Work Product, No. 4

Work Product, Example No. 3

Productivity at Work, Example No. 2

Productivity at Work Example No. 1

Which Hipster Are You?

So today, whilst briefly perusing the glorious interwebs as I sought respite from my continual slaving over the mountains of legal arbeit resting at my finger tips, I managed to squeeze in the time to take a little quiz called, "Which Hipster Are You?"

Consisting of a handful of all-too-telling questions pulled from the wonderfully descriptive annals of Josh Aiello's A Field Guide To the Urban Hipster, the quiz delighted me by answering, appropriately, which hipster I am, indeed. Please see below:

Indie Rockers
Audiophilum Integria

Indie Rockers are sexually clumsy creatures. Their mating dance is an intricate yet ineffectual cocktail of lapsed intimacy, misread gestures, arcane trivia, and hero worship. [continued on page 184 of the book]

Clearly, this book needs to be in my awkwardly referential possession.

An Ill-Conceived Lavoratorial Alliance

I guess every office has this issue, at least I would hope they do. Knowing that my building is singularly responsible for one of the most awkward human interactions ever performed would simultaneously make my chest swell with pride, and cause me to weep bitter tears of frustrated confusion. But I digress.

I have “Bathroom Buddies”. I didn’t want them, but they seemed to have found me and begun to cling to my person. Not in a parasitic fashion, mind you, but in the way that one girl in Junior High always clung to your group of friends. You know, the one with the funny red-framed glasses that went out of fashion in 1976, and the Mork ‘n’ Mindy t-shirt paired with pastel suspenders? With her hair in pigtails and sporting bangs that were basically waving their arms around and yelling, “Sweet Christ, can you tease me any larger!?”. That girl. The one you tolerated but secretly made fun of when she wasn’t around? Yeah, that’s kind of like what my bathroom Buddies do to me. I guess it’s sort of a reversal of fortune in a sense as I pretty much was that girl in Junior High. But ANYWAYS, “Bathroom Buddies”.

A “Bathroom Buddy” is much like what Turk and Dr. Cox became in that one episode of Scrubs (although Turk dubbed them “Pee Buddies”, but for the sake of copyright infringement I won’t use that phrase). It’s a person that, for some unexplained cosmic reason whose purpose is known solely by that higher power that orchestrates our lives, always ends up in the bathroom at the same time as you. It’s that one person who, no matter what time of day you sidle out of your cubicle and saunter into the bathroom always ends up in the stall next to you within thirty seconds of you locking that unfriendly metal door and placing the protective synthetic seat cover over that porcelain vestibule of germs and disease.

I, however fortunate you may deem this to be, seem to have acquired two “Bathroom Buddies” to accompany me through those most private duties. The first BB is the A.M. Buddy; a lawyer from next door who always looks pissed off and applies a ludicrous amount of gel to her waist length curly hair. She’s a Cougar-In-Training who, as I learned, saw the midnight showing of Sex In The City. She and I will never be real friends outside of our ill-conceived Lavoratorial Alliance. Also, she wears flower print skirts and pantsuits, two things by which I can never abide.

The second BB, the P.M. Buddy, is one of my superiors at work. This makes for “the awkward” on several levels. One, it provides said superior with ample opportunity to strike up the dreaded “chit-chat” over what I had foolishly hoped were lead lined, sound proof stall walls. I must say, it is downright impossible to hold a comfortable conversation with a superior over the cold and unfeeling barrier of a bathroom stall. Firstly, these walls are constructed primarily to prevent such breaches of privacy and to allow the user of said stall some sense of security as they sit with their rear fully exposed to the basin within which lurks God knows what bacteria and killer clowns. Secondly, who ever decided it was ok to chat within the safe confines of a bathroom? Granted, females are notorious for chatting away whilst in the bathroom, but why can we not instill the same etiquette found in the men’s room? Silence, and no eye/vocal/physical contact whilst doing your business. Waiting for a stall? Oh my goodness I LOVE your shoes/hair/nail polish/shirt. Washing hands? Fine, ask how my day is. Drying hands? Excellent, yes I have seen the most recent episode of (fill in the blank with whatever chick-type show is airing right now). Using the toilet to do my business? Iron curtain of silence, thank you very much.

The second reason why having my P.M. Buddy being my superior is awkward is this: The bathroom is an escape from my cubicle, office, co-workers and thought of the work I have/have not done. The bathroom should be a place of zen-like atmosphere, not a secondary water cooler location. I do not want to discuss So-and-So’s outfit, or Whatshernames job performance. Also, I enjoy having a bit of mystique about me in the office. The questioning looks and whispers that linger when I show up to work obviously hung-over and very pleased with myself are entertaining, yet when my superior joins me in the bathroom and asks me, “So, how was YOUR night last night?” This is something I do not enjoy.

All this having been said, dearest Bathroom Buddies, let us draw up a schedule of times and place them on a constant rotation so as to not meet each other for said awkward interaction. And, should we ever meet in that most sacred of water closets, please do not hide in the stall until I have left. I am not ashamed of my duties in the bathroom, and neither should you be. Especially when you are in the handicapped stall on the cell phone with your significant other. Trust me, we’ve all tucked ourselves away to have a private conversation, but I promise you the bathroom is probably not the best locale for said activity. For one, it echoes quite horribly in there, and for two…just…no. Don’t do it.

Childhood Myths, Part the First

Remember those days, in the middle of some silly childlike antic, giggling our way through a paste eating revelry, a thorough nose picking, face pulling activity when the mortal enemy of childhood stepped in like a dictatorial douche and uttered a sentence that instilled such horror in our tiny ossificating bones which most likely scarred us for life; or passed onto us some sliver of carnal knowledge meant to enlighten our feeble pulsing brains? With an almost fiendish glee, that adult seemed to treasure every moment they were able to make childhood a slightly more terrifying/magical place than it was before all the while enabling our prepubescent imaginations to run amok in a glorified frenzy of fright and wonder. These are the childhood myths that we, in our adulthood, shall willfully pass on to our own offspring in an attempt to continually make the world a moreso enchanting, albeit slightly horrifying place. But what are these myths, and how should they be instilled? What effects do they have on the child? Surely, no lingering fear can be brought about by the "monster in the closet"? Truly, the Tooth Fairy is a figure of fantastical whimsy and not a societal divider of the classes?

Myth 1: The Tooth Fairy

Firstly, the idea that a calcified piece of your body dies and falls off after about seven years of its existence is in itself a little disturbing, but add to that the fact that your parents tell you of a little pixie that will a) visit you in the night, b) reach her tiny, greedy pixie fingers under your pillow while you are sleeping in search of said expired calcified body part and c) trade it for a piece of currency is a little odd.

Secondly, and something that I fear many parents don't realize, is that some adults abstinently refuse to tell their children about the tooth fairy and her numismatic tendencies. For example: in 1st Grade, after the very proud loss of a molar, I awoke to find two strappingly brand new quarters resting delicately underneath my pillow. Proudly, I clasped them with my tiny little hand and carried them to school with all the pomp and circumstance of an empirical parade to show my friends how wonderfully gifted I had been during the night. This display was met with three reactions:

1. Excitement from the other children who had received a similarly modest monetary gain from a lost tooth. The general consensus seemed to be the standard 25¢ for a canine or incisor and a more gracious 50¢ for a molar (why, in childhood logic, a molar was worth more is still a little beyond me, yet it brings up an interesting idea: at what point in time did it become acceptable to teach children the monetary value of their body parts? How long before we start telling our offspring about the delightful "Kidney Fairy and her Ice Bath of Cold Comfort"?).

2. Odious disdain from the wealthier children whose parents seem to think it befitting that a canine is worth something closer to $1, while molars obviously deserve $2.

3. Jealousy and confusion from the children who had never been visited by the Pecuniary Pixie. Imagine being 6 yrs old and seeing all of your classmates proudly exhibiting shiny new quarters every time a piece of their body fell off. Firstly, that makes no logical sense. Secondly, the Tooth Fairy is now become a cruel joke of the upperclass in that she is no longer an innocent childhood fabrication meant to celebrate growth and the oncoming adulthood signified by necrotized body parts.

The Tooth Fairy is, in actuality, a vicious reinstating of an archaic caste system meant to downplay infantile equality and separate the wealthier children from the slightly less wealthy and moreso impoverished.

Myth 2: "Your face'll get stuck that way."

Certain as it would be unfortunate to wake up one wondrous morn to find your ears permanently out-stretched with elephantine glory, eyes bulging like Marty Feldman and mouth outstretched in what resembles a permanently agonized scream, I cannot recall a single child being upset by this particular parental threat. In fact, the reaction seems to be just the opposite as most children, with their tiny little brains and ecstatic ideas, will generally pause and reflect for a moment gleefully assessing this newfound fact of life before goonfully gazing back at said adult with an ever more emphatic facial expression in the hopes that, yes, one day their face WILL get stuck that way. I also vividly remember, after being thusly threatened, pouting my lips, pushing up on the tip of my nose ever-so-slightly, arching my eyebrows and hoping beyond hope that my face would get stuck that way. Apparently age 4 is when low self-esteem kicks into full gear.

Myth 3: The Gum Tree

After begging your parents with a determination rivaling unyielding adamancy, they finally concede to proffer you that delicious piece of bubblegum you so desire. Gleefully, you gently unwrap the treat from its foiled shell and pop the chewy aspartame delicious into your tiny little gob and begin maniacally masticating with the all the fervor of a dairy cow. Minutes pass and the glutinous glob is no longer the treat it once promised to be. Frantically, you glance around in search of a receptacle to be the new residence of this now ash flavoured treat, or even perhaps a scrap of paper with which to mummify the now hardening tripe. Your jaw begins to ache and hopelessness sets in as you realize there is nowhere to place this once celebrated morsel of mandibular masticating marvelousness. So you, in your stress, act in the only possible remaining way you know how: you swallow. And guess what? Now you're going to grow a gum tree in your stomach whose branches will sprout out of your ears and spawn delicious gummy fruit for the other children to chew upon and (eventually) swallow thus continuing the vicious cycle of parasitic gum tree growing in the bellies of youths on an international level until, one would assume, the gum tree eventually outgrows its host body and plants itself in the ground continuing to spawn delicious swollen gummy fruits for other unsuspecting children to grasp for in their innocence and fully continue the twisted propagation of the Gummus parasitus.

This is a wholly disturbing and fucked up thing to tell a child.

Close Encounters of the Archaeological Kind

My thoughts exactly.

Courtesy of JollyJack over at deviantART.

Cloud Cult @ The Knitting Factory, May 14, 2008

Cloud Cult- May 14, 2008: The Knitting Factory

The population of The Knitting Factory is noticeably swollen by the time Kid Dakota leaves the stage, yet as Craig Minowa and Shawn Neary meander through the crowd- eyes focused on the ground before them with hunched shoulders exuding a mid-country humbleness, not a single hipster bats an eye at their presence. After all, it’s hardly ironic to tell the band how great they are; I mean you bought a ticket, right? Yet as the first notes of the sound check are struck the pretention of the room drops significantly and the crowd takes tentative steps forward readying itself Cloud Cult.

The band takes the stage one-by-one, quietly and passively picking up their instruments and flexing their fingers before front man Craig Minowa appears looking disheveled in his well-worn rumpled shirt. Wearing jeans rolled mid-calf one foot is noticeably bare next to its sock and shoe laden partner. He’s pushed a sleeping mask with drawn eyes onto his forehead and a sheepish smile flickers as he addresses the audience with a sleepy Minnesotan twinge that makes us all feel bad for possibly having woken him up from his seeming backstage slumber.

“Hello,” he mumbles, his fingers form a chord on the neck of his guitar. “I’m Craig…and we are Cloud Cult,”

The crowd takes another step forward as digital cameras and iPhones appear and the band launches into their set.

A frantic, desperate energy drives each song as if the members of Cloud Cult thrive off of the stressful nature of performance treating the nerves and fear like a much needed breathe of fresh air. Each note is tempered with the vaguest suggestion of sadness and each chord hums with joy, a delightful juxtaposition of emotion that couples sweetly with the genuine whole-heartedness of the lyrics that betray an old soul disguised by childish charm. Evidence of the band’s history is scattered throughout the performance with a bittersweet adornment that only adds to the indisputable earnestness of their sound.

At the back of the stage stands Minowa’s wife, Connie, working feverishly on the trademark performance art set to be auctioned at the conclusion of the evening. Each brush stroke and hue compliments the music her husband has orchestrated as haunting eyes and wan smile begin to take shape across the previously blank canvas. As the set progresses the sad eyes are possessed by an awkward youth standing in the midst of windmills and skyscrapers, gazing towards the audience with a lost bewilderment and one cannot help but feel the presence of the Minowa family’s past history lingering on the stage. Bassist Shawn Neary turns to the painting to observe Connie’s work and as the exhilarated concentration fades from his bearded face his hands become the tools of an automaton and a part of his heart lingers in the air. A peaceful nature falls over his constantly moving lanky form and for a moment he and Connie lock eyes. She offers nothing but a sweetly sad smile before turning back to the canvas as he watches. There is something magical occurring in The Knitting Factory tonight, something personal and hidden from the audience, whispering the truth between band mates that we the observers will never be privy too. There is a love and determination in every member of the cult that endears them even more to those standing in awe at the foot of the stage.

As expected, Cloud Cult performs mostly from their newest release, Feel Good Ghosts (Teapartying Through Tornadoes), while much to the delight of the audience they pull tracks from The Meaning of 8 and Advice From The Happy Hippopotamus performing with a rabble-rousing clarity that urges us to bob our heads and shimmy to the beat, the band having found the perfect alternating balance of uplifting and heart-wrenching songs. “Hurricane and Fire Survival Guide” translates perfectly from the album to the stage, just as “The Story of the Grandson of Jesus” and “Happy Hippo” find the venue engorged with hand claps and hip sways. With our eyes closed and our hearts light, digital cameras on the rise, we lose ourselves in the moment, ravenously devouring the little pieces of soul Craig and his band of Minnesotan musicians spoon feed our eager ears. They close the night with a bittersweet performance of “Love You All,” and gratefully we believe every word.

Co-Worker Theatre Presents: Linguistical Prowess

Cubie 1:
(Saying something about "Tagalog" pronouncing it "Tag-a-log".)
Cubie 2:
It's "Tah-gol-og" I used to say "Tag-a-log", but that's not right.

Cubie 1:
Whatever, I wouldn't never speak it, so it doesn't matter.

Attorney:
Tag-a-log is a Girl Scout cookie!

Cubie 1:
No that's "Tagalong".

Attorney:
Oh.

Cubie 1:
I don't care about that warble language, but you better get the cookie right.

Prince Caspian, see?

I just saw a trailer for The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian out of the corner of my eye and my first thought was, "Another Joan of Arc movie?" aka Prince Caspian looks like a chick.


I doubt this is news to anyone.

Holy franchise similarities, Batman!!!

Anybody else see what I see?

"Who Will Tell the People?"

Who Will Tell the People?

By THOMAS L. FRIEDMAN

Published: May 4, 2008, www.nytimes.com

Traveling the country these past five months while writing a book, I've had my own opportunity to take the pulse, far from the campaign crowds. My own totally unscientific polling has left me feeling that if there is one overwhelming hunger in our country today it's this: People want to do nation-building. They really do. But they want to do nation-building in America.

They are not only tired of nation-building in Iraq and in Afghanistan, with so little to show for it. They sense something deeper — that we're just not that strong anymore. We're borrowing money to shore up our banks from city-states called Dubai and Singapore. Our generals regularly tell us that Iran is subverting our efforts in Iraq, but they do nothing about it because we have no leverage — as long as our forces are pinned down in Baghdad and our economy is pinned to Middle East oil.

Our president's latest energy initiative was to go to Saudi Arabia and beg King Abdullah to give us a little relief on gasoline prices. I guess there was some justice in that. When you, the president, after 9/11, tell the country to go shopping instead of buckling down to break our addiction to oil, it ends with you, the president, shopping the world for discount gasoline.

We are not as powerful as we used to be because over the past three decades, the Asian values of our parents' generation — work hard, study, save, invest, live within your means — have given way to subprime values: "You can have the American dream — a house — with no money down and no payments for two years."

That's why Donald Rumsfeld's infamous defense of why he did not originally send more troops to Iraq is the mantra of our times: "You go to war with the army you have." Hey, you march into the future with the country you have — not the one that you need, not the one you want, not the best you could have.

A few weeks ago, my wife and I flew from New York's Kennedy Airport to Singapore. In J.F.K.'s waiting lounge we could barely find a place to sit. Eighteen hours later, we landed at Singapore's ultramodern airport, with free Internet portals and children's play zones throughout. We felt, as we have before, like we had just flown from the Flintstones to the Jetsons. If all Americans could compare Berlin's luxurious central train station today with the grimy, decrepit Penn Station in New York City, they would swear we were the ones who lost World War II.

How could this be? We are a great power. How could we be borrowing money from Singapore? Maybe it's because Singapore is investing billions of dollars, from its own savings, into infrastructure and scientific research to attract the world's best talent — including Americans.

And us? Harvard's president, Drew Faust, just told a Senate hearing that cutbacks in government research funds were resulting in "downsized labs, layoffs of post docs, slipping morale and more conservative science that shies away from the big research questions." Today, she added, "China, India, Singapore ... have adopted biomedical research and the building of biotechnology clusters as national goals. Suddenly, those who train in America have significant options elsewhere."

Much nonsense has been written about how Hillary Clinton is "toughening up" Barack Obama so he'll be tough enough to withstand Republican attacks. Sorry, we don't need a president who is tough enough to withstand the lies of his opponents. We need a president who is tough enough to tell the truth to the American people. Any one of the candidates can answer the Red Phone at 3 a.m. in the White House bedroom. I'm voting for the one who can talk straight to the American people on national TV — at 8 p.m. — from the White House East Room.

Who will tell the people? We are not who we think we are. We are living on borrowed time and borrowed dimes. We still have all the potential for greatness, but only if we get back to work on our country.

I don't know if Barack Obama can lead that, but the notion that the idealism he has inspired in so many young people doesn't matter is dead wrong. "Of course, hope alone is not enough," says Tim Shriver, chairman of Special Olympics, "but it's not trivial. It's not trivial to inspire people to want to get up and do something with someone else."

It is especially not trivial now, because millions of Americans are dying to be enlisted — enlisted to fix education, enlisted to research renewable energy, enlisted to repair our infrastructure, enlisted to help others. Look at the kids lining up to join Teach for America. They want our country to matter again. They want it to be about building wealth and dignity — big profits and big purposes. When we just do one, we are less than the sum of our parts. When we do both, said Shriver, "no one can touch us."

Mayday! MAYDAY!!!

Happy May Day all! Today's the day we celebrate the beginning of the Pagan summer!

Everyone: Take a bath! It's courtin' season!

Ladies: Don your white virginal apparel, braid some heather into your hair and grab those flasks of wine! The Men shall come a callin' and you must be prepared!

Gentlemen: Go erect a Maypole on the font yard of the young Fraulein you fancy! Fret ye not if there already be a Maypole erected by some other forward thinking lad. Simply build a bigger, slightly more phallic Maypole to show the "extent" of your love!

Afterwards: Meet down in town for some good ol' fashioned feisty Maypole dancing!

Schönen Maitag, Freunde!

Someone: Show a girl some love… Maypole? Anyone? Bueller?

MS Paint WONDER

My Co-worker (the non-retarded one) told me I was a chef.
She sent me this:



Yeah, that's pretty much AWESOME.

Chinless Man of the Week

Matthew Goode

Notable for being possibly the only good bit about Woody Allen's schlobfest Matchpoint, Matthew Goode will soon be gracing the silver screen as Ozymandius in Zack Snyder's adaptation of Watchmen (!!!), bringing his chinless glory to millions of comic book nerds across the globe. And yes, we must forgive him his role in Chasing Liberty, for surely his dashing good looks and impressive height of 6'2" can earn him a dignified place among the other esteemed gentlemen on this list. Yes? Goode.

Daily Haiku for April 28, 2008

We got some cookies.

The co-workers swooped in;

they* didn't stand a chance.

Word of the Day

omnologist- (n.) A person with extensive knowledge in many areas, or with a formidable collection of general knowledge. An expert in many fields. One who seems to know everything.

"Britta."





*the cookies

Co-Worker Theatre Presents: The Zinger

Me:
(reading the news and finding interest in the ways of the world)
Did y'all hear that Japan ran out of butter?

Cubie #1:
(stares at me incredulously)
Ran OUT of BUTTER?!

Me:
(nods)
Yeah, it's on CNN, BBC and Reuters.

Cubie #1:
How does a country run out of butter?

Me:
Well, they're saying that since the price of grains and cattle feed is so expensive, the cows aren't producing as much as they should and butter production is delayed.

Cubie #1:
What the hell do COWS have to do with butter?!

Me:
(long pause)
Well...cows make milk you see...

Can you say "Schadenfreude"?

A Riddle.

Q: What do Byron "Buster" Bluth and Charlie Bucket have in common?




A: High-fastening pants.