As many of you know, I work for a big company. And in a big company you have the pleasure- as well as displeasure- of working with a variety of individuals. But after a while, regardless of your preferences and prejudices, you find that most people fall into one of only a handful of categories in the way they act in their professional life. I want to share some of my observations about what I have seen in my walks through the corporate wilderness. Each posting of this nature will be short and appear as below. Enjoy
Found in most job titles and capacities, this animal is identifiable by language (both verbal and non-verbal) and attitudes that indicate they know exactly what you are talking about no matter how specialized the subject or how late they joined the conversation. Authoritus Immedias cannot be told of news or announcements because it already knows. Authoritus Immedias cannot be asked a question to which it does not have an immediate, well crafted, and seemingly legitimate response. When questioned about any areas of any subject matter, Authoritus Immedias will not fail to deliver an answer and deliver it in such a way that it can’t believe that everybody doesn’t know this very simple thing.
//mikehaddon.com/nosebleed/submit.asp?101>!!
::: posted by Mike at 1:18 PM
Thursday, January 30, 2003 :::
More of a Whore Than Before
For the record it disturbs me that I am going to talk at length about reality television…
Kelly watches the Bachelorette. This is not really unusual as a lot of women in this country watch the show. No surprise here. One need only take a sample of the advertisers who buy time on the program to understand that its market audience is woman between the ages of 18 – 36. A look at a few commercials and you get the impression that this is a key demographic for everything from smell-good soaps and lotions to whatever revolutionary advances have been made in the feminine hygiene industry. Frankly I think the women consumers of America are motivated by more than soaps and tampons, but who am I to question ad buyers?
Most women I have talked to look at this installment of the reality show as the woman’s revenge. It turns the tables on the sexist premise that lined up a throng of young women who fought, connived, and sometimes slept their way to the prize. And they have a soft spot for this girl who was dumped by the guy who chose the girl with the bigger chest who put out more. This time it was the woman’s turn to reduce the men to a pack of drooling hounds in the glare of prime time television.
I watched a few episodes of the first segment and came away embarrassed at the lengths of self-humiliation that these women would go to just to win the acceptance of a total stranger. I have long believed that humans lose 60 IQ points when you either put them in groups or turn a camera on them. This assertion held true as these women- women who looked as if they would have no problem getting normal guys in normal ways- each kept trading more and more of their self respect just to win the affections of a spoiled, vapid and boyish wannabe actor. And in the end, just like at frat parties and high school prom nights, this guy picked the girl who gave sex. It had nothing to do with spirit, intellect, honesty, trust, integrity, or any of the other words that were thrown around trying out-stink the bullshit.
So along comes Trista. Dismissed, rejected, and alienated Trista. She was a fan favorite and after several weeks of matching her competition blow by bloody blow in an uncomfortable pageant of emotional neediness, she got dumped because she couldn’t take that last step and close the deal for a worthless prize. Even though she spent those weeks selling short her charms and grace as woman, essentially whoring out her emotions, it was good so see that she had some dignity left.
So she comes back to ABC and this time, it’s personal. The ads even said that she was going to get her revenge!
I have only seen about one hour total time of this particular installment. I can hear the TV from my office at home when Kelly is watching it. And I have to tell you, I don’t have to see it to hear that it is the same brand of melodrama as the first, only this time it is a bunch of poofy men talking about their feelings and their needs in the disingenuous noise of rehearsed speeches. And amidst this cacophony of stock one-liner emotional-nothing statements (“I really want to get past your wall”; “I’m a man who is afraid of getting hurt”) this girl is sucking face with the lot of them.
Bottom line is that this is still America and, regardless of the progressiveness of our society in some areas, old values are hard to lose. The same double standards still apply. A man can sleep around and suffers no injury to his image. And if a woman hangs all over multiple men over the course of one tightly edited hour of television, she is still a tramp. I didn’t make this rule and I feel bad that this girl has about 3 months of usefulness left. In the end, regardless of the outcome, she will still be that girl who tried to find a husband on network TV. Twice.
Sad thing is…I don’t think she is smart enough to realize that there is no revenge in making yourself uglier.
::: posted by Mike at 1:58 PM
Echoes in the Hole
It’s not hard to find things to write about in New York City. That has everything to do with the fact that, for a writer, the place is equal parts hype, mystique, and energy. But, unfortunately, it has nothing to do with actual talent.
I am reluctant to draw influence and ideas from a walk in New York. Partly because I think that most of the things I see aren’t real anyway. Most people you notice for any duration are usually people who just want to be noticed. And to me there is no inspiration when the muse solicits her favors for a few moments of half-distracted attention. Whenever I see a guy dressed from head to toe in Christmas lights or a seven foot black man with a rhinestone eye-patch and a “Fuck The Police” Dashiki, I ask myself just how many journals, poems, and half-assed weblogs they will be gracing tonight imitating true inspiration.
A few Saturdays ago, Kelly and I were on our way downtown and decided to take the subway. It was bitter cold in the hole, but we were out of the cutting wind. There we stood with about 35 or 40 people all bundled up and waiting for the number 9 train. As is usually the case, the hole was filled with the sounds of a weekend performer playing old standards on his guitar getting love and applause in the form of unwanted pocket change.
The number 9 was running a bit behind schedule so we stood in silence, each of us trying to ignore one another and fight off the steady rhythm of the man with the guitar. We each stared into the abyss where the trains come out. Then without warning, and certainly without the permission, Mr. Guitar and three complete strangers starting singing in perfect three part harmony and old Eagles song. It wasn’t rehearsed. These people didn’t know each other. They just felt compelled to sing. Without a care in the world they sang and a few of the larger crowd joined. They just sang and in doing so they fill that dark hole, one made up of people who had had the title of “audience” thrust upon them when this because an actual musical number, with the most melodious echoes to ever grace the abyss.
When the song was over, the audience clapped. One of the strangers who made up this makeshift quartet threw a few bucks in Mr. Guitar’s bucket. He said “Man! That was great. I should give you guys some money,” to which everyone laughed.
A few minutes later the tardy Number 9 train hit the station and as fast as we all become acquainted by song we went our separate ways so that we could write about this New York moment in our journals, poems, and half-assed weblogs.
::: posted by Mike at 12:01 AM
Wednesday, January 29, 2003 :::
Low Ratings Suicide
The secrets to life are far and few between. We catch lucky breaks from time to time when we actually get it. Both the proverbial and cliché come into focus in our world-facing viewfinder and we’re clear about our usefulness and purpose. These moments sneak up on us sometimes and other times we see them far off, a wall of screaming red that signifies a traffic jam eight miles ahead. Sometimes we manage to take leave our logical and mind-narrowing senses because we’re in love, or we’ve taken a pill, or we have a full tank of gas, a twenty dollar bill in our pocket, and a 16 song CD in the dash that we could let play on until morning.
Sometimes we just get it. But other times we don’t.
A few months back they had to shut the highway down due to a suicide. I’ll be the first to admit that as far a venues go for suicide, an interstate highway is a peculiar locale. Usually, meaning statically, this kind of thing is done in a secluded place, at home or where the person feels most at ease. This is the final and most desperate point in their failure. Not a thing the damaged psyche feels compelled to advertise. But on occasion a person will transmit their last broadcast and say goodnight to Gracie at an ex’s house or some other symbolic setting- sometimes as revenge or as the last word. That’s what happened in this case.
Rather than going out isolated and leaving an awkwardly worded confession of self-recrimination, this guy decided to hack at himself mercilessly standing over I-35 on the overpass. After spilling his blood in this violent attempt at autoerasure, he jumped into the steady flow of afternoon drive traffic where he was hit several times and died on the scene. No further details necessary.
That night I went home and watched the news: nothing, no mention. The next day I looked in the Dallas Morning News: no mention, no press. And while I did not expect expanded coverage where the school chums and the girl he took to senior prom were interviewed about what kind of guy he was, I did expect him to get some publicity. With a machine as fiercely ravenous for blood and guts as our media is, I expected this guy who took his suicide to the highway just before rush hour would get at least an honorable mention. Something for the working stiffs to read and comment about how the most difference that the guy ever made to the world was making someone get home late for dinner.
Death is sad enough, but when no one notices…
If a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it die does anybody care?
::: posted by Mike at 9:20 AM
