You were more than fair. You gave me three chances to answer your question. You made it clear that a non-answer was not going to be acceptable. “What don’t you like about him?” Of course I didn’t have an answer then. I was way too enchanted in my mental narcissism to ever consider that my “problem” with him might be based in my own short-comings. And, of course, I couldn’t have lied. You would have seen through that shit before I even opened my mouth. So I didn’t answer you. And you disappeared.

There was a time when your social calendar was so packed with the 700,000 people who wanted to be near you that I would have to schedule a month in advance to get a half an hour of your time. I thought it was great. I was in awe by the multitude of people who just wanted to sit and chat with you a little now and then, and by your ability to accommodate them all. Then, out of nowhere, here comes this guy and he’s got you. 24-7. What don’t I like about him? He must be truly amazing if he’s got your full attention….[asshole]

Did I mention that I have the emotional maturity of a six-year-old? [nervous laughter] It’s not that I’m jealous of his relationship with you, I’m just jealous of his time with you. Ya know what’s really funny? I haven’t seen you in over a year because I couldn’t admit that I was jealous of the guy who gets to see you all the fucking time. Irony’s a bitch-slap, ain’t it?

Ok. I’m a little distracted. I can’t seem to break into my usual office pace. The one where I stagger things that need to be done with things that make me look busy when I don’t have anything relevant to do, so as to maintain a steady, … if not illusory, level of quasi-productivity.

What is this blog thing? What’s the appeal? Do I just like to hear myself talk? What is this, some sick form of verbal masturbation? Seriously; I’m the only one who participates and I’m the only one who derives any pleasure from it. Is that wrong? I suppose it is a lot like sex. Safer if you do it alone, but a lot more fulfilling if you share it with someone else.

Did I mention that I work at a reception desk? Maybe it’s the thrill; the risk of exposure to have words like “masturbation” on my computer screen in front of God (and Joe) and everybody. Maybe its just my new favorite way to entertain myself when I feel myself approaching that level of boredom where the risk of becoming catatonic is very real. Maybe its rebellion; my way of saying, “you guys hired me and are paying me for eight hours a day, and all the stuff that you thought you needed to hire someone and pay eight hours a day to do, I just finished in 15 minutes, so now I’m gonna sit here and write stuff”.

“What’s that? What are you doin’?
“It’s my web site.”
“Your what?”
“ I can just write stuff and it gets instantly published on the web.”
“What d'you write about? You write about us?”
[smirk and sideward glance] “Absolutely.”
“Anything good?”
“About you? Not yet, I’m workin’ on it.”
“Well, here, I got some good stories for ya…. We were out workin’ at the airport a few years back…”

Steve’s my boss. He’s a short, round, Italian, New Yorker. He tips his head down to look over his oval glasses when he talks, “I know you don’t always have things to do and that you play on your games and the email and stuff. You don’t have to hide it from me when I come around. This ain’t my first rodeo.” He’s got that edginess about him; that way, that seems to be unique of New Yorkers, of making you feel like if you open your mouth, you better do it with confidence. It’s a quality that some people just chalk up to “asshole”, which probably explains the reputation that has been erroneously tagged to New Yorkers in general. I find it comforting. They don’t hide much and their demeanor seems to demand that you be as honest. “If you make any money writing about us, I want uh…”
“Royalties?”
“Yeah, royalties.”
“heh heh, deal.”

So, its Friday. I’ve been lamenting all week that I lead the most blasé, middle-American, 9 to 5 existence. God, I’m so… normal. But... yesterday I had to decide what I was going to do for entertainment this evening. Options: It’s Elizabeth’s birthday. She wants me to go with her and her usual band of “proud to be a lesbian, but not too self-righteous about it” lesbians to the local strip club. Jamie, who I haven’t seen since high school and now works with my mother, wants me to go with her to a drag queen show. Wow. That’s uh… quite the quandary. I wonder what Joe is doing tonight? Hahahahahaaaaaaa. [dabbing small tear from eye…] Hmm… naked women, drag queens, naked women, drag queens… what to do…. [trying desperately to laugh inaudibly from the reception desk of blue-collar good ol’ boy heaven]
Joe is singing to me in his condescending fashion, “Have you theen Thteve thith-morning?”
“No I haven’t. What d’you say, Joe? Naked women or drag queens?”

Did I really say that? I’m having a really hard time believing that I used to be that naïve. I cringe when I think about conversations I used to have. What a ridiculous, self-righteous, self-absorbed, condescending, hypocrite I’ve been. “Money doesn’t matter. Seeking it is a waste of time. You should only seek things that will enrich your life, like love and knowledge.” Oh, really? That’s rich, coming from someone who has never even been remotely infatuated, much less in love… someone who drives a brand new car, wears $100 watch, travels at the drop of a hat and is in debt up to my asshole!! Right, and what was your major in college? Way to seek knowledge. That’s great advice. Lets see you live it for even 5 minutes!! Lets see you just try to take your own advice. Think you can do it? Then ZIP IT!!!!!

I have become alarmingly and indignantly aware of myself. I feel the need to apologize, to just about everyone I know.

I often wonder what a particular place would be like if everyone in it dropped their façade. I’m willing to bet that everyone in this office is wearing one. It’s your work face. The one you put on when you mean business. It’s the only side of you that people at work are likely to ever see; and it’s the one side of you that people away from work will probably never see. Task oriented, focused, “it’s not personal, it’s business.” When did it ever become okay to be not personal? Joe is nearing retirement. He has a lisp. He is in command of every room in this office that he enters. He gets an overly-pleasant, almost condescending, tone in his voice when he addresses women. Have you ever heard an arrogant, overly-pleasant, condescending, lisp? He makes me wonder what his life is like away from the constant cockfight of construction management. Is it just a chip that he puts on his shoulder like an article of clothing in the morning? Pants, shirt, chip, socks, shoes; ready for work. Does he put it down with his brief case when he gets home, and become a different man before he has even kissed his wife hello?

Jim is an older gentleman too. “Don’t call me ‘sir’. I ain’t that goddamn old.” He cusses like a sailor. When he talks he can be heard from anywhere in the office, “He fuckin’ told me he wants to run the goddamn conduit through the….” I have been warned about him repeatedly from everyone in the office. “Has Jim gotten in your face yet? Yeah, he can be a little abrasive sometimes.” Yes, he did get in my face. He popped off at me and I popped off right back. He recoiled like a child who had just been whipped with a switch. Loud, abrasive tough-guy image masks the incredibly vulnerable child. Probably not something I was supposed to see. I’ll be gentle with him.
“Whatchoo got there, Jim?”
“Home-made potato salad. I make the best damn potato salad in the world.”
[warm smile] “Your modesty suits you.” He likes me now.

The Illusive Epido

I used to have this theory about the beginning of action. I called it the “epido”. You know, like “epiphany” is the beginning of thought, this epido thingy was supposed to be the beginning of action. The big question was why is it so damn difficult to move from thought to action? Why was this epido so illusive? Answer: IT’S NOT!! It’s not difficult! Just do something!!! How hard is that!?!?!

I am so sick of planning to do things. I just want to DO. I want to just ACT without fear; without the slightest hesitation. GO! DO! NOW! GO! I keep trying to say that its not easy to be like that, but then I have to reprimand myself. "what's so fucking hard!?!?! Just do something!! The only thing that makes it hard is hard is YOUR OWN THICK HEAD!!!"

Woke up to soft light filtering through poly-plastic, bought from Target, blinds. (It’s light out this morning) A glance at the clock (Hm. I guess it’s light out this morning cuz its EIGHT O’CLOCK!!!) I should have been @ work an hour ago. Coffee in the automatic timer coffee pot is already cold. So is the shower if you don’t wait for the hot water to come before getting in. Fly out the door, can’t wait for my poor little car to warm up (180,000 miles and counting), thinking while I’m driving: I’m probably going to get in a wreck today. This would be the day that I would get into a wreck. (I didn’t. I’ll have to remember that as something good that happened today… unless I wreck on the way home….) Finally get to work. Rushing to get done those few things that, on Friday, I said “I’ll get to work early on Monday and do that”. Go to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee that is sure to be a disappointment. While in the kitchen, the phone rings off the hook, transfer to x1415, page Steve … page Steve again, transfer to x1401, exit kitchen, spill coffee that is indeed as sorry as anticipated, retreat to kitchen for a sponge, phone rings, page Steve, clean up coffee, pour another cup of disappointment and perform the necessary balancing act required to arrive spill-less at one’s destination. (If you spill disappointment is that like two negatives equaling a positive? Or is it an addition equation where a negative + a negative = a … more negative?) The moment I hit the just bouncy enough seat at my desk, I make a mental bet with myself. “I’ll bet, now that I’m actually at my desk and not trying to juggle 8 things at once, the phone doesn’t ring for an hour.” (Its been 47 minutes so far)

It’s 9:53 am. Welcome to my Monday.

There it is again. That feeling that there is something of vital import that I am neglecting because I’m wasting time doing whatever it is that I’m doing right now. Do you ever get caught between the ambition to become great at something, and the question “why?” I keep telling myself that doing something, even something whose purpose may never be known, is better than doing nothing. The purpose of doing nothing is usually obvious: Fear. “Where there is fear there is no creativity.” – Christopher Lowell. (Leave it to a flaming gay decorator to spell out the profundities of my life.)

I remember how the endeavor to be great at something can put on hold the endeavor to try anything else. There is a rut. A deep and dangerous, cavernous rut of sameness and comfort, cut by fear of chance and change. The more one becomes great at any present endeavor, the more difficult it becomes to quit it and start something else that is full of uncertainty and distinct not-great-ness. I guess it’s an ego thing. I only want to do stuff that I’m good at. Then the other shoe drops. “I’m not really that good at anything.” Oh… shit. Learning is such a challenge. It forces you to let yourself fail. “If you’re not screwing up, you’re not trying hard enough.” Wise words from a soccer coach when I was 12. You have to push yourself to break out of that comfort zone. In order to propel onto the next plateau of ability you have to try something new. Imagine something that you know you don’t know how to do. Then do it. You will almost certainly fail at it. And then you’ll fail again. And then you’ll fail again. But if you continue to let yourself fail without giving up on success, sooner or later it will come to you. You will have learned how to do that something that you didn’t know how to do. But its not magic. Its not instantaneous. You have to let yourself fail first. I fear that I have become so conditioned for success that the fear of failure pushes me away from the endeavor all together.

Is there anything finer than a piping hot cup of Chicory Coffee? The moment the alarm invades the peace of blissful slumber I wonder why in the hell I’m doing this? “Come on. The sooner you get up and get moving, the sooner you’ll shift into corporate zombie gear, and buzz through another day with typical half comatose American zeal.” Hot shower. Shake off the shock of morning chill … the trauma of extraction from the womb-like haven of warm, soft bed and pillows. Wrap up in over-sized cuddly bath robe and wait in anxious anticipation for the aroma that promises “I will be okay. I will make it through today.” Chicory. Thank God for automatic coffee pot timers.