Dear Sam

Goldfish and turtles get flushed down drains, hamsters get placed outside. Goldfish and turtles come back to us? Sewer-monsters:

 

Hamsters come back? Feral beasts, ala David Foster Wallace’s future in Infinite Jest:
 

 

A few weeks ago, I put my hamster, Sam (originally named Tullis, then named Martin, then named Sam)--named after the Sam in Brazil:

 

and the Sam in Moon:

 

--out to pasture, so to speak, i.e., I took him and his Tupperware palace and set them outside, back behind my apartment. I didn’t exactly feel very good about it at the time, and don’t exactly feel good about it now, but probably not for the reasons you think.

Here’s the story I’ve been telling myself for the past few weeks: Sam’d been fighting frantically all morning, the Day Of, to escape from his Tupperware palace, reaching new levels of what smacked an awful lot like desperation. (At one point, I watched Sam climb to the top of this cardboard cylinder, the highest point in the palace grounds, which I’d never seen him do before, and then fall into the thing--and it’s thick and there’s no way he could’ve gotten out of it if I hadn’t been there.) Sam had also been on what seemed a lot like a death-march (think of that scene in Night by Elie Wiesel, but without any Nazis pointing any guns at anybody) for the previous day and a half, in which Sam not only didn’t appear to ever stop running on his little treadmill, the treadmill which I’d gotten him a few weeks prior, but also seemed to be intentionally trying to concuss himself on the thing (with each revolution, Sam would smack his little head on this little bar that holds his little treadmill in place: SAD!).

Back on the Day Of, I had just gotten done eating breakfast, having had witnessed Sam’s desperate activities while I ate my morning cereal and read my morning fiction, when I finally broke. I told myself, “There’s no way I can watch this sh*t for another two plus years!” I then proceeded to address Sam, “You really want to be free that bad? Fine, let’s go, buddy-boy!” And so I went out back behind my apartment, to my mockery of a yard, to look for a new place to put Sam’s Tupperware palace; a more free place for my buddy, Sam. There, I found the neighbor’s cat, Triton--

 

--who’s apparently capable of peering into my soul and accessing my deepest and darkest thoughts, waiting for me; so, I waited until Triton seemed to have gone away before taking Sam and his Tupperware palace and setting them up outside in such a way that Sam would have access to freedom, food, and a little protection from cats, like Triton.

Later on the Day Of, I went to check up on Sam and couldn’t find him. And I felt pretty bad, and still do, but not because I’d probably just sacrificed Sam to a cruel death in the claws of nature/Triton. No, not because of what I did, but because of how/why I did it; because my “Sam wants to be free; I can’t possibly make Sam’s situation any better; I can’t watch Sam’s struggle for another two plus years!” may have been an example of what the German critical-theorist Theodor Adorno--

 

--called “the ideological misuse of ones own existence.”

Somewhere in Minima Moralia, Adorno advises us, “To deny oneself the ideological misuse of one’s own existence, and for the rest to conduct oneself in private as modestly, unobtrusively and unpretentiously as is required, no longer by good upbringing, but by the shame of still having air to breathe in hell”. Now, skipping over the possibility that Adorno thinks we’re all living in hell and that the deepest/hottest part of hell is Southern California--

 

--that’s right, So-Cal (Adorno spent some time there during WW 2), what does it mean “to deny oneself the ideological misuse of one’s own existence”? Well, first off, the phrase “ideological misuse” seems to imply that there are right and wrong ways to use ideology, right? Right. But then, what the hell’s ideology?

Back when I initially read Minima Moralia, I had little/no idea what Adorno meant by the word ideology. What I did know was that I thought that what he said sounded scary/cool and probably meant something important, i.e., equally scary/cool. I read Adorno’s History and Freedom lectures this past year. There he clearly defines what he means by ideology as any claim about existence to the effect of “Such and Such is the case” (I can’t find the citation). Why is any such claim ideological? Because it creates a relationship between an idea--Such-and-Such--and a logic--a system of meaning (a network of actions, behaviors, and habits, ala language)--in which, if it’s lived by, the logic continually reinforces the apparent truth of the idea, which, so strengthened, serves to continue to justify the logic, ad infinitum. That’s ideology, in a nut shell.

Here’s an example of what I’m talking about. Take the claim, “We’re all going to die.” It’s got an idea (death) and a logic (it’s inevitable, we’re all gonn’a kick it someday, so...), which, once they’ve been put together, and if they’re actually lived by, will form a couple that perpetually reinforce each other. One example, and there are many, of what it means to actually live this ideology is Keith Richards:

 

Keith Richards probably tells himself/thinks (or probably told himself/thought, when he was younger), “We’re all going to die, so, we might as well do whatever the hell we want, whenever the hell we want to! LONG LIVE Her Majesty, THE QUEEN!!!” (or something like that). Such a claim/thought has got an idea (death) and a logic (it’s inevitable, so, f*ck it!) that, together, serve to reinforce the apparent truth of the idea--K-Rich should’ve died decades ago, and if he had, his idea would’ve been proven true--as well as the sense of the logic--there’s a man who really lived, right? Right...

For Adorno, ideology is any claim about Such-and-Such being the case insofar as any/all such claims create a combination between an idea and a logic that, if actually lived by, will make that idea seem more true, which in turn will serve to reinforce the apparent sense of the logic, which will in turn, ad infinitum. Make sense? If not...

That’s right, sh*t. If you’re having trouble understanding what I mean, here are some more popular examples of ideology, claims like “Life isn’t fair,” “All men are created equal,” “All you need is love,” “That’s just The Game,” “Economy’s in the crapper,” or “It’s important to get an education.” Each such claim, insofar as it is actually lived by (regardless of whether or not you, in particular, actually agree with it), creates a relationship between an idea and a logic that will continually serve to reinforce the apparent truth of both. That’s ideology, in a nut shell.       
         If you don’t yet have a decent hold on what I think Adorno means by ideology, then see the above picture of what may/may not be a human turd (it does look a little oily, though, doesn’t it?). If you do have a decent hold, which is my hope, then what’s the difference between a right and wrong use of ideology? Here’s my best guess, and it’s basically something I don’t have the time/knowledge to support with Adorno’s text itself, and so may be something that I’m totally making up on the spot: The wrong use of ideology, i.e., an ideological misuse of one’s own existence, is any ideology which seeks to efface the role the subject, i.e. the person actually making and/or living by the ideological claim, plays in its apparent truth and sense; the right use of ideology, conversely, is one which does not efface the role we play in creating and reinforcing its truth/sense. For example, if I’m Omar--

 

--from HBO’s The Wire, and I say “It’s all in The Game” or “The Game’s the Game” or “The Game’s being played, and it’s either play or be played,” or some variation thereon, and do not acknowledge and own my own role in perpetuating The Game, then I’m guilty of an ideological misuse of my own existence. If, on the other hand, I’m Omar and I say something like “Yeah, The Game’s The Game... But it most-definitely can’t be played without yours truly...,” then I’m not guilty of the wrong use of ideology. So what’s the difference? Well, when we abuse or misuse ideology, we speak/think/act as if we’re powerless and passive non-agents, and wind up unconsciously reinforcing the apparent truth of situations--ideas and logics in living-motion--that we claim to be able to do nothing about; when we use ideology rightly or properly, we speak/think/act as if we’re powerful and active agents, becoming capable of consciously reinforcing (or not) the apparent truth of situations that we’re knowingly complicit in and about which we think we can do something. This, to me, seems like the difference between the right and wrong uses of ideology. If you have a better/different understanding, please let me know, I’m mostly ears...
   

Let’s see whether or not I was guilty of an improper use of ideology, which was what I suspected and why I felt bad back on the Day Of my putting Sam out to pasture, so to speak. Back on the Day Of, I made a number of claims, thought a number of things, and acted accordingly. First, I told myself that Sam was desperate, wanted to escape, wanted to be free. Second, I told myself that I’d already given him everything he could possibly want, like the treadmill that he was trying to kill himself on and the ball that enabled him to roam around my apartment freely, -ish. Third, I told myself I couldn’t bear to watch Sam be desperate for at least two more years (which is about the average life-span of a hamster).

Let’s start with the first claim: Sam wanted to be free. Does making such a claim turn me into a passive non-agent, setting up a dynamic in which I unconsciously reinforce the apparent truth of the situation? Not necessarily. It’s ideology, sure, but I’d be the first to admit that it’s definitely my perspective on Sam that makes such a claim appear to be true. What about the second, that I’d already given Sam everything he could possibly want? This seems to be the sort of claim that conceals a number of things, things that I could’ve done if I’d wanted to make Sam’s life better, things like getting him a bigger Tupperware palace, getting him more toys, perhaps buying him a companion (supposedly Russian Dwarf hamsters, like Sam, really enjoy company, at least that’s what the gal at the pet store told me...), etc., i.e., things which I actually didn’t want to do. Smells like an ideological misuse of my own existence, perhaps... What about the third claim? That there’s no way I’d be able to stomach Sam’s desperation for the rest of his life. This claim doesn’t seem like the sort of claim that hides my ability to do something about it or that blindly reinforces itself, so...

My misuse of ideology, if it occurred, occurred/occurs within the second claim, where I know damn well that I didn’t do all I could possibly do to make Sam’s life one that he didn’t want to escape from, but where I told myself otherwise, hence why I felt bad. That’s it, that’s why I felt bad, that’s why I feel bad: I was guilty of a misuse of ideology. So, what’s the truth that my misuse of ideology covered over? Like any such abuse, it involved the abdication of my complicity in the situation: Had I wanted to do otherwise, I could have. But I didn’t actually want to do anything more for Sam than I’d already done. Why not? Well, I wasn’t about to give Sam a bigger home in my already cramped apartment, or companions to play with, or any such thing. Sam was and will remain an equal parts cruel and brilliant white-elephant present (thanks for Sam, Tullis) that I tried to make the best of/for, but for which I just couldn’t go past a certain point, which I’d apparently reached on the Day Of...

Now, if you’re reading this and want to reproach me for the actions I took back on the Day Of, reproach me for the following: There is and there will always be a limit to my goodness, a limit which I occasionally try and/or get pushed to move (thanks again, Tullis), but which seems to remain nonetheless. If this last little admission is not an ideological claim, maybe even my own personal ideological claim par excellance, a claim vulnerable to extreme right and wrong uses, I claim which I both do and do not feel bad for making in the past, present and future, I don’t know what is... Again, if you want to reproach me, reproach me for this.

And Sam,
Watching you leave the confines of your Tupperware palace for the first time, watching you explore my back yard for the few moments that I could bear it, knowing full well that you were probably going to be subjected to a cruel death in the claws of Triton/Nature as soon as I left you, well...

What's Evil, Anyways?

            If you haven’t seen Darren Aronofsky’s latest, Black Swan, you should probably stop reading right now because that’s what I’m going to be discussing in the following and at least consider going to see it, that is, if you like really intense/poetic films and have the stomach for the sound of finger nails getting clipped.

Assuming I’ve weeded out those of you that have yet to (or never intend to) see Black Swan, I can proceed to the reason why I’m writing. It’s the following question: Do you consider the ballet director, Thomas (Vincent Cassel)--same guy who played the Merovingian in last two Matrix movies, right?

Wait, no, wrong...



That’s more like it--do you consider Thomas, the ballet director, evil? OK, so ignore the above picture of Cassel in trying to answer this question for yourself. Think back to the movie. Think back to everything the ballet director says (e.g., “Go home and masturbate”) and does (e.g., his groping Nina and French kissing her, which French kissing is itself at least to the Second Power of French kissing because Thomas/Cassel is himself French, right? Right!). Think about all the horrible sh*t that happens to Beth Macintire (Winona Ryder).



No, think about all the horrible sh*t that happens to her in Black Swan (hospital, face-stabbing). Think about all the horrible sh*t that happens to Nina (Natalie Portman).



No, think about all the horrible sh*t that happens to her after that haircut in V for Vendetta.



No, her being Padme for G-Luc was before V. Think of all the horrible sh*t that happens to her in Black Swan (e.g., her psychotic-break with reality in which she thinks she actually got Lily/Mila Kunis to go down on her, or her following through on Thomas’s “Go home and masturbate” imperative only to discover, mid rub-n-rub, that her mother is asleep in the same room).

OK, so, in light of what befalls both Beth and Nina, is Thomas evil? Well what do we mean beevil? How about: selfish--

--and not only selfish, but also willing to sacrifice/harm others for the purpose of pursuing selfish ends.

While there are surely other definitions of evil, such as the one often found in the novels of Cormac McCarthy (i.e., a willingness to sacrifice others without any thought of gain, personal or otherwise), the above definition seems like the one that most people are comfortable with. According to this definition of evil--selfish and willing to sacrifice others towards selfish ends--it should seem like Thomas, the ballet director, is clearly evil: he is more than willing to sacrifice others (Nina, Beth) in pursuit of his own desires (having his lusts satiated, making his production of Swan Lake a good one). So he’s evil, right? Sure, unless we ask the following question: What is it that Nina wants for herself?

So ask yourself: What does Nina want for herself? Does she want to spend the rest of her life as a technically proficient ballet dancer who is only capable of roles that require such proficiency? Does she want to be an adult female, a woman, who lives in an all pink bedroom filled with stuffed animals, and with her psycho-mother of all people? A life-long virgin? Or... Or does she want to be the black swan, and all that entails/requires?

There are two ways to answer these questions. The first is from the point of personal speculation/interpretation. The second is from the point of view of the film itself. Any answers from the former will be contingent on whether or not you think Nina was living the “good life” prior to her taking on the role of the black swan in earnest, i.e., your answer will be a matter of personal, subjective taste. To answer from the perspective of the film itself, however, is slightly more complicated and depends by and large on what you make of all the early “encounters” between Nina and her dark doppelganger. Before you answer that question for yourself, ask: Why did Darren Aronofsky include those early encounters in the film? What’s his motivation? How you answer this question will determine how you answer all the others, and largely hangs on whether or not you think D.A. is the sort of director who attempts to communicate concrete messages through his films or just some Wanker whose just as likely to throw us Red-Herrings--

 

--as he is to give us meaningful plot points--
--and I give D.A. the benefit of the doubt on this one, which means that the early encounters between Nina and her dark doppelganger are supposed to tell us something. But what? How about this: Nina is/was already on her way to becoming the black swan, such that it must be said that a part of her wants to undergo the transformation that the film chronicles. If you have another possible interpretation as to why it is that D.A. showed us all the early encounters between Nina and her dark doppelganger, I’m all ears. Assuming this as our answer means we can proceed, for the time being, to answer the other questions we asked above.

So, what does Nina want for herself? From the perspective of the film itself, part of her must be said to want, or at least to will (or, perhaps, be in the process of willing) to become the black swan. From the perspective of this part of herself, anything/anyone that helps her along its/her path must be seen as “good,” right? Or, at least helpful. Anything that doesn’t help must be seen as “bad,” or unhelpful. So, from the perspective of that part of Nina that is already willing to become the black swan, Thomas the ballet director cannot be seen to be evil. But what about according to the definition of evil developed above (selfish and willing to sacrifice others towards selfish ends)? No, for even if he is manipulating Nina towards his own ends (her becoming the black swan so that his production of Swan Lake is actually a good one), his ends aren’t actually at odds with hers and so cannot be said to be wholly selfish, right? She wants to become the black swan and he wants her to become the black swan, ergo, he cannot be said to be evil according to the definition developed above.

If you’re not convinced by the above argument, develop another definition of evil, or try and make a case as to why/how it is that Nina doesn’t want to become the black swan such that the actions/behaviours of Thomas can be seen as evil according to the above definition. I myself, for one, didn’t think of Thomas as evil. Nasty, icky, slimy, sure. But bad? Evil? Less this:

 

And more this:

 

Yeah, icky. Not evil, just icky.

The Madding Crowd says What? Huh?

So, it's the day before New Year's Eve and I'm inquiring into a regular's New Year's Eve plans and he tells me, "Not much. Probably just doing something low-key. How about you? Going out with the madding crowd?"

And I'm like, "Huh?

And he leans in, assuming it must be the acoustics, "The madding crowd..."

            And I shake my head in ignorance.

And he says, "The madding crowd, I think it's somewhere in Shakespeare... You know, the tumultuous masses partying, getting all f*ck'd up..."

And I just shake my head at the same time that one of my coworkers is like, "Come on, you don't know what the madding crowd is?!?"

And I'm like, "Sorry, no..."

And the customer says, not without a hint of self-deprecation, "It must be my boarding school education finally paying off," as he nods his head in thanks for the cappuccino I just made him, before walking away.

Meanwhile, my coworker continues shaking her head, "Don't you have a masters degree?"

And I'm like, kind'a pissy, "Yeah, in philosophy." She continues to shake her head and I'm reminded of the time my friend Megan nearly had a heart attack when I told her I didn't know the history of Nero (all I knew about the subject then/now was that there was a Nero's Pizza in the first Home Alone movie), and I told her that I didn't expect her to know how Heidegger's project does/does not overcome metaphysics, so why should she expect me to share her highly specialized knowledge!

                 
                 

            I tell my head-shaking coworker as much, which didn't exactly make me feel any better about my ignorance.

But then I think, while making somebody else's drink: Hmm, the customer who knew what the madding crowd is went to boarding school on the East Coast, and my coworker who knew what the madding crowd is went to college on the East Coat. So I threw that out there to my head-shaking coworker, along with an "It's probably an example of regional knowledge" argument, which also didn't exactly make me feel any better about my ignorance.

 
                          

BUT THEN, I think, while making somebody else's drink: Hmm, the customer went to boarding school and my coworker went to private Catholic school in Portland before going to fricking Yale. So I speculate: Maybe my ignorance is not so much a straight-up education thing as an education plus class thing (I mean, shit, not only do I have a masters degree, but I've taken a handful of college-level Shakespeare courses, went to a pretty great public high-school, and have seen Woody Allen's a Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy a few dozen times), which is to say that perhaps my ignorance is a function of the fact that my parents never graduated from college, II attended public school my whole life, love watching/playing football and basketball and baseball, summer blockbusters, videogames and cartoons and beer and getting sh*t-faced (on occasions, like New Year's), which is to suggest that perhaps I am a part of the very madding crowd in question; while their knowledge is a function of...

               
                        

            So I threw the above out there to my head-shaking coworker as part/parcel to an "It's probably an example of class-based knowledge" argument, along with the barb that her and the customer that raised the issue grew up members of the class that designates others the madding crowd, which was why they knew what it meant while I didn't. I then told her that I'd bet some serious cash-money that if we went around and asked people whether or not they knew what the "madding crowd" was, that of those that said "Yes" we would find a STRONG correlation between that admission and whether or not they also went to private school as a youngster. Needless to say, my coworker didn't like this argument very much (she got flustered and was NOTICEABLY nicer for the rest of the day). I felt considerably better about my ignorance after making this last argument, and, in the aftermath, found out that the reference primarily refers to a novel by the English writer Thomas Hardy and a poem by English poet Thomas Gray. Shakespeare my ass!

 

                                 

           One funny thing for yours truly to consider in all the above, however, is that the customer that asked me the initial question ("Are you going out with the madding crowd tonight?") must have assumed, on some level, that I would know what he meant; this, coupled with my coworker's incredulous response to my ignorance ("Come on?!?"), perhaps means that I carry myself as if I designated others as the madding crowd... Don't know quite how to feel about this possibility.

So, I Guess People can't try to get Laid at the Family Christmas Party...

Every year, for the last four or five years (I forget), my family has thrown a Christmas party. One of the things that makes our family Christmas party so Oh-My-Gosh-My-Golly special is that all who desire to attend must come dressed in their pajamas. That’s right, PAJAMAS; and no, not negligees, nighties, or any other form of sultry number; strictly PJs (i.e., whatever you would sleep in were you not the sort of person to sleep in the nude, and preferably something festive).

 

Sure, every year a handful of people toe the line of Good Taste with their jammies (most of the full grown women seem to be unable to resist the temptation to show a lil’ cleavage), and one or two people cross it (e.g., Tyler Jost and what I imagine to be his great, great grandmother’s evening gown).

           

The family Christmas party, albeit a pajama party, has never really been about sexiness, sex appeal, or trying to have sex; no, it’s always been about friends and family getting together to eat and drink and dance, and to do so in the kind of garments that people are usually too embarrassed to socialize in; and it’s also always been a pure, unadulterated (no pun intended, would be adulterers), blast. Which is why what happened this past year generated such a Big Stink.

            Now, in all past iterations of the party, the age demographics have been roughly as follows: 5% in the 55+ age range, 60% in the 40-55, 5% in the 30-40, 10% in the 18-30, and 20% in the 18 and Under range; in the 40-55 range, most everyone was married (my parents and their friends), and in the 18-30 range, most everyone was straight and male (my brother and our friends), and in the 18 and Under range, most everyone was 18 and Under; thus the worst thing that anyone ever really had to worry about, in terms of possible sexual relations (barring The Worst, i.e., someone in the 18+ fooling around with someone in the 18 and Under), was somebody’s mom copping a mostly innocent feel on somebody’s buddy. 
 

            

 This past year, however, the demographics shifted, and somewhat seismically, with the 18-30 range doubling and becoming about 60% straight female (in the 18-21 range), 40% straight male in the 24-27 range. I’m sure you can see where this is heading:

And that’s exactly where it headed, sort of...

So, there was no hot, steamy, Provocative, possibly procreative fornicating that took place at the family Christmas party this past year. Nope. What there was, however, was Critical Consensus amongst almost everybody present that one of my good friends (who shall remain nameless: Don’t worry, I still love you madly-deeply) seemed as if he might  have been be trying to get laid with one of my sister’s good friends (who shall also remain nameless: Don’t worry, I don’t hold what happened between you and my friend against you in the slightest, and understand d*mn-well that the only reason you showed any interest in my friend--sorry friendo--was because I was Spoken-For, which warms the cockles of my heart, or is it the fruit of my loins? I forget...).

So what happened between my friend in the 24-27 age range and my sister’s friend in the 18-21 range? What caused the Big Stink? I guess there was some “grinding” on the dance-floor that was, like all grinding, suggestive of the desire to Do the Dirty. That’s it. That’s all. Why did this generate such a Big Stink? Because it indicated that the family Christmas party was at something of crossroads, on the verge of something resembling an Identity Crisis:

                                  

Was it going to continue to be about what it had always been about (friends and family getting together to eat and drink and dance, and to do so in the kind of garments that people are usually too embarrassed to socialize in)? Or was it going to become about people dressing up in pajamas and trying to get laid? Now, perhaps you’re one of those people who asks: Can’t it be both? To which I respond: Have you ever been to a singles’ bar? What is it that makes a singles’ bar different from and less comfortable than your standard-issue pub? The undercurrent of desire, desire that can be acted upon at any moment (“Hey, wanna get outta here?”), which adds a Certain-Something to every single interaction, a layer that makes them about something other than people just shooting-the-shit, getting to know each other, telling good and/or (mostly) bad jokes, and making connections (some meaningful, some not). I don’t know about the rest of you, but I like having social-spaces in which my interactions with others are basically Sexual-Agenda Lite. (This is probably why I like talking with old people so much: I feel no desire, and they don’t think they can successfully act on theirs!)

            
            Here’s what my father said the day after this past year’s family Christmas party:

“We just can’t have people trying to get laid at the family Christmas party.”

To which I responded, “I agree, but the rule’s never been in place before... It hasn’t been necessary...”

He went on, “Doesn’t mean that people can’t meet people and develop relationships...”

“And get laid on a later date?” We all need a little hope for the future, don't we?

“Exactly...”

“Just not at the family Christmas party...”

“Just not at the family Christmas party.”

So, I guess people can’t try to get laid at the family Christmas party.

No, I'm the Arsehole!

            You’ve hit a patch of ice and lost control of your car. In that split second before you start careening wildly into oncoming traffic at speeds hazardous to everyone’s health, time appears to slow down. During that super slow time that video games have dubbed "bullet time," you do some combination of the following: process all of your possible courses of action and their projected consequences (“Do I: Turn my wheels into the spin; hit the Eject button; or just close my eyes real tight?”), reflect on everything it is you still wish to do in your life (“Now I’ll never be a parent!”), and, if you’re God-fearing, pray (“Dear God, pardon me my innumerable sins, like that time I pantsed my friend Matt, or that time when I masturbated on Christmas eve with my younger brother sleeping in the same room in which I was beating the proverbial meat, or the time... ad infinitum”).

The other morning, I was putting away the coffee order at work. Emerging from the back room, I saw “Kelsey” standing at the counter, waiting to receive her small Americano. I saw her. She saw me. Our eyes made undeniable contact. The previous evening I had texted her and said, “Let’s talk tomorrow ; P”, w.r.t. a future date that we were in the throws of planning. And lo! Standing there in between Kelsey and I was my ex-girlfriend, making Kelsey’s drink. I had hit a patch of ice. I was on the verge of careening wildly into oncoming traffic at speeds hazardous to everyone’s health. Time slowed. I prayed (“Dear Hegel, free me from this bad infinity...”), reflected on everything I still wished to do in my life (“Now I’ll never a Transformer!”), and processed all of my possible courses of action and their projected consequences (Do I: Turn around and head into the back room, act like I didn’t see Kelsey, and just give her a call later; give Kelsey the “I’ll call you later” hand gesture and hope that my ex- just doesn’t notice or say anything; or just turn my wheels into the spin and walk right up to her and be like, “Hey, are you free this coming Tuesday eve?”). In my moment of slowed time, I determined that my first two possible courses of action had the least unpleasant initial consequences (my ex- wouldn’t necessarily be the wiser and I could probably patch things up with Kelsey later), but the most unpleasant long-term consequences (I would be setting a precedent of being unable to be open/honest and Myself at work when my ex- is present, and she’s present a lot). And so, I decided to go with the spin and walk right up to Kelsey and say, “Hey, are you free this coming Tuesday eve?” Ka-blam!

 

So what happened? Well, Kelsey and I hammered out a tentative date for the following Thursday and my ex- girlfriend had a panic attack, vomited, and and went home from work early. I knew damn well that I should have known better than to schedule a date with another girl in front of my ex-, but I did it anyways...Yeah, I’m an arsehole. And yeah, my ex- wouldn’t talk to me for over a day. But, you know what, with a little help from the Puerto Rican Sage,

a.k.a. Gretchen Schauffler, I had a talk with my ex- and established (1st) that we both cared about the same things (being true to our selves at work, each other’s feelings, and being able to pursue our future relationships with each other’s support), and (2nd) some realistic/fair expectations for the workplace (which basically boiled down to setting a precedent for forgiveness). The day after my ex- and I had the above conversation, Kelsey came back into my workplace while my ex- was there and not only did my ex- not need to go home early and I get to talk freely/openly with Kelsey about whatever it was that was coming out of my mouth while my foot was firmly lodged in it, but my ex- and I got to joke about the awkwardness of the situation afterwards. I think that’s pretty a pretty d*mn good recovery after hitting a nasty patch of ice...

Me, Black Coffee, and Anton Chiguhr

           Maybe I was just in a bad mood. Maybe I had just spent the previous four hours working in close proximity with my recent ex- while she herself was pissy about I-Know-not-What (“You doin alright?” “I’m fine.”). Maybe we had been understaffed at work, all damn day. Maybe I had just watched No Country for Old Men like two days prior and, like everything written by Cormac McCarthy and most everything directed by the Coens (sorry Intolerable Cruelty and Lady Killers and Burn After Reading, but you suck), it was having an effect on me. Maybe it’s all the f*cking Hegel I’ve been reading of late... But then, maybe it was the stubborn, self-assured stupidity of the man who, hiding behind his mustache and his glasses, insisted that a color effectively connotes something spatial in character! Maybe it is all the f*cking Hegel...

             I’m at my register. A man walks up. He’s older (60s), mustached, gray haired, wearing glasses, etc.
            “Hello, sir. What can I getcha?”

“I’ll take a small, black coffee.”

            “Room?”
            “Black.”
            “Do you wan’t any room?”
            “I said black, didn’t I?”
           “You did, but it’s black regardless of whether I do or do not leave room in your cup...” I mutter that last little bit through grinding teeth and turn to begin the process of assembling a small coffee w/out room for cream. I hear Anton Chiguhr gently tell the sweet, bumpkin of a gas station attendant, “Now is not a time. You don’t know what you’re talking about, do you?” 

          I feel like telling the man with the mustache and glasses, “Black is a color, not a spatial signifier! GADAMIT!” before going all sweet/gentle and asking, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, do you?” Instead of saying what I feel, I say nothing and just get the man his coffee. While I’m turned around, the stubborn, self-assured, stupidity of the man solidifies itself as he turns to a lady patiently waiting at his right and says, “Come on, like he doesn’t know what I mean.”

Alright, motherf*cker, sir, your mob-tactics went too far: let’s dance!

I’ll start by giving you your very best defense: saying you want your coffee “black” actually does tend to mean, within the cozy confines of coffee-shop discourse, that you don’t want any cream in your coffee. I know that. You, sir, know that. The lady to your right knows that. Maybe somebody who’s never been to a coffee shop in the U.S. doesn’t know that, but f*ck ‘em! We’re in Amuurikuh! There. That, sir, is your very best defense. But it’s got one big problem...

I didn’t ask you whether or not you wanted cream in your coffee, did I? No, I didn’t (see above transcription). I asked you whether or not you wanted room in your small cup, so that I could know how much “black” coffee to put in said small cup (“half full,” “room for spillage,” “about an inch of room,” “no room,” etc.). My question w.r.t. whether or not you want room in your small coffee was unequivocally clear because your request for “black” coffee was not: asking for a small “black” coffee tells me/anyone within earshot almost nothing about how much “black” coffee I should put in your small cup (I say almost nothing because I do think it’s safe to assume that if you ask for a small “black” coffee you want at least a smidgen of “black” coffee in your cup). There, sir. That’s my defense. Further, I couldn’t give two sh*ts what you/anyone else does with the room I may/may not give you in your cups.

“But!” you say, just like you said to the lady at your right, “but you know what I mean!” Wrong, friendo! I can guess. But, just as often as I can guess and guess right, I can also guess wrong, and in the customer service industry guessing wrong often transforms people who are normally only minor a**holes into giant, gaping ones (and my doctor recently told that I needed to start avoiding those). So, sir, in response to your, “He knows what I mean,” I say: But you don’t mean what you say! And you just don’t know what you’re talking about, do you...

The Thought of the Day comes from... UNCLE GEORG!!! (Hegel), who writes, "It glories in this pompous talk about doing what is best for humanity, about the oppression of humanity, about making sacrifices for the sake of the good, and the misuse of gifts. Ideal entities and purposes of this kind are empty, ineffectual words which lift up the heart but leave reason unsatisfied, which edify, but raise no edifice; declamations which specifically declare merely this: that the individual who professes to act for such noble ends and who deals in such fine phrases is in his own eyes an excellent creature" (The P of Spee, 234/390).