I made it about 18 months at my last job, where a vitriolic, megalomaniac founder ran a family-owned business like a feudal enterprise. Serf turnover was high, morale was low and, had it not been such great experience and training, all I'd have to show are the emotional scars and the NFL gambling addiction. Now, I'm at a new place, one of those oh-so-hopeful technology startups, where a couple successful late-30s/early-40s entrepreneurs band together, throw their collective hat in the ring, hire some smart kids out of school and shoot for the stars.
Enter Rob.
Rob was the first smart-kid-out-of-school the firm hired. 30 months ago, it was Rob and the founder, a real visionary, crafting this company out of the ether. Now, like the founder (who was displaced in a bloodless coup), Rob has been ushered out the door. Unlike the founder, Rob was capable of providing meaningful support for the growing enterprise – Rob is far more than an idea guy. Unlike the founder, Rob is among the most sarcastic, cutting, supercilious bastards you are likely to meet.
Apparently, Rob was a small nerd in high school, a twelve-sided die rolling, no-sex-having, self-loathing nerd, a plankton in the sea of his all-boys prep school. He got bigger in college, girls decided he was cute, and he built up a crusty I’m-the-man exterior, but he’s still got a nerd-like vulnerability that he lashes out to protect.
I like Rob. He’s fun to drink beers with, he makes funny jokes at other people’s expense, he’s loud and brash and it seems as if no one has broken his nose, which is shocking. But working with this guy – shit. I don’t think he did anything for the last six months, because he’s such a bastard to deal with that no one wanted to assign him any work. Even more impressive, he’s such a bastard to deal with that none of the bosses wanted to fire him.
Today, Rob left for good. He just kinda wandered off into the sunset, and by that I mean he moved back in with his parents and is having trouble finding a job. He was a real lesson for me – even if you’re smart and capable and hard-working and directed, if you’re a real cocksucker, you’ll never make management anywhere because the people above you will never promote you. I hope you figure this out, Rob.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Jesus Christ! It's a non-denominational Christmas!
I was raised an atheist and, in my house, even the word "spiritual" is said with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. The closest my mother comes is power yoga and my father, well, I think the one and only God in his world is Joe Paterno. This, from a bat mitvahed Jew and a graduate of a Catholic parochial school.
Christmas at my house has a different slant than in many homes. No midnight mass and no prayers of any sort, but we do sit down and have a nice meal -- not chinese food and Blockbuster. We get a tree every year, too, a big fucker of a tree, and we do it up pretty tacky, with a few generations of ornaments, ranging from a Penn State Rose Bowl Commemorative bulb to scattered homemade God's Eyes and Play-Doh stars and a couple years worth of the White House ones, too and the remains of some funky ornament party my parents through in the mid-90s. The lights are all white, though -- Mom's gotta draw the line somewhere.
For us, it's the second-most-important holiday of the year (Thanksgiving wins) and we celebrate it with typical abandon. Start with Champagne, end with Port and, in the middle, stuff yourself to bursting. Years ago, I remember choking on a huge mouthful of turkey, and my white trash uncle had to clap me on the back until I heaved the half-chewed bird back out onto my plate. "Now what you need to do is slow down, man, it ain't going nowhere," was his advice. Like so many other times he started a sentence with "Now what you need to do is," I completely ignored him. In this case, his advice clearly had some merit. Though I've managed not to regurgitate mid-meal since, I owe most of that to luck and good beverage access.
This year, with a sister absent for the first time in family history, Christmas lost a little of its luster. The fact that the sister in question happens to be in culinary school and is the primary chef for large family gatherings definitely increased this sense of loss, but we were 27/27 on Christmases until this year. Eff you, Liz.
Christmas at my house has a different slant than in many homes. No midnight mass and no prayers of any sort, but we do sit down and have a nice meal -- not chinese food and Blockbuster. We get a tree every year, too, a big fucker of a tree, and we do it up pretty tacky, with a few generations of ornaments, ranging from a Penn State Rose Bowl Commemorative bulb to scattered homemade God's Eyes and Play-Doh stars and a couple years worth of the White House ones, too and the remains of some funky ornament party my parents through in the mid-90s. The lights are all white, though -- Mom's gotta draw the line somewhere.
For us, it's the second-most-important holiday of the year (Thanksgiving wins) and we celebrate it with typical abandon. Start with Champagne, end with Port and, in the middle, stuff yourself to bursting. Years ago, I remember choking on a huge mouthful of turkey, and my white trash uncle had to clap me on the back until I heaved the half-chewed bird back out onto my plate. "Now what you need to do is slow down, man, it ain't going nowhere," was his advice. Like so many other times he started a sentence with "Now what you need to do is," I completely ignored him. In this case, his advice clearly had some merit. Though I've managed not to regurgitate mid-meal since, I owe most of that to luck and good beverage access.
This year, with a sister absent for the first time in family history, Christmas lost a little of its luster. The fact that the sister in question happens to be in culinary school and is the primary chef for large family gatherings definitely increased this sense of loss, but we were 27/27 on Christmases until this year. Eff you, Liz.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Hello... Hello... Hello... Hello...
I live in a massive, four-story, six-bedroom house with five roommates. Someone is always drinking something, eating something, watching something, humping something or bitching about something. Except Christmas. when everyone scatters back to their points-of-origin. That's when I run around naked and have conversations with the furniture.
So here it is, and I can't help but think that, at some point, I am going to have to end this bohemian lifestyle and settle into some sort of more adult circumstance. Unless I find a girl who is equally happy doing crossword puzzles, eating out and getting stoned watch Cowboy Bebop, I could be in trouble.
I guess I could lose the anime.
So here it is, and I can't help but think that, at some point, I am going to have to end this bohemian lifestyle and settle into some sort of more adult circumstance. Unless I find a girl who is equally happy doing crossword puzzles, eating out and getting stoned watch Cowboy Bebop, I could be in trouble.
I guess I could lose the anime.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
I Heart Effete Intellectual Indie Rockers
I've recently come to grips with the fact that my favorite band is The Decemberists. I'm not sure what my favorite band was before them -- it's been a while since anyone held the title. At one point or another, the answer could have been The Outkast, A Tribe Called Quest, Phish, The Grateful Dead, Soulive, The Rolling Stones, The Beastie Boys, Sublime, Led Zeppelin, Nirvana or a handful of others. Those are bands whose catalogue I dove into and inhaled, the CDs I played on repeat, the bands I couldn't wait to see live or would still give a finger to see... Well, I guess Zep and Sublime are the only ones I missed. Jon Bonham and Brad Nowell, like goddam flaming meteors. And Kurt. And Jerry, though he didn't exactly streak across they sky. Anyway, The Decemberists. An old ex-semi-girlfriend clued me in to them, this rad chick from Hong Kong. They're the perfect band for me. Their stories and their language seems ripped from the Northon Anthologies -- it all reeks of Coleridge and Shakespeare and Blake. Their antique language is backed-up by a folk-rock sound and a dizzying array of instrumentation. The Decemberists’ studio albums are so richly-layered and pure – it’s albums like “The Crane Wife” where a quality stereo can make all the difference. There was some backlash from the indie rock snobs when they went major label, but the production quality is so high, and their sound evolved so sensibly and so organically from their last album, that I think the criticism has almost no merit.
I’ve seen them thrice, and though the second two times were back-to-back shows with nearly identical setlists, the experience was so rapturous that this complaint was only whispered. Their lives shows are just wonderful, from Colin Meloy (lead vocals) taking pictures with an audience member’s camera, to calling another audience member’s mother on their cell phone.
Yes, there’s an element of vaudeville, perhaps even carny, that Meloy’s theatrics lends to the proceedings, but when he sings “I was meant for the Stage,” he’s right.Rating: 5/5 High School Theater Kids
I’ve seen them thrice, and though the second two times were back-to-back shows with nearly identical setlists, the experience was so rapturous that this complaint was only whispered. Their lives shows are just wonderful, from Colin Meloy (lead vocals) taking pictures with an audience member’s camera, to calling another audience member’s mother on their cell phone.
Yes, there’s an element of vaudeville, perhaps even carny, that Meloy’s theatrics lends to the proceedings, but when he sings “I was meant for the Stage,” he’s right.Rating: 5/5 High School Theater Kids
File Under Assbaggery and Lousy Sushi
So, I went to this Capitol File/Office of Champagne party at Gazuza last night. I sipped on free champagne, snacked on free sushi and sniped at the DC glitterati as they wandered onto the glass-walled "porch" overlooking Connecticut Ave. There were a few he's-too-old-to-be-with-her couples, a sprinkling of Madisons and the odd, well-coiffed gay. This little slice of the D.C. socialite universe struck me as sad and a little weird. People in D.C. are just too awkward and frumpy to be celebrated in the pages of a magazine like Capitol File.
Yes, I'm sure the constant editorial challenge is invigorating.
Hors Breakdown
Plate 1: Salmon Nigiri / Eel Nigiri. The salmon was fine, not buttery, delicious or creamy, but did taste fresh and crisp. The eel, well, eel is pretty much eel, as far as I can tell. The rice was too dense and pasty, and there was far too much of it.
Plate 2: Passed Crab Cakes. This was undone by the massive slab of carb. The dollop of fresh crab had sesame seeds and thin threads of something --cucumber, perhaps -- and a little heat. Unfortunately, it was served on a greasy, bloated blini that completely overwhelmed the crab.
Plate 3: Strawberry Roll. I didn't eat these. They looked clean and well-rolled, just a few grains of rice and a few slivers of strawberry, bound by seaweed. I had a dinner reservation and they didn't seem worth my time.
Rating 1.5/5 Delicate Double-Cheek Air Kisses
Yes, I'm sure the constant editorial challenge is invigorating.
Hors Breakdown
Plate 1: Salmon Nigiri / Eel Nigiri. The salmon was fine, not buttery, delicious or creamy, but did taste fresh and crisp. The eel, well, eel is pretty much eel, as far as I can tell. The rice was too dense and pasty, and there was far too much of it.
Plate 2: Passed Crab Cakes. This was undone by the massive slab of carb. The dollop of fresh crab had sesame seeds and thin threads of something --cucumber, perhaps -- and a little heat. Unfortunately, it was served on a greasy, bloated blini that completely overwhelmed the crab.
Plate 3: Strawberry Roll. I didn't eat these. They looked clean and well-rolled, just a few grains of rice and a few slivers of strawberry, bound by seaweed. I had a dinner reservation and they didn't seem worth my time.
Rating 1.5/5 Delicate Double-Cheek Air Kisses
Welcome to the Gayborhood
Maybe six months ago, I was walking home after work. Sun was going down, fall day, headphones off, strolling. A mid-40s black guy in jeans and a sweatshirt was walking towards me, and as we passed he cocked his head and grunted "fag" at me. I didn't do anything, just kept walking. It really pissed me off and I've been stewing over it for months.
Two years ago, I didn't have a gay friend. I wasn't a homophobe, at least in that gay people didn't creep me out in the abstract, but I used the word "fag" pretty liberally and didn't think twice about it. I'd never say "nigger", but somehow "fag" was okay. That seemed standard in my white, straight, fratty East Coast liberal arts school world.
Now, I have all these gay friends. Well, a few. Three? One's a real diva, the other two are pretty much dudes who are gay. It's been great. They give me the rundown on gay professional athletes, they talk better shit than most of my straight friends and chicks fall into orbit around them like some sort of meteor belt.
Maybe a year ago, I was on an email list with a bunch of people I didn't know. Someone shot out a picture of a few people, one of which had a hideous, multi-colored thigh tattoo. I immediately fired off a "gayest tattoo ever" response, unaware that two gay guys and the owner of the thigh in question were all on the email list. I took some good-natured shit, but it drove the point home that I just cannot treat "gay" as a synonym for cheesy or weak or stupid or anything that isn't, well, gay.
Example: Titan's Ramrod, the bar above Hamburger Mary's that welcomes "Bears, Cubs, Wolves and Otters" is gay. Gilbert Arenas getting talked out of hitting his foul shots by Lebron James last year is not gay. It did, however, blow.
This attitude is in sharp contrast to my feelings about the word "fuck" and censorship issues in general. Don't censor authors -- Vote Webb. Don't censor music -- "My Neck, My Back..." Don't censor television -- Viva La Wire. I love Pulp Fiction, and can't imagine Maynard choosing between Butch and Marsellus via anything but his slur-heavy version of "Eeenie Meenie Miny Moe".
So, how can I tell people not to say whatever they want, just because I find something hateful or offensive? Can I maintain that a movie or a television program can have free reign, but that an individual should somehow be restricted? Are the ideas of "good taste" and "polite company" anachronisms? What do you say when you're straight and a stranger screams "FAG!" at you with all the hate he can muster?
If all this adds up to my inability to support the Washington Redskins, well, I'm gonna be fucking pissed.
Two years ago, I didn't have a gay friend. I wasn't a homophobe, at least in that gay people didn't creep me out in the abstract, but I used the word "fag" pretty liberally and didn't think twice about it. I'd never say "nigger", but somehow "fag" was okay. That seemed standard in my white, straight, fratty East Coast liberal arts school world.
Now, I have all these gay friends. Well, a few. Three? One's a real diva, the other two are pretty much dudes who are gay. It's been great. They give me the rundown on gay professional athletes, they talk better shit than most of my straight friends and chicks fall into orbit around them like some sort of meteor belt.
Maybe a year ago, I was on an email list with a bunch of people I didn't know. Someone shot out a picture of a few people, one of which had a hideous, multi-colored thigh tattoo. I immediately fired off a "gayest tattoo ever" response, unaware that two gay guys and the owner of the thigh in question were all on the email list. I took some good-natured shit, but it drove the point home that I just cannot treat "gay" as a synonym for cheesy or weak or stupid or anything that isn't, well, gay.
Example: Titan's Ramrod, the bar above Hamburger Mary's that welcomes "Bears, Cubs, Wolves and Otters" is gay. Gilbert Arenas getting talked out of hitting his foul shots by Lebron James last year is not gay. It did, however, blow.
This attitude is in sharp contrast to my feelings about the word "fuck" and censorship issues in general. Don't censor authors -- Vote Webb. Don't censor music -- "My Neck, My Back..." Don't censor television -- Viva La Wire. I love Pulp Fiction, and can't imagine Maynard choosing between Butch and Marsellus via anything but his slur-heavy version of "Eeenie Meenie Miny Moe".
So, how can I tell people not to say whatever they want, just because I find something hateful or offensive? Can I maintain that a movie or a television program can have free reign, but that an individual should somehow be restricted? Are the ideas of "good taste" and "polite company" anachronisms? What do you say when you're straight and a stranger screams "FAG!" at you with all the hate he can muster?
If all this adds up to my inability to support the Washington Redskins, well, I'm gonna be fucking pissed.
Mostly in the Bag at Dupont Grille
After getting chased out of Gazuza by a barely-drinkable-even-though-it-was-free rose Champagne, the three chicks I live with and our friend Katie went over to the Dupont Grille. I was pulling for Firefly, Laura got her way. Sometimes, you just need to let kids make their own mistakes.
Dupont Grille is one of those hotel restaurants where inexplicable design choices have been made (it feels like a diner), mediocre service is tolerated (my steak showed up well in advance of my steak knife) and the food is fine (first "rare" steak was medium, second one was rare but unremarkable). To be fair, I was drunk and getting drunker, so, as they say, your mileage may vary. Hell, my mileage may vary.
Three of the girls at the table ordered one of those tender, moist, slide-off-the-bone braised lamb shank dishes, served in a shallow bowl. I bet it was sitting on a polenta -- just playing the odds. Please, can three of the five people at my table not order the same thing? This drives me nuts. I want to see what a restaurant has to offer.
Still, the lamb was a well-prepared dish, and I had a little entree envy. My side of smoked gouda grits was a hit, and enough for a few to share. I thought they could have been creamier, as the consistency was a touch mortar-like for my taste, but I'm picking nits here. It was a good, flavorful, non-potato accompaniment to my steak.
Someone, i think it was Laura, got a salad. I didn't try it, mostly because she had replaced the gorgonzola with feta. I know. I live with pagans from the Midwest. I'm sure if they had a pastie special, we would have seen a few less lamb shanks.
I am happy to report that I found their Maker's Mark highly potable.
Rating: 2/5 Unimpressed Locals
Dupont Grille is one of those hotel restaurants where inexplicable design choices have been made (it feels like a diner), mediocre service is tolerated (my steak showed up well in advance of my steak knife) and the food is fine (first "rare" steak was medium, second one was rare but unremarkable). To be fair, I was drunk and getting drunker, so, as they say, your mileage may vary. Hell, my mileage may vary.
Three of the girls at the table ordered one of those tender, moist, slide-off-the-bone braised lamb shank dishes, served in a shallow bowl. I bet it was sitting on a polenta -- just playing the odds. Please, can three of the five people at my table not order the same thing? This drives me nuts. I want to see what a restaurant has to offer.
Still, the lamb was a well-prepared dish, and I had a little entree envy. My side of smoked gouda grits was a hit, and enough for a few to share. I thought they could have been creamier, as the consistency was a touch mortar-like for my taste, but I'm picking nits here. It was a good, flavorful, non-potato accompaniment to my steak.
Someone, i think it was Laura, got a salad. I didn't try it, mostly because she had replaced the gorgonzola with feta. I know. I live with pagans from the Midwest. I'm sure if they had a pastie special, we would have seen a few less lamb shanks.
I am happy to report that I found their Maker's Mark highly potable.
Rating: 2/5 Unimpressed Locals
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Bringing The Green Vegetables
My friends Matt ("Sidwell Matt") and his roommate Matt ("Aswell") live in Glover Park and party hysterically. They held a costume-required viewing of "Grizzly Man". Also, both of these Matts are enormous, six-four or six-five, hell, taller, I dunno. When you're five-eight, at some point those distinctions become irrelevant. They're both in the irrelevantly tall camp.
Anyway, Sidwell Matt and Aswell threw out a Monday email inviting a few heads to "Invincible Tuesday: A Celebration of the Little Man". It also turned into a celebration of low-level bar food, as we snacked on fatty chicken wings, oven-baked chicken tenders and (thanks to me) the hilariously incongruous Broccoli Rabe with Garlic & Olive Oil from Whole Foods.
Then, we watched "Invincible". What a shit film. They took a wonderful true story -- 30 year-old Philly bartender makes the Eagles as a special teamer -- and ripped out the soul. It opens with a sequence set in the 700-level of the Vet. There's no cursing. No punches are thrown. Now, I didn't expect an accurate, gritty, hurling-their-own-feces portrayal of the Philly faithful. I did have an inkling; I've seen "Remember The Titans". Still, these fans wouldn't have been out of place at my uber-pussy cellar-dwelling private high school football games. I couldn't get over it.
The film didn't expeect me to. The rest of the movie portrays South Philly's bar flies, striking union workers and unemployed alcoholics in a similarly realistic light. Worse still, the screenwriters murdered this film before Disney pulled their teeth. They were wrong to shoehorn this into a story about one man giving a battered city hope and a story about some walk-on turning around a football team. At best, it could have been the NFL's Rudy, where a man fights and wins an internal battle, and the applause of those around him, the reward that follows, is both warming and immaterial.
They couldn't pull that together, though. If it had been a "you made the team" ending, a stirring speech from Vermeil to the Eagles locker room about the virtues of grit and toughness and character, that would have done it. Instead, we get this cockamamie blocked punt... and then, the director makes the brilliant decision to show the actual play, where Papale did not, in fact block the punt at all. Aspiring Filmmakers: When you base something on a true story, do not give the audience incontrovertible video evidence of the shit you made up.
The film is shot in sepia, but might as well have been a cartoon. Fuck you, Disney. Why can't the Christian Right get more up in arms about your talking animals and your half-human mer-people? Hey, Pat & Jerry, I heard Sodom was chock full of mermaids getting fucked by talking lions. Now, sic 'em!
Rating: 1/5 of Dick Vermeil's Tears
Anyway, Sidwell Matt and Aswell threw out a Monday email inviting a few heads to "Invincible Tuesday: A Celebration of the Little Man". It also turned into a celebration of low-level bar food, as we snacked on fatty chicken wings, oven-baked chicken tenders and (thanks to me) the hilariously incongruous Broccoli Rabe with Garlic & Olive Oil from Whole Foods.
Then, we watched "Invincible". What a shit film. They took a wonderful true story -- 30 year-old Philly bartender makes the Eagles as a special teamer -- and ripped out the soul. It opens with a sequence set in the 700-level of the Vet. There's no cursing. No punches are thrown. Now, I didn't expect an accurate, gritty, hurling-their-own-feces portrayal of the Philly faithful. I did have an inkling; I've seen "Remember The Titans". Still, these fans wouldn't have been out of place at my uber-pussy cellar-dwelling private high school football games. I couldn't get over it.
The film didn't expeect me to. The rest of the movie portrays South Philly's bar flies, striking union workers and unemployed alcoholics in a similarly realistic light. Worse still, the screenwriters murdered this film before Disney pulled their teeth. They were wrong to shoehorn this into a story about one man giving a battered city hope and a story about some walk-on turning around a football team. At best, it could have been the NFL's Rudy, where a man fights and wins an internal battle, and the applause of those around him, the reward that follows, is both warming and immaterial.
They couldn't pull that together, though. If it had been a "you made the team" ending, a stirring speech from Vermeil to the Eagles locker room about the virtues of grit and toughness and character, that would have done it. Instead, we get this cockamamie blocked punt... and then, the director makes the brilliant decision to show the actual play, where Papale did not, in fact block the punt at all. Aspiring Filmmakers: When you base something on a true story, do not give the audience incontrovertible video evidence of the shit you made up.
The film is shot in sepia, but might as well have been a cartoon. Fuck you, Disney. Why can't the Christian Right get more up in arms about your talking animals and your half-human mer-people? Hey, Pat & Jerry, I heard Sodom was chock full of mermaids getting fucked by talking lions. Now, sic 'em!
Rating: 1/5 of Dick Vermeil's Tears
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Teambuilding Christmas Roundtable
I unloaded a couple hoppers of paintballs at my coworkers during our company Christmas party. Then I drank most of a quart of whisky.
Stalking through the woods with a gun in my hand, simultaneously hunter and hunted, was a new and wonderful sensation. I felt hyper-alert and hyper-sensitive, and gained a new level of respect for our armed forces. To be fair, I was building off a pretty low base there, but the physical act of warfare, even simulated, lossless warfare, proved to be an emotional rollercoaster. So, good for you, GI Joe. Your job takes more than I thought.
As predicted, smart, liberal consultants playing paintball in the woods yielded hilarious results. The consensus-bult plans were followed by mediocre execution, an analysis of the effects of playing paintball on children yielded no conclusions and everyone left with a host of bumps, scrapes and bruises. The play itself was even, until our fearless leader and course native took himself out of the action by trying (and failing) to ford a creek. Though clearly outmatched, we did manage to eek out one victory during those later rounds.
Following the paintball, we enjoyed dinner at a fine italian restaurant in downtown Charlottesville. I enjoyed the civilized, hopeful discourse, the simple, hearty fare and several glasses of Maker's Mark.
Stalking through the woods with a gun in my hand, simultaneously hunter and hunted, was a new and wonderful sensation. I felt hyper-alert and hyper-sensitive, and gained a new level of respect for our armed forces. To be fair, I was building off a pretty low base there, but the physical act of warfare, even simulated, lossless warfare, proved to be an emotional rollercoaster. So, good for you, GI Joe. Your job takes more than I thought.
As predicted, smart, liberal consultants playing paintball in the woods yielded hilarious results. The consensus-bult plans were followed by mediocre execution, an analysis of the effects of playing paintball on children yielded no conclusions and everyone left with a host of bumps, scrapes and bruises. The play itself was even, until our fearless leader and course native took himself out of the action by trying (and failing) to ford a creek. Though clearly outmatched, we did manage to eek out one victory during those later rounds.
Following the paintball, we enjoyed dinner at a fine italian restaurant in downtown Charlottesville. I enjoyed the civilized, hopeful discourse, the simple, hearty fare and several glasses of Maker's Mark.
Monday, December 18, 2006
My Cube's Wood Chips Smell Like Urine Today
I work for a small, software-driven business consulting firm. It's a technology start-up as much as anything else, just a few white 40-somethings with post-grad degrees telling a bunch of white BAs and BSs what to do.
Yes, I work in a cube, stare at a screen all day and have to handle the entire gamut of client requests -- "What's my username? Why does it say 'page not found'? Can you make it divide by zero / count to infinity / submit my expenses for me / make rezzies for a lunchtime rub-and-tug? But I was told it would do all those things! Waaah! Waaah!"
I also get to do real business analysis and help implement the business process changes we recommend. I think I've also learned enough buzz words to dazzle those who haven't yet seen the wizard behind the business consulting curtain.
It's difficult to shake that hampster-on-a-wheel feeling at times. What the hell am I doing with myself? What is a background in economic/strategic intelligence collection and business process analysis gonna do for me? Who the fuck is gonna hire me to build Vizio flowcharts for spooks?
Riddle me that.
Yes, I work in a cube, stare at a screen all day and have to handle the entire gamut of client requests -- "What's my username? Why does it say 'page not found'? Can you make it divide by zero / count to infinity / submit my expenses for me / make rezzies for a lunchtime rub-and-tug? But I was told it would do all those things! Waaah! Waaah!"
I also get to do real business analysis and help implement the business process changes we recommend. I think I've also learned enough buzz words to dazzle those who haven't yet seen the wizard behind the business consulting curtain.
It's difficult to shake that hampster-on-a-wheel feeling at times. What the hell am I doing with myself? What is a background in economic/strategic intelligence collection and business process analysis gonna do for me? Who the fuck is gonna hire me to build Vizio flowcharts for spooks?
Riddle me that.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Post-Party Depression
We knocked down three domestic light kegs and six mid-grade handles on Saturday night. After a 3:45 AM keg stand, I finally kicked everyone out. He made it to 36. I'm 27 and I live in a frat house. It was a wild party.
Highlights: The growing popularity of the fresh-squeezed orange crush, the abundance of shocking christmas sweaters, a beautiful night courtesy of global warming, the appearance of my mother with keg cup, a hilarious crew of indian dudes, our neighbors rescuing the party with a replacement receiver, someone bringing me a decent bottle of wine, the absence of wall gouging and floor scraping and a general sense of accomplishment.
Lowlights: Someone pegging the amp at max and melting it, me not getting laid, the cops coming and us moving the keg inside around 3 AM, turning our downstairs kitchen into the Everglades.
The not-getting-laid part is the real bitch. I cleaned my room and everything. Eff.
Highlights: The growing popularity of the fresh-squeezed orange crush, the abundance of shocking christmas sweaters, a beautiful night courtesy of global warming, the appearance of my mother with keg cup, a hilarious crew of indian dudes, our neighbors rescuing the party with a replacement receiver, someone bringing me a decent bottle of wine, the absence of wall gouging and floor scraping and a general sense of accomplishment.
Lowlights: Someone pegging the amp at max and melting it, me not getting laid, the cops coming and us moving the keg inside around 3 AM, turning our downstairs kitchen into the Everglades.
The not-getting-laid part is the real bitch. I cleaned my room and everything. Eff.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Back in Black's
The first time I bellied up at Black's Bar & Kitchen, I knocked down five $2 happy-hour Miller Lites and maybe a dozen 50-cent oysters. I was 19 years old, looked about 15 and my ID said I was 26. They’d just taken over from the Gulf Coast Kitchen and hadn’t built up any sort of client base; the bar was deserted and I probably would have gotten served without the fake.
For the next four or five or six years, Black’s was our bar. I must have drunk a pool full of beer and knocked back a couple oil drums of Grand Marnier. I saw fights, fires, bartenders pass out on the bar and my friends pass out under it.
The bar food was incredible. The juicy burgers anyway-you-want with shoestring fries (half-price on Mondays), the sweet, smoky pulled duck quesadilla and the rich, garlicky bowl of mussels were all standouts. It was cheap, too, and the food all came from the same place as the $30 entrees served in the dining room.
Black’s closed for renovations on Valentine’s Day ’06. The bar staff didn’t mince words – this was the end of Miller Lite and Cheeseburger Mondays, the end of Black’s as we knew it.
They reopened a few months ago, but I didn’t have a meal there until my father and I grabbed a later dinner there Tuesday. The façade says it all – the black-and-white, hand-lettered sign has turned into industrial steel letters glowing red and the rickety deck where we smoked cigarettes on wrought iron patio furniture has become flagstone with a two-story, copper-colored fountain. The funky, rollicking bar has become warm and modern and spare, where martini drinking 30-somethings are served by unfamiliar faces. When the Maitre’d asked whether we’d like to eat in the bar or the dining room, the choice was easy. The new dining room is lovely.
For the next four or five or six years, Black’s was our bar. I must have drunk a pool full of beer and knocked back a couple oil drums of Grand Marnier. I saw fights, fires, bartenders pass out on the bar and my friends pass out under it.
The bar food was incredible. The juicy burgers anyway-you-want with shoestring fries (half-price on Mondays), the sweet, smoky pulled duck quesadilla and the rich, garlicky bowl of mussels were all standouts. It was cheap, too, and the food all came from the same place as the $30 entrees served in the dining room.
Black’s closed for renovations on Valentine’s Day ’06. The bar staff didn’t mince words – this was the end of Miller Lite and Cheeseburger Mondays, the end of Black’s as we knew it.
They reopened a few months ago, but I didn’t have a meal there until my father and I grabbed a later dinner there Tuesday. The façade says it all – the black-and-white, hand-lettered sign has turned into industrial steel letters glowing red and the rickety deck where we smoked cigarettes on wrought iron patio furniture has become flagstone with a two-story, copper-colored fountain. The funky, rollicking bar has become warm and modern and spare, where martini drinking 30-somethings are served by unfamiliar faces. When the Maitre’d asked whether we’d like to eat in the bar or the dining room, the choice was easy. The new dining room is lovely.
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