Thursday, April 30, 2009 :::
Naturally, the best way to follow up our chat about avoiding pandemics is to go to happy hour, right in the heart of uptown among throngs of people, in direct contravention of all the tenets of social distancing. The context was a business mixer. The drink of choice? Rubbing alcohol. When you graduate to the hard stuff, you're allowed to saunter up to the bar, slam your fist down onto the counter, and say, "Barkeep! A pint of your finest Walgreens, extra dirty." Or, in all probability, I ordered a standard mojito instead, single glass clutched grimly in my left hand, hours on end, as if it were some kind of magical talisman designed to ward off social disaster.
I was in a contemplative mood during the drive back home. This was my first networking event in a while, and all told it landed to the right of the bell curve. It occurred to me I've been out of college for almost six years now, which in the career continuum means I'm no longer green. Off-green would be more appropriate, lightly seasoned, standing on the cusp of my earning prime. I remember scanning the job listings, senior year of college, and wondering why positions required either one to two years of experience or five years and beyond. Five years just seemed like an arbitrary, distant milestone.
And a year or two before that, one summer afternoon, weeks deep into an internship, I was commuting home with my old man on the Long Island Expressway, when out of the blue he began offering career advice. It felt like the Talk. That's what happens in Asian families, I guess. Never had the talk about the birds and the bees or anything like that. Didn't really talk much, period. Skipped straight to this. Shop talk. Where do careers come from? Well, they come from employers and employees who care about each other very much, and not from the stork.
Central to the advice was playing your cards close to the vest. After you develop your specialty, he explained, you've got to guard it, keep that secret sauce secret, and stonewall others from copying it and supplanting you. It made sense on paper, plus he was pulling in the big bucks. But like any good son, I vowed then and there to do the exact opposite: if I found a more efficient way to do things, I'd share it with everybody. If I constructed a new process, its inner workings would be laid bare. Keeping these things hidden felt flimsy, like a veil vainly stretched to block out obsolescence. I wanted to be Prometheus. Bring down the fire, you know? I believed what made you unique and relevant in the workplace was your cunning and your will to invent, rather than the inventions themselves. Then again, we all know what happened to Prometheus.
Posted by Ben at 11:59 PM
Tuesday, April 28, 2009 :::
With two suspected cases of swine flu in Charlotte, a busted HVAC unit, and a recent spate of weather that could only be described as too good, I thought it wise to make preparations. To you I pass on the keys to the kingdom, should I find myself borne to an untimely demise: a handful of golf tees, an opened box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and--yes--the login to my Blogger account. All you see here, on this very screen, would be lavished unto you, such is my bequest.
When I refreshed the homepage of the local newspaper an hour ago, I noticed the headline for the flu coverage had suddenly changed to include 'We will see deaths.' It was gripping. Sensational, even. I clicked. And found the same damn article that had been growing incrementally throughout the day, piece by piece, like Voltron's shit-greased cousin. I felt cheated as I read over the repackaged material. It was then I glimpsed the grim contours of mass media, wherein the public eye is guided down a swift current of drivel from one disaster to the next. Before the Swine Flu, it was the Ailing Economy, then the Housing Malaise, then the Avian Flu, then SARS.
And to complete this terrible calculus, you need only look below the article for a comments section, in which the public voice, duly enfranchised, attempts to share its theories in all lowercase on why things are happening. This epidemic appears to be the work of Mexicans, best as I can gather, or "illegals," as one commenter posted, or possibly the President. The state of the economy, if I remember correctly, can be traced back to rich people or poor people or Republicans, I think? Chickens--those people--were to blame for avian flu, and SARS? Well, I deeply apologize for that one.
I suspect nobody, from quoted experts to reporters to CLTBankSlut_73, really knows what exactly in fresh hell is happening. Did catch one compelling article today, though, about social distancing and its role in combating pandemics. I happen to be the most celebrated luminary in the field of social distancing on the Eastern Seaboard, having cultivated a general disdain for humanity. Let me break it down for you. There are antibodies for the usual germs, and then there are antieverybodies for the outbreaks. I've been stockpiling this stuff for the better part of the decade.
Posted by Ben at 11:57 PM
Thursday, April 23, 2009 :::
Thursday means one thing to you and me: it's bloggering time. It may also be clobberin' time, if that's more your thing, depending on how agitated I become after discussing golf. We'll play it by ear. The heart of the matter is the irons are hot again, with a renewed sense of purpose, and this time we shall overcome. There was this idea of equanimity when we last discussed this, where I wanted the ability to play calmly and with poise, come what may. I still do, of course, but more to the point I just want to hit the goddamn ball, you know?
Here's where I am. I've got all the basic equipment, less a 3-iron. Clocked in about 10 rounds, scoring anywhere from 125 to 150 to 170 to even greater depths of mediocrity. Corporate necessity is what's driving me onto the green. I continue to find the effort-to-payoff ratio maddening. I've attended a single lesson at a respectable golf school, which seemed like a wise move initially, but ultimately proved injurious to my mojo. I'm back at square one, if I may triangulate this shit for you.
And the next step I want to take leads straight into the crucible. I plan on packing as many rounds as possible into the next few weeks, effectively supplanting professional instruction with green time and advice from peers. I'm still convinced I can reach proficiency without lessons. The same couple of hundred dollars that would've gone toward having some dude stand next to me at a range and dispense tips seems better spent on fees. Besides, did the very first golfer--architect of all that is unholy--benefit from formal guidance? Certainly not. He made this crap up.
I found these things on the range yesterday: an exasperating first half hour, then calluses, then progress. And when I left, I was ready for more. Even nature seems amenable to this. I stepped out of the office today into gorgeous weather--from clear skies to a pleasant breeze to the trace patches of snow salt on the ground, the scene before me was truly seasoned, top to bottom. The stage is set.
Posted by Ben at 11:48 PM
Tuesday, April 21, 2009 :::
Boss G wondered over a nightcap yesterday what precisely would happen if someone were to punch an accountant, like, right in the face. She'd be in the black, I offered, eminently pleased that the ol' gears were still churning with two mojitos under the belt. The mint-infused beverage remains the favorite, and instead of expanding the breadth of my palate I've decided to focus on the depth--specifically increasing the drink count without any ill effects. A second mojito is hardly noteworthy, I know, but for me it was a milestone, an invitation to test the limits of my liver and discover, perhaps, that three is an even better number than two.
The alcohol isn't flowing for its own sake, of course, so much as a way to grease the wheels of high society. It's a necessary component in the social plan, which you may recall dissolved in the ruinous wake of a Mick Jagger look-a-like, a mom, and an abortive night on the town. But my spirit is indomitable and undeterred I continue, compass firmly directed toward the local interactive marketing association. It seems to make sense: a chance to help build something new, to engage in a community, to push along the career.
Part of me is hesitant, weighed down by networking experiences in Chicago. Networking. There's the word. I'm reminded of crowds, a hurried, empty feeling, and what really amounted to an explosion of business cards. It's time for a clean slate, though. I'm hoping to dig through all this expected noise and find something meaningful, and to this end I've drawn a lot of inspiration from the family dog, newly adopted last year. He's part German Shepherd--so am I--and whenever he lands in foreign territory, say the vet's office, he simply hails each person, extends a paw, and shakes. Shake, shake, shake. He may have taught me everything I'll need to know.
Posted by Ben at 11:55 PM
Thursday, April 16, 2009 :::
Earlier today I was discussing the Internet with Boo Bear--because deliberating about the Information Superhighway is what I do in the morning--and there were startling realizations. The wheel wasn't reinvented, mind you, but there was insight into online burnout and why it happens. She was experiencing a general ennui bordering on light revulsion for Blogger, Facebook, the works.
I couldn't imagine anyone finding Facebook revolting, so first I confirmed it wasn't the hormones talking. Then, the theory: online burnout occurs when you constantly give with little in the way of offline return. Let's break this down. On one end of the spectrum, you've got something like Hulu or YouTube, where you're not giving at all. You're in full consumption mode. Somewhere near the middle of the spectrum is online shopping, which sees you offering time and money for better prices, free shipping, and an actual product. It's roughly breakeven. Way on the other end are the social conceits: your posts, your Tweets, your networks.
Here, there's a real opportunity to expend effort tirelessly, ravenously so, and have all your sweat and tears fall into the void. Say you pound out a dozen blog posts, tweet all day about what you ate, add a dozen connections on LinkedIn, and friend your 8th grade algebra teacher on Facebook. All for what? What precisely happens in the real world? Likely nothing, which may explain why a phenomenon like this happens. Publish a blog post and you get to write another one. Up your friend count by one and you can up it by two. When a rat pushes a button, it expects food or a shock, not another five buttons to appear.
Certainly there's the benefit of keeping in touch with people. But before the Internet, before phones became untethered conduits to the Internet, people were still able to maintain contact. There was mail. Wired telephones. Radio. Carrier pigeons. Telegram. Smoke signals! And you wonder whether people were any less satisfied without the ability to text, then whip out the Blackberry 20 minutes later, then Tweet, and then Skype and webcam later in the evening.
Call me a Luddite, but also label me a moderate. I don't blow things up, for one thing, and I also like certain technologies, namely modern plumbing and air conditioning. If I were able to travel back to the late 19th century with these two things, I'd be golden. How to make a time machine without the aid of technology, though? I guess I'd pedal backwards on a bicycle, maybe attach a clock that ticks in reverse to the handlebars, kind of like an Amish flux capacitor.
Posted by Ben at 11:54 PM
Tuesday, April 14, 2009 :::
I return to you a different person, worn smooth from wandering the hallowed grounds of Augusta, made full by one too many pimento sandwiches, wiser, tired, baked by the merciless Georgian sun, and privy at last to the darkest rituals of golf. What I knew about the Masters was culled from television footage and hearsay, and experiencing it firsthand was like watching the televised footage and hearing the hearsay, times 20.
The grounds were immaculate. Outside the club, you had your potholes and your Arby's and your camo'd camper parked in front of a Fresh Market peddling "official" John Daly merchandise. Inside, however, it was picturesque, like someone had taken nature and improved upon it. Normally I don't support trees or even sunshine, but it was easy to shelve my principles and soak up the gorgeous weather, along with three sandwiches and cup after commemorative cup of drink. It was gluttony, albeit the classiest kind, and the line between want and need blurred for an afternoon.
What was even more delicious was witnessing how the greats reacted to mistakes. It was comforting, in a way, to see professionals get mad and for a single moment draw from the same pool of frustration I know all too well. It was a confederacy of rage, a shared experience with the difference being, of course, that they were able to lock down their nerves and move onto the next shot quickly. Hats off to them for the ability to do so, too, because I can't imagine how playing the same course for four days straight could possibly be fun. Apparently someone also changes the locations of all 18 holes every day? It's, like, thanks a lot, asshole.
And then, just like that, the pleasant weather ended after our day at the Masters, with waves of rain bookending some quality road trip time with the Chief. I had assured Earth Chick I'd bring him home safely, a promise made out of respect for the Incident, and I held to it, cleaving honorably to the velocities prescribed by the highway signs. The odds were stacked in my favor, anyhow, because my automobile has an altogether different relationship with birds. For starters, it's immune to double bird strikes, mainly because I try to ram into birds in triplicate. And even if we had ended up in the Hudson somehow, it's likely a flock of geese would've descended majestically to lift the car onto dry land, then proceed to shit on it.
Posted by Ben at 11:23 PM
Thursday, April 09, 2009 :::
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, April 14.
Posted by Ben at 11:05 PM
Tuesday, April 07, 2009 :::
There are two conflicting forces within me as I glance at the lush pictures of what I'm about to forgo. On one hand, there's the allure of playing on a private course for the first time, likely a well-kept one, and the hypnotic pull of exclusivity isn't lost on me. This wouldn't be some crappy public plot of land on which I could lose a 3-iron and have it find its way into the golf bag of someone named Cletus, who in between asking for possum from the cart chick wonders why he has more woods than teeth. No, this would be top-shelf. Everybody will be wearing monocles, I imagine, and if I were to lose another club, servants would quickly bury the offending piece of metal, lest it repulse another player.
Plus, I mean, TPC Sugarloaf. It sounds delicious, like a secret place situated in the Lollipop Kingdom, somewhere near the Muffin Man on Drury Lane. Golf is made palatable, almost. I'm going to refrain, however, and here's why. I believe sports relate to business much in the same way talking intersects with class discussions. You remember that one guy in English class who may or may not have been smart, and duly confirmed the latter as soon as he opened his mouth? If he had kept silent and played his cards close to the vest, no one would've been the wiser. Similarly, until you confirm your game with physical evidence, there's a chance you're just being modest.
I know, empirically so, that I'm horrible at golf. No good can come of playing publicly, especially with business partners. At best, it will leave a small blemish on my permanent record, potentially leading to a "Good guy, but he's the pits at golf." At worst, it can serve as a final kick in the teeth, maybe in the form of "This contract blows, plus he sucks at golf." A pass for me, then. I'm sure I'll have the opportunity to swing incorrectly and have the ball roll a few feet on another private course, in another time.
Fortunately the main purpose of this trip isn't Sugarloaf. It's the Masters. If you had asked me a few years ago to picture myself at this event, I would've suggested the explosion of a beer bong inside a nunnery as a more likely phenomenon. But flash forward to tonight. I'm excited. This is it, the place where the legends congregate and all the ley lines of golf converge. I've worked out the majority of the details of the trip faithfully, but as for the Masters itself, I'm going to play it by ear. Mostly. I do have the outlines of a plan in mind: eat an egg salad sandwich. Try the pimento. Wear pants, even.
Posted by Ben at 11:02 PM
Thursday, April 02, 2009 :::
Nuclear family, like all things radioactive, has a half-life of about three days, after which relations decay and tensions mount. It's just the way things are--I don't believe I'm alone in this--and accordingly I've crafted a coping mechanism, an elegant contraption that simultaneously allows me to fulfill familial obligations while gorging myself silly on video games. The three dots to be connected, if I may: a continued refusal to place a television in my house. The desire to game. The belief that people are content with the idea and proximity of family, far more so than the actual act of hanging out.
I'm committed to not owning a TV for the time being. The device is simply too mesmerizing, and were I to install one in the TV-shaped crevice above the fireplace, it'd be over. Even commercials cause my eyes to glaze over in a pleasant haze. At the same time, however, I enjoy gaming. I also understand the theory of family. What I've done, then, is plan face time with loved ones around marquee releases. It may sound ridiculous and selfish, but it works. I'll park my car, dispense a hug or two, and then locate the nearest TV and beam myself off to some distant land to kill aliens. I'm both there and not there, yet my physical attendance seems enough, and what is technically four days feels more like two and comfortably misses the three-day danger zone.
This is why we were dark on Thursday and Tuesday. I was "visiting family," while at the same time embarking on a digital hajj. Gaming is my binge, I realized. It's my version of getting shitfaced. I marveled at the zen-like appeal of Bit.Trip Beat. Exulted in the harder settings of Rock Band, wondering why it took me so long to wrap my mind around that fifth fret on the guitar. Really we're only talking two positions, compared to a possible 15 on a real-world violin. Then again, my violin doesn't generate star power and a hojillion points when I tilt it at a certain angle. And finally, there was Resident Evil 5, the crown jewel. I finished it. Twice. The prior entry in the series featured Hispanic zombies, which caused nary a hubbub, but this one raised all sorts of hell when it initially showed only black zombies, so they ultimately decided on a mix of both races. Let me put you at ease: I enjoyed shooting Hispanic and black zombies equally. I can only hope the next episode has shambling Koreans and possibly a Welshman or two.
Posted by Ben at 11:53 PM
