volumes about my character.

Yesterday my sister, Jerry, and I had come back from a day of shopping and movie watching. She was obsessed with taking a picture of a stuffed monkey next to a placard outside our building. I was having none of it. I was feeling ornery, so I stood by the elevator watching the two of them fiddle. Then I was feeling strange and I put my hands at my waist like Superman. Then I was feeling extra strange and I put hands on my ribs like Superman if he were wearing an Empire waist.

While I was experimenting with my midsection, a guy came up behind me. I walked away because I was embarrassed by my heretofore private waist-play. I heard the guy let out a sigh and say in a passive-aggressive loud-whisper, “Jeez. Just standing there…” I ignored him and started walking toward my sister and Jerry. I reached the other side of the lobby and heard him say to our concierge, “I mean he was just standing there. And he didn’t push the button.”

Because there are few things that drive me more crazy than a passive-aggressive loud-whisper, I snapped. I turned back and yelled at him, “You have two able-bodied hands! You could have pushed the button!” (I have a theory that words crowd in the backs of mouths in repose. In times of stress, they flee out. Some words are pushy and quick, escaping before other words. Apparently able-bodied is one of those.)

He showed me what he could do with his two able-bodied hands by flipping me a double-bird. The guard and concierge standing near got closer to us, ready to break up a brawl. I noticed and thought, “I am toast if this guy jumps me.” I blundered, responding with something like, “Don’t show me those!” or, “Yes, I see your hand work!”

He got in the elevator, which came in time to alleviate us of more blundering. As he turned into the elevator, he lobbed back at me, “I would invite you up to help me with my stuff. But you’d probably just stand there!” The doors were closing, and I shot back, “I wouldn’t want to come up because you’re fat and ugly!”

********************************************************************

I was in M.U.N. in my freshman year of high school. M.U.N., Model United Nations, was our school’s version of a debate team. We pretended like we were delegates, made speeches, resolutions, and went to conferences. I hated it. I do not articulate under pressure.

I came home today to a delightful package from one of my far-away friends. You’ll remember my request. Winrit remembered anyway.

I’ll catch everyone up on our trip to Chicago, but let this tide you over.

God, I love my little Nun Monster.