The more statistically inclined may scoff at this, indeed may construct a pie chart baked with scorn, but pivot tables are just shit hot. I’ve been trying to find that fabled place where work and fun exist in concert, rather than a one-sided beatdown, and a week or so ago it was slowgoing. At around the same time the Cat revealed this secret of Excel, made its alien origins familiar, and managing gobs of data has become enjoyable. Thanks, buddy.
I’m a believer now because, although cross-sheet formulas–or formulae, for those of you who enjoy getting stuffed into lockers–and dayglow colors and filters are useful, there are instances when the flow of data is a little stupefying, where clicking anywhere on your spreadsheet will land you in cell number double-oh-shits. You may have concluded from our talk that a pivot table is the stuff of magic, the conjuration of wizards and princesses, so I need to tell you it’s nothing of the sort. It’s simply a slicker way to take a bunch of numbers and tell the story the way the crowd wants to hear it. You want the story told by song? In iambic tetrameter? By carrier pigeon? Check, check, and check.
The Dwight Schrute bobblehead continues to weave its charms. Replicas usually don’t do it for me, even though I gravitate toward the affiliated media like a high-def lush, and I can proudly say I’ve never considered purchasing a lightsaber or Hilary Swank’s sweat-stained boxing gloves. But this trinket, bless its high quality feel, threatens to become a necessity at any moment.
Never would I have imagined, in all my darkest hypotheticals and fiction most foul, that I would be the one to scratch my car. Previously the offender donned a sinister shape in a perfect scenario: a hooded figure, hands wringing furiously, probably a wheezer to boot, would park close to my baby in a tan Delta 88 and proceed diabolically, willfully even, to slam open the driver’s side door in gleeful abandon. I’m outraged simply thinking about it.
Well, the wheezing mouth-breather turned out to be yours truly, and the shame is enormous. It was evening, a weekday, and this vile anecdote about brown recluse spiders and rotting flesh was still fresh in my mind. Oh, I can already hear you advising me to think happier thoughts, as if musing about clowns and goddamn unicorns would’ve made a difference.
Upon exiting my car I discovered firsthand–or, more accurately, firstface–a thick spiderweb constructed conveniently at eye level.
Holy shit, I bet this was made by a brown recluse, I thought in terror.
Fear mingled with indignation, however, when it occurred to me some spider had purposely left this thing hanging there. Remember the Disney adaptation of James and the Giant Peach? For some sickeningly sweet reason, a roll of thread would eject from the French spider’s abdomen whenever the need arose. Let’s cut le crap. We all know from whence spiderwebs come. They pour out of a spider’s ass.
And right into my hair, shirt, and jeans, apparently. Round I spun in a desperate push to get the stuff off me, and in the excitement I keyed my trunk. It was a small cut, less than a quarter of an inch long, but the deed was done. The very Swedish construction now had a very Swedish mark. You know what, though? Buried in the frustration was a sigh of relief.
It’s the strangest turn of affairs, where a few months ago I would’ve advised you on the optimal moment to escape from church–when your neighbors are busy shaking hands is the best time for shaking right out the door–and now, despite my best efforts, there is anticipation for each Sunday.
Lest there be any miscommunication, we’re not dealing with epiphanies as currency tonight. That bank is on holiday. I haven’t bartered Aeropostale for sackcloth, nor has my hunger for succulent media abated for lighter fare. Indeed, this hunger is continually fed, yea, verily by the fast food king of kings come mid-November.
But my week is made different because church has become a large piece, makes it whole, and it’s been a seamless change. A part of it is culture, I think, in which colleagues freely discuss churchgoing, but this isn’t the whole story. I mean, just because everybody wears shoes doesn’t mean you blindly pop for the 8-inch stilettos, you know? Most of all, I appreciate the sermons, and to wit last Sunday’s was probably the best message on tithing I’ve ever heard. I take notes, even, though whether I’m ever going to refer to them is another matter entirely. Right now? The act itself is a kind of miracle.
And being a packaging whore through and through, of course, I’m impressed by how things are handled in a tech-savvy, polished way. Now, praise music, like hip hop, still sounds pretty much all the same to me, but the band has got it. It all seems to be there. Do I regret sneaking out of all those other churches, fellowships, meetings? Not in the least. The challenge now is to commit. The challenge for you is not to worry. This isn’t going to turn into a repository of inspirational passages. We have tradition to uphold, after all.