Thursday, July 26, 2012
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, July 31.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
The Pied Piper of Lunch. This was a title recently conferred upon me by management–not formally, obviously, with a ceremony or anything–and it is a savory burden I bear proudly, now more than ever. That’s because there’s been a recent epidemic in brownbagging, and I don’t use the term lightly. It starts innocently enough, with one person bringing in a microwaveable dinner, and then bam! The sentiment goes airborne. Fuckin’ fruit cup in every cubicle.
Lunch is the most sacred hour of the workday. I don’t think this is revelatory. It is the time for stretching your legs, getting some fresh air, and tracking down something palatable–because your soul, after all, probably isn’t crying out for a turkey sandwich. I’ll be completely honest with you: I get surly whenever meetings are–what I can only imagine–mistakenly scheduled for 12 or 12:15. Microsoft Outlook must’ve malfunctioned. And woe be to the salesperson who unwittingly cold calls at 11:55. You may not be privy to my schedule, but you should be privy to human decency.
A couple weeks ago, I sung the praises of food trucks. Since then, the only thing that’s pulled up to the curb consistently has been disappointment, and I felt duty-bound to update you accordingly. Between complete no-shows, payment processors on the fritz, and a shortage of ingredients, the magic’s gone. The revised verdict is mobile food can be as unreliable as it is delicious. Fortunately, though, two can play at the disappearing game.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
There was a party, almost a year ago, which capped off an alarming pattern of geeky behavior on my behalf. At the time, I regarded the event as a test to ascertain the precise depths of nerdity to which I’d descend. Now, with the same party right around the corner–birthdays reoccur around the same month, apparently–it’s less a test and more an annual check-in.
I don’t game socially anymore. That’s one change. Instead, I’ve reverted back to treating gaming as a secret shame, and I can’t say I’ve regretted the decision. In fact, I’ve taken to celebrating and reveling in my gaming guilt–and that makes it less secret, I suppose. I remember holding forth one afternoon, explaining the whys and wherefores of my regression, and the overriding feeling was relief.
My geek card wasn’t revoked, strangely enough. Far from it. Indeed, I just ordered two t-shirts for this party, a veritable 100% year-over-year increase. What’s more, I was granted access to a spreadsheet detailing the logistical underpinnings of the event. If there’s a sweet spot where shame turns into freedom, I think I’ve found it.