Thursday, January 26, 2006

A Little Change of Perspective...

Wanna hear something intense? I caught my boss crying. Like, crying. In his office. And I'm not sure how to deal with this.
For those of you who don't know, I don't like my boss. In fact, I pretty much despise him for all intensive purposes, as he encompasses in full each and every aspect of dufusdome imaginable. His complete lack of common sense and disregard for his employees is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg, as it were, and shit has swirled down the toilet in a big way since he took over the GM position a few months ago following a dastardly coup by the corporate higher-ups to remove our previous general manager. People are not happy. Many have quit. The foundation is crumbling beneath us. The guy used to be a used-car salesman, for chrissake, and he runs the restaurant like he's trying to move our food like BMW's, which, to say the fucking least, isn't what our patrons are looking for when they come to a casual Irish place for dinner. So it is.
And then I catch him crying. Not like sobbing or anything, but crying. Red faced, teary eyed crying. I have no idea as to whether this episode was brought on by some work-related frustration, or perhaps by something in his personal life, but either way, all my hatred for this jerk was temporarily pacified. I felt immediate remorse for all the shit I'd given him, for all the second-guessing, for all the times I blatantly disregarded what he told me to do because it sounded (and probably was) asinine, for all the times I went over his head to keep him as far out of the loop as I was able, etc. The list could go on. Had I been too hard on him? I don't know. Probably. But seeing him crying, for whatever reason, suddenly morphed this demon-boss before my eyes from a mortal enemy to a person who actually feels feelings. Weird. What a one-eighty.
I'm not sure how to respond to this, I guess. There's something about seeing a male superior of mine in such a vulnerable state that gets my conscience whirling out of control in a flurry of guilt. I've decided to give him the benefit of the doubt; he is a person after all. But him being a person doesn't excuse him from being a douche cake. I still don't think I like him, but at least this experience provides me with the perspective necessary to compromise with him and learn to cope.
I'm not heartless, after all. Just stubborn.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Best Word Combination of the Day:
"Vehicular decapitation" -- courtesy of Martin McDonagh's The Pillowman

Quote of the Day:
"I want to be shot in the back of the head by a jealous husband." -- Tom Mulligan, on how he wants to go

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Quote of the Day:
"There was beer, I drank it, and now I'm drunk. Very drunk." -- Tom, on a simple progression of events

Thursday, January 19, 2006

On Being A Noisy Neighbor...

Whoa. The guy who lives in the apartment next to me's currently performing some sort of mystic-sounding mantra to Jebus knows what, which I am able to hear quite clearly through the thin film of a wall that separates our respective abodes. Holy man, is this guy nuts. And I don't even really know him. What I do know is that I don't like him because he's a Wall Pounder. He is a Pounder of Walls, if you will. Any time I turn on my stereo, I can count on him banging our poor shared wall with clenched fists in a manner that indicates to me that he is both unsound of mind and clearly wants me dead. One: I play nothing but the sweetest of music ever written (and yes, that includes my Meat Loaf albums goddamn it), and two: I'm not trying to be a dick. I'm always very conscious of how loud my "tune's're rockin'," as it were, because I'm aware of how poorly insulated the wall is. But, come on. Am I being unreasonable? I don't think so, but then again, I'm stubborn.
I can only imagine who or what this loon is attempting to conjure up in there. The way I see it, it could be anything from some demonic fairy-being-thing sent to destroy me and/or my entire CD collection, or perhaps it's the spirit of one of the lead singers of one of the ultra-lame emo bands I hear him listening to, come to torture me for eternity with weepy ballads about stubbing your toe or spilling some milk. Either way, I suppose I can rest easy knowing that I at least don't "hum-uh-nuh-hum-uh-nuh" to myself in some monk-like tone.
"What an idiot show I live in," as old Cosmo would say. Between the bad emo and the chanting in Apt. 301 and the continuing domestic disturbances in 305, I'm just not sure what to do. Lock myself in, and pray I don't die, I guess... This building did yield something positivly in my favor, however, because I finally talked Lindsay from downstairs into coming up for a beer the other night. She's Russian. Hubba.
The People That You Meet Each Day:
Meet Jonathan R. He's a classic case of that guy that got the shit kicked out of him a whole bunch in high school turned rich asshole. Dressed to the nines in a nice suit and trendy glasses (which were unable to distract from the cowlick on the back of his head that's probably been there since the mid-eighties), this one time small fry has much to prove, which means very little general courtesey. And don't even think about a tip. Hey Jonathan, we'll talk once you finally get laid, buddy. Face!
Quote of the Day:
"I just need some fucking space!" -- woman next door, heard through the wall and mid-verbal brawl with her boyfriend, on the irony of making such requests while living in an efficiency

Monday, January 09, 2006

Big Lame Ern Bangs Out A Seagull

So, I struck up a conversation today at work with this guy named Ernest who is a nature conservationist. He had a PhD., in fact, for conserving nature. Good for him. I'll be honest, old Ern wasn't the most enthralling of people, which was unfortunate because he'd been to all sorts of cool places all over this little pebble of earth and water we live upon, the names of most of which require one's tongue to perform backflips in order to pronounce them. And boy could he talk. And talk. And talk. What was completely ridiculous, though, was that this weenie had absolutely nothing to say. Never would I have imagined that listening to someone recount his adventures foraging through Sri Lanka with nothing but a backpack and a canteen would have been more boring than the task of rotating the bottles in our beer cooler. But alas. I mean, at least embellish a little, and tell me about how you had to defend yourself and the hot, buxom blonde accompanying you from mammoth spiders or that you were forced to use your sweet conservation skills to the max against evil, snaggle-toothed cannibals in the furthest reaches of the dark jungle.
"What did you do your doctoral thesis on?" I finally ask, deciding I'll feed this guy's ego a little bit in a half-assed attempt to work for the big tip I knew I probably wouldn't receive. Self-absorbed people don't tip, this is something you learn quick.
After a brief pause, he says casually and with a sliver of condescension, "Herring gulls. Well, specifically the reproductive cycle of the common seagull."
Wow. How atrociously unclimactic. I let this sit for a moment, and then I began to think of the colossal amounts of time this guy must have spent on studying how gulls lay eggs and do the bang-bang in order to write a doctoral thesis. And then I began to think about how big Ern is an expert on the reproductive cycle of seagulls, which I found to be thoroughly depressing. I mean, by this logic, I could get my PhD. by being an expert on the bowel movements of the two-toed sloth. It just seems silly to me, I guess, to spend all that time and energy on an education, only to become an authority on sea gulls. No wonder he was a lame-o: he'd been all over the world, but hadn't actually done anything except watch birds doing it. What a waste. Idiot.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

On Being Resolved...

Well, well, well. It's been a while, has it not? And here we are once more, meeting along the shoulder of the information super highway, on our way to Lord knows where. It's good to be back.
I brought up the topic of New Year's resolutions the other day during a car ride with one of my friends in an effort to coax some sort of stimulating interaction out of the void of uncomfortable silence that had developed around us in the rather restrained confines of the vehicle. When I asked said friend whether she had indeed resolved to make any changes or improvements upon the foundation of which her life was built, she responded initially that she had not thought about it. I however, knew that I would not get off that easily, for this particular friend of my is quite verbose in regards to matters such as these. Besides, I had asked the question. I knew what I was getting myself into. Following a brief pause and the segue, "Well, I guess I could...," I was pelted with the inevitable bombardment of tentative goals and proposed achievements for the fetus that will eventually grow into 2006 for the better part of the remaining car ride.
I listened patiently as my companion wrapped up her rather lengthy list of things she could do better, or stuff that she shouldn't worry so much about, and then, as is the general etiquette for conversations such as this, I received what I like to refer to as, "The Pass Back" or the "How About You?"
"I don't do resolutions," answered simply. "I think they're silly."
"What are you, some kind of New Year's Scrooge?" the reply.
"No, I like getting ridiculously drunk and staying up really late as much as the next guy" my retort, "but New Year's resolutions are pretty much like shitty party favors, they're in the garbage can as soon as the party's over. What's the point of putting yourself through all that stress and temporary self loathing when you know you're just gonna fuck it up in a couple of days anyhow?"
OK, so that's not exactly how things were said during our little chat, but you can catch my drift. Anyhow, the long and short of it is that I have since reconsidered my previous, surly stance on not making any resolutions this year in favor for making one, and that is to rekindle this sorry sac of a blog into the flicker of a campfire it once was. If for nothing else, for the sake of my own mental preservation.
Sorry suckers, I'm back. For better or worse. See you in Oz...
Cinematic Quote of the Day:
"Cuz they're gay." -- Bert in Cabin Fever, on why it's OK to shoot at squirrels