Tuesday, April 29, 2008 :::
Each job has its unique “Oh, shit!” moments, and as I was browsing the news today it occurred to me that nobody is exempt from this phenomenon. For Obama and the whole preacher imbroglio, two Wrights apparently do make a left, as the good reverend's second round of coverage appears to have all but blunted that compelling speech on race from a few weeks ago. When you're a presidential candidate, the moment comes, I believe, when the personal brand you're building is suddenly thwarted by reality--and the present, along with the darker corners of your history, connects firmly with your chin.
For another politician, the moment might be forgetting, say, whether the hooker was paid with non-sequential twenties or went straight on the Starwood. Or perhaps you're working the register and realize, minutes later, you gave way too much change. Maybe you screw up your lines. Miss your mark. Walk into a surprise quiz that seems to be surprising only to you. Cobble together an analysis based firmly on the wrong data, only to realize this during the presentation. That last one? Been there. And I've got to tell you, as far as explaining the bum numbers go, “'Cos the leprechaun told me” only works so many times.
It's been a while since my last OS moment, so I'm not sure why this train of thought pulled into the brainstation today, or why it felt so comforting. I guess it's this idea of assured fallibility. It's only a matter of time, you know? Of course, by stating all this, I've no doubt invited a string of such moments onto my person, in which case we'll need to employ the plural form: “Oh, shits.”
Posted by Ben at 11:36 PM
Tuesday, April 22, 2008 :::
Golf. A noun which here defined is an insidious form of torture invented, unsurprisingly enough, back when people were hanged, drawn and quartered, burnt at the stake, or otherwise forced to travel from hole to hole without the aid of a small, covered cart. Perhaps donkeys were used instead, I don't know. What I do know is the inventor of the sport, near the end of his life, very likely disappeared during an afternoon game, cackling evilly as hellfire enwreathed him, his body swallowed whole by a bunker on the 9th, his dark work completed.
But it's also a corporate necessity, a required entry in the modern business lexicon, and to this end I've resigned myself to learning it. The goal, as always, isn't mastery in any sense of the word, but proficiency. Picture this: a beautiful spring morning. Top-notch course. A partnership worth just north of a hojillion dollars. First hole. You're still hopeful, your lack of experience diluted by a sense of possibility and optimism. You line it up. A few practice strokes. Showtime. Your backswing is perfect, the club flashing in a glorious arc. And then the club head bypasses the grass completely and plunges into the dirt, lightly grazing the tee and causing the ball to roll a few inches forward ever so gently.
This is precisely what cannot happen. The first goal is to procure a set of clubs, followed by some instruction. A recent trip to Golf Galaxy revealed that “irons” aren't, in fact, made of iron at all. I was ashamed until I realized that such a game could only beget this kind of deception. A used set seems to be the way to go, and although a few hundred bucks is a pittance in the golfing world, I also realize I'm buying a couple pounds of metal that, at least in my hands, might as well have been shaped into a shovel or a really cool-looking rake.
Posted by Ben at 10:17 PM
Tuesday, April 15, 2008 :::
Late one night after my third Fresca, I jammed “recession” into Wikipedia and began, with no small amount of resolve, to unravel the economic realities of today. Certainly the pundits and analysts have made it clear: we may or may not be in a recession, and really the crux of the argument seems to settle on whether the emperor is buck naked or just chronically averse to clothing.
Bleary-eyed, I took another sip of grapefruit swill and began to Wikireadia, first the outline, then the most interesting section, and seconds later my pupils glazed over entirely, clouded by the realization that I didn't give three shits and a ha'penny about the subject. I mean, I was the guy who left the macroecon final early, all Dead Poets Society defiantly, for a sterling C- average.
This is what I've gathered: stuff is expensive, the job market sucks, and oil futures be bangin'. Every generation has its lines in the history textbook. The prior generation had its recessions, the Challenger explosion, the Kennedy assassination, civil rights, 'Nam. Our grandparents lived through the Great Depression and one, possibly two World Wars. We've had riots, O.J., natural disasters, Di, the towers, our own wars, and now this. And part of dealing with the day-to-day is to save, lock it down financially, but the wisdom of the ancients also seems to recommend avoiding it. Not thinking about it, in a kind of benevolent denial. I guess the experts are right.
Posted by Ben at 11:45 PM
Tuesday, April 08, 2008 :::
Business attire, according to our parents, meant pressed pants, a clean shirt, and heaven almighty possibly a necktie, but these days the sartorial landscape is different. More relaxed. Less Werther's Originals. I've always been in online advertising, so I imagine my perspective is skewed. It's a young industry powered by young people who, at the helm of something that is itself being shaped, are trying to create a kind of corporate counterculture, a response to the old guard.
Casual dress is part of this push, which is why I roll into work most days looking like I fell out of a ska concert. I'm not saying this is ideal, of course, only that it's permissible. There are times, however, when the fancy threads are called for, and lately my standard operating procedure has been tested to the limits.
I've only recently purchased an iron, and prior to acquiring this marvelous device I played a dangerous game of probabilities. Tossing ten shirts into the laundry room--specifically into the spooky machines that reside there--would normally result in the emergence of at least one unwrinkled shirt. But three weeks ago, a terrible revelation came to me as I looked at my wardrobe: all the shirts were wrinkled.
The dice rolled me, you could say, so I did what any reasonable bachelor would do. I went out and bought a new shirt. And then, when cursed fortune screwed me again a day later, I bought another one. Two days later, caught in a strange logic that valued expanding my shirt count rather than steaming it, I purchased another two.
Eventually I came to my senses and procured an iron, and after glancing at my kitchen counter, the floor, a few walls, a door, and then the kitchen counter again, I also pulled the trigger on an ironing board. I'll tell you this: I should've stuck to my shirtstravaganza. I sunk half an hour into the same goddamn shirt, and I had de-wrinkled it with all the effectiveness of a truck full of prunes colliding furiously into a nursing home. I just wish they made ironing boards shaped like shirts, you know? Oh, snap. I just figured out early retirement.
Posted by Ben at 11:53 PM
