Office Mindgames, Part II

This one’s like “pros and cons” , but more people can play. On your whiteboard, or piece of paper, or computer screen, you need to start a list. I like to keep the title simple. I write something like “Who is better?” on the top. Then, make a column for each person who you wish to include. After this, the process is simple. Make inexplicable tallies of how many points watch contestant has. While not telling them what most points are for, you can keep them interested by occasionally giving them a point for good behavior (like, they get you lunch). You can also take one away if they do something like make fun of your clothes, criticize the game for being cruel and manipulative, or not getting you lunch. Try to maintain a balance between keeping them intrigued and letting them ever win. Keep the points close, and, once your bored, let the person you would most like to sleep with win.

Main Stream Mediocre

Like at least half the people covered by the media, Red Sox pitcher Curt Schilling is disgruntled with the media. This Huffington Post piece details Schilling's comments on how,

working in the media is a pretty nice gig.

Yes, and, especially once the compensation level is taken into account, baseball playing is thankless drudgery.

you should. . .buy some box wine for the office

First, let’s be clear. This is only for after hours consumption. When you are at the office on your own time, you can feel free to have a few glasses of cheap wine. Box wine is the best choice, because that box wine stays good forever, comes in handy 5 liter portions, and matches well with depression. So, after five, you may take out your box of wine and poor yourself a glass, but not before. Unless you’re feeling frustrated with work, or are already drunk, or hungover. Then feel free to drink, surreptiously. Make sure your lips don’t get stained.

But, after hours, that's when you can really focus on it. You are a hard worker. You are a go-getter. You are intoxicated with your virtue.

office mindgames, part 1

This one's called, "Pros/Cons." It's nice to play on a dry erase board, since I like the boldness of black-markered lettering, but you could also play with a white piece of paper tacked to a wall. Anyway, pick a co-worker. After writing their name on the top of the list, make a "pros" column and a "cons" column. Fill the columns with real or made-up aspects of the person in question that either inspire or annoy you. Now, here is the important part. Make sure all of the entries are in some sort of indecipherable code. I like to mix it up a little bit. Sometimes, I use pictographs, numbers without labels (women will always think this is about their weight, which is funny, right?), abbreviations, and other obscure mnemonic devices.

At this point, your co-worker will begin to feel scrutinized, criticized, and befuddled. They will get angry, you will point out that you have their pros up there, too.

Occasionally, during conversation, react to something the co-worker says by either nodding, smiling, and adding a pro, or frowning as you shake your head and put a con up there. Meanings, of course, should still be ambiguous.

Begin to do this completely unprovoked, like when you and the co-worker are sitting at your desks silently.

At some point. You should try completely erasing the pros from the list. Leave a question mark on that side. At this point, you have won the game.

Gandhi

Gilberte hits me, and says: You and Branson need to stop being dicks to me!
Marcel Parcells: No, you need to stop hitting us. Soon we’re going to start hitting you back.
Miranda: That’s mean.
Marcel: That’s the way it is. An eye for an eye, dude.
Miranda: . . . [looks mad]
Marcel: what?
Miranda: An eye for an eye? That’s ridiculous-
Marcel: Don’t give me any of that Gandhi shit.
Miranda: I knew it! You hate Indians.
Marcel: No, just Gandhi.. I hate Gandhi.

you should . . .buy a long-sleeved black t-shirt

Long –sleeved black t-shirts are always useful. Let’s say you have to go hang out with some Eurotrash, or some bohemians, or you are having a Sprockets theme party, your long-sleeved black t-shirt will serve you well. Since it’s black, you can wear it to somewhat formal events. Since it’s long-sleeved, it will serve you well in a wide range of temperatures. Since it’s a t-shirt, you can play Frisbee in it. And, since it’s just a long sleeved black t-shirt, and not a long-sleeved black turtleneck, your frat boy friends might let you get away with it as well. Just be sure you don’t have dandruff. That shit will show up like the stars in a new moon sky if you’re not careful.
Be proud, fashion man. You now own one of the most versatile pieces of clothing out there.

Technology

Caffeinated Soap Perks Up Your Shower

We are just one step closer to the scalding coffee shower I've always dreamed of!

guerilla trivia

I'm in line at the coffeeshop, and everyone puzzled. The baristas are looking expectantly at the guy next to me, who says thoughtfully, "Who did write Death of a Salesman?"
Guy next to him: I can't remember
Guy next to me: . . . (looks at me with raised eyebrows; this is what I've been waiting for)
Marcel Parcells: Arthur Miller (with confidence)

Everybody celebrates, the barista girl who likes good music throws her arms in her air and says
"ARTHUR MILLER!!!!"

I order my coffee and sit down. I am a god among men.

Denver, democrats

So, apparently the 2008 Democratic Convention is going to be in Denver. yaaaaaaaaaay. I lived in Denver for a time, and I only have this to say, and by this I mean some in depth politicial analysis of why Denver may or may not be suitable for the convention. Denver. . .is so boring.

For real. I think the convention, and Democrats everywhere, might be better served if the convention were in Honolulu, or Key Largo, or even St. Louis. At least they've got an arch.

The reason that the movie title, Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead is so brilliant, is that you may as well be.

you should. . .watch Okie Noodling

I want to immerse myself in opaque neck-deep water wearing only a pair of cutoff denims, and to take a deep breath and go under, stick my hand into a murky hole until I’m shoulder deep and my whole fist is inside the mouth of a big fish catfish, and I want to grab onto that fish and wrassle it into my arms, into my boat, and onto my dinner plate. I want to be a noodler.
After watching Okie Noodling, I know that noodling is my destiny. Noodling, or “handfishing”, or “grabbling” is a venture that involves the barehanded catching of big catfish. According to one of the interviewees in this documentary, noodling is a rare pursuit because “Very few people want to go under water, stick their hand in a hole, and get bit. And that’s what noodling is.”
So, I think noodling is something we should all think about doing with more of our free time. We should do it because it’s badass, and because you get fish out of it. Plus, if you wanted to, I’m sure you could manufacture some stupid philosophical reason for it. As one character, a plumber, says after telling a story about using his hand to unclog a shitclogged pipe, “I guess you’re always noodling somehow.”

Homelessexuals

This morning, as I was trying to sleep past noon, there was a hobo argument below my bedroom window. At least, I assumed it was an argument, but it’s always hard to tell, since both the bums had those gruff, raspy voices indicative of hard living, and since neither of them appeared to have much of a handle on their volume control. From what I could decipher, the bums were arguing about who got what share of whatever substance they were ingesting. I couldn’t even tell if Bum One was pushing the substance on Bum Two, or if Bum One thought Bum Two was hogging it.

At one point, I looked outside, and unsurprisingly, the bums looked like typical bums. They were men with dusty, creased skin, a grizzled, unkempt appearance, lots of scars, wild hair, and bad fashion. Bum One looked to be well into his middle years, and Bum Two was downright elderly. I tried to sleep some more, and they kept up their little tirades.

When I didn’t hear them talking, I looked out the window to make sure there were no dead bums in my alleyway. I worried when I saw them sitting down, with Bum Two cradled in the arms of Bum One. Then I realized they were locked in a slobbery, whiskery, drug-addled kiss, with exposed tongue and ropes of saliva flopping about. It lasted for quite a long time, and, while I’m all for man-on-man affection, this display of homosexual homeless lust had ruined my morning. I thought of what that kiss must smell like, and I was awake for the day. And, while I realize that the homeless are virtually forced into making all of their affection a public display, I thought about the maxim that the more likely a couple is to participate in PDA, the less attractive the couple. I concur.

Tiny chanters

Today, in many (liberal) American towns, there was some sort of global warming action going on under the name, "Step it up." Besides the fact that this sounds more like a workout program than a protest, and besides the fact that I was trying to relax in the park and people kept bothering me to sign things, join groups, or accept their paraphernalia, the biggest annoyance was the little protesting children. I think that, like voting, there should be an age limit under which children are deemed as not responsible for thinking on their own, and thus not capable of protesting. I don't know what this age should be, but I was imagining how disgusted people might be if they saw the same nine year olds at an anti-immigration, or god forbid, a KKK rally.

When I was in college, I was walking down the street with a pretty girl I had a crush on, and whose name I now forget (let's call her Josephine), we saw some fundamentalists sending their children to hand out literature on how Josephine and I were going to burn in hell. Josephine turned to me and said, "It turns my stomach to see people turning their children into little proselytizers." I actually wouldn't have noticed if I wasn't so attracted to this girl that I listened to everything she said (I know, a big deal!!) , but I have felt the same way ever since.

you should. . .go for breakfast with the coworkers

It beats working, and you'll be able to ostensibly discuss work, while instead you talk about who the boss hates the most, and whether you could get away with going home, sleeping until noon, and then showing up at work. You can't explain why, but all of this not-funny banter makes you more miserable than you usually are.

After breakfast, you do stop by your house. You turn on some music, and pretend like you'll lie down for a minute. An hour and a half later, you'll still feel miserable, but at least the work day will be shorter. Plus, you're doing better than Miranda. She stopped at the liquor store to pick up nip bottles. By the time you're at the office, she's drunk at her desk. So, be happy. You're only the second most miserable person around.

Ambassador Imus?

This here, titled, "Bling Diplomacy", is about 50 Cent's ambassadorial tour of Africa. He appears to be a far cry from Bono. here's a quote from an embassy staffer:

According to people in my agency who attended this event, he didn’t rap but after meeting our Ambassador he urged the kids “Have sex, have lots of sex, but have safe sex!” and then exited by having his bouncers throw $100 bills in the crowd… No kidding–one Embassy maintenance worker scored two of them.

If this is the new trend in our efforts abroad, we can soon expect to see Don Imus making his own tour, teaching those "nappy-headed hos" the ways of the world.

you should. . .go out for frozen custard

It felt like it was forty degrees out, maybe less, so when Gilberte and Miranda asked you to stand outside the frozen custard stand licking a glorified chink of ice, you initially declined. Then, you decided it would be preferable to work, so you went along.
You ordered a vanilla cone. You always do. You like how the simplicity of the vanilla bean’s flavor allows you to concentrate on the gentle egg tast of custard and the sweet cream texture. On hot days, you find this all quite refreshing. Today, it is agonizing. You wish that you had worn a jacket, hat, gloves, a scarf, and you wait for Gilberte and Miranda to finish their unnecessarily complex orders as you take enormous bites out of your custard pile.

You feel conflicted. The big bites make your whole face cold, but smaller bites would make you cold for longer. You go big.

You’ve eaten your cone by the time the girls have paid. You clutch your head and shiver as you all walk back to the office. Good decision, champ.

you should. . .take a picture of it

It’s a really big bruise. You slipped on the ice and landed on the pavement. When it happened, you curled up in the fetal position and tried to keep yourself from bawling on the sidewalk. Now it looks as if someone’s been burning you with a hot iron. Take a picture with a friend’s cell phone, then send it to your mother. She’ll say, “oh Marcel!”

Your mother thinks you should take better care of yourself.

you should. . .wear that shirt more often

Yes, it’s pink, and that makes you a wee bit uncomfortable. You figure you have enough problems with your masculinity as it is (the history of public cross dressing, disco lessons, and your love of French film hasn’t helped), but everyone loves you in that pink shirt.

You prefer to call it mauve, plum, or salmon, but no one is fooled about your pink shirt. It’s a well-fitted cotton dress shirt with a not-too-wide collar and a little space in the neck (for your chest hair). At first you were shy, and thought about wearing something different. But you stuck with the pink shirt, and it’s a good thing. They all love it so much. Lena at the office, “Wow, I’ve never seen you in that. You look nice. Did you shower, too?”

Miranda, “I like your shirt. Are you a summer?”

Branson, “Nice pink shirt, fag.” But you figure you can’t win them all. And the ladies love your pink shirt. Maybe next week, you should wear it untucked.

Now, if only you could win them over with your powder blue polyester pants.

My dinner with Novak

We begin with wine. Or, I begin with wine, and Bob jokes about how his glass is filled with the blood of the innocent. We laugh and toast each other.

We feel at ease right away, talking about the movies of the day (I liked Goodnight, and Goodluck. He preferred Norbit), and our favorite yoga positions (I blushed as he described his plow pose). After one glass of wine, Bob and I share a bowl of kalamata olives. Bob talks about how much he likes that word, “ka-la-ma-ta.” He lisps it out in a sultry voice. Our hands touch in the grease at the bottom of the bowl. Bob’s mouth contorts around an olive pit as I tease him about how I thought all the language stuff was under William Safire’s purview.

He spits the seed into his hand. Snarling, “Safire can suck it!” he stands and walks away. I wait. I hope he has just gone to the bathroom. I sweat a little, and try not to be afraid. He can smell my fear, so he comes back.

Bob and I eat Duck Confit with pommes sarlardaise. The meat is succulent. The fatty meet leaks between his teeth as he talks about the good old days when Republicans ran the whol government. He makes fun of Woodward, Tim Russert, my mother, Democrats in general, and the Clintons in specific.

We work through the duck. As Bob leans forward to make a point about how much of a “truth-distorting douchebag” Howard Dean really is, I lean in to kiss him. I see his eyes widen as our lips briefly slide together, lubricated by the duck grease and my concupiscense. For a minute, I think he’ll succumb.
Then, he pushes me away.
“Well, I think that’s bullshit, and I hate that…. Just let me go”
He tells me he’s not that kind of guy. And I pretend to understand.

Bob Novak walks out of my life. I am left with a $600 dollar tab, a pile of half-chewed duck meat, and a broken heart.