I will be taking a break this week, so there will be no new postings until Monday. I'm sure there's plenty of stuff on here that you haven't read yet, so that will just have to tide you over until then.
Best wishes,
- TJG
Monday, November 23, 2009
Break
Loyal readers,
I will be taking a break this week, so there will be no new postings until Monday. I'm sure there's plenty of stuff on here that you haven't read yet, so that will just have to tide you over until then.
Best wishes,
I will be taking a break this week, so there will be no new postings until Monday. I'm sure there's plenty of stuff on here that you haven't read yet, so that will just have to tide you over until then.
Best wishes,
Friday, November 6, 2009
Tongue In Face, Part 10
And finally, the conclusion of "How to Write: A Guide."
By now, you’ve got your manuscript, and everything is right with the world. Except for one thing. You don’t have a persona!
Why is one necessary, you ask? Simply put, you are a writer. You spend all your time apart from other people, either in a small room or your car, scribbling in a notebook. That means you are what most people would consider to be boring. So you’ll just have to pretend to be interesting. But how?
There are several tested personae from which you may choose:
The Serious Artist. This is the guy who goes on talk shows (if he deigns to appear on television) to discuss craft or the great American novel. Stodgy in appearance, he is by turns awkward and witty. Often, he will discuss Art (note the capitalization) is the last hope for mankind. He will be known by the majority of the public as “that writer guy,” “that boring guy,” or “some professor or something.”
The Layman. This is a man of the people. He wears workman’s attire in most social occasions. He pooh-poohs the highfalutin craft talk, preferring instead to discuss auto mechanics, medieval tools or the shed he built in his back yard where he does all of his writing. He avoids the topic of actual writing, not because he has nothing to say, but because no one could possibly comprehend the opinions of The Greatest Writer in the World.
The Hard-Drinking Gun Nut. This writer does not appear on television. He rarely gives interviews. And yet, his non-writing exploits are legendary. Like the time he drank a bottle of Scotch and was still lucid enough to shoot a playing card from his girlfriend’s teeth without injuring her. (How? See Step Seven.) He may have been famous for writing at one point, but he understands that greater fame can be had through being outrageous.
The problem with these examples is that they are well-known (as are The Slacker, The Angriest Man on Earth and The Mental Patient). If you want half a chance in the literary world, you better come up with something original. It could be the most decision you ever make, so choose carefully.
There’s nothing else I can tell you, except to repeat these steps ad nauseum. Eventually you’ll have ten pounds of stories and a sack-full of novels. That’s enough to bludgeon the critics who fail to understand your brilliance.
So get out there and start writing, damn it. Class dismissed.
___
Step Ten: Persona, Persona, Persona
By now, you’ve got your manuscript, and everything is right with the world. Except for one thing. You don’t have a persona!
Why is one necessary, you ask? Simply put, you are a writer. You spend all your time apart from other people, either in a small room or your car, scribbling in a notebook. That means you are what most people would consider to be boring. So you’ll just have to pretend to be interesting. But how?
There are several tested personae from which you may choose:
The Serious Artist. This is the guy who goes on talk shows (if he deigns to appear on television) to discuss craft or the great American novel. Stodgy in appearance, he is by turns awkward and witty. Often, he will discuss Art (note the capitalization) is the last hope for mankind. He will be known by the majority of the public as “that writer guy,” “that boring guy,” or “some professor or something.”
The Layman. This is a man of the people. He wears workman’s attire in most social occasions. He pooh-poohs the highfalutin craft talk, preferring instead to discuss auto mechanics, medieval tools or the shed he built in his back yard where he does all of his writing. He avoids the topic of actual writing, not because he has nothing to say, but because no one could possibly comprehend the opinions of The Greatest Writer in the World.
The Hard-Drinking Gun Nut. This writer does not appear on television. He rarely gives interviews. And yet, his non-writing exploits are legendary. Like the time he drank a bottle of Scotch and was still lucid enough to shoot a playing card from his girlfriend’s teeth without injuring her. (How? See Step Seven.) He may have been famous for writing at one point, but he understands that greater fame can be had through being outrageous.
The problem with these examples is that they are well-known (as are The Slacker, The Angriest Man on Earth and The Mental Patient). If you want half a chance in the literary world, you better come up with something original. It could be the most decision you ever make, so choose carefully.
Conclusion
There’s nothing else I can tell you, except to repeat these steps ad nauseum. Eventually you’ll have ten pounds of stories and a sack-full of novels. That’s enough to bludgeon the critics who fail to understand your brilliance.
So get out there and start writing, damn it. Class dismissed.
___
That's all. Tell your friends.
- TJG
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Tongue In Face, Part 9
And now, part nine - the shortest post in history.
What are you sitting there for? Start writing, already! When you’re done, read it ten times, making changes as necessary. I’ll be here when you get back.
Conclusion tomorrow.
___
Step Nine: Getting To It
What are you sitting there for? Start writing, already! When you’re done, read it ten times, making changes as necessary. I’ll be here when you get back.
___
Conclusion tomorrow.
- TJG
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Tongue In Face, Part 8
Here's part eight, in all its glory.
After all the advice I’ve given, it may still be difficult for you to come up with ideas. Fear not, for I am about to reveal a secret known to real writers everywhere, one they’ve tried to keep hidden from the public for centuries. Although it will win me innumerable enemies, I am going to share this bit of creative knowledge with you.
Here goes.
Bang your head against the wall.
I’m not kidding.
See, ideas live inside your brain. Sometimes it gets all sticky up there and you have to jar them loose. Hence: Bang your head against the wall.
Do it three times, fast and hard. Then wait five minutes and write down the first thing that comes to mind. It’ll be pure gold. If nothing comes to mind, repeat the process.
If a wall is unavailable, try another hard object, like the floor (preferably uncarpeted). If you’re out of doors (shame on you!), try a paved surface. Sod is too soft and could lodge the ideas deeper in your brain. If you’re indoors, stay away from breakable surfaces and objects, such as a kitchen cabinet or a teacup. Stick with the walls or the floor. Ideas will be dripping out your ears in no time.
Part nine tomorrow.
___
Step Eight: Bang Your Head Against the Wall
After all the advice I’ve given, it may still be difficult for you to come up with ideas. Fear not, for I am about to reveal a secret known to real writers everywhere, one they’ve tried to keep hidden from the public for centuries. Although it will win me innumerable enemies, I am going to share this bit of creative knowledge with you.
Here goes.
Bang your head against the wall.
I’m not kidding.
See, ideas live inside your brain. Sometimes it gets all sticky up there and you have to jar them loose. Hence: Bang your head against the wall.
Do it three times, fast and hard. Then wait five minutes and write down the first thing that comes to mind. It’ll be pure gold. If nothing comes to mind, repeat the process.
If a wall is unavailable, try another hard object, like the floor (preferably uncarpeted). If you’re out of doors (shame on you!), try a paved surface. Sod is too soft and could lodge the ideas deeper in your brain. If you’re indoors, stay away from breakable surfaces and objects, such as a kitchen cabinet or a teacup. Stick with the walls or the floor. Ideas will be dripping out your ears in no time.
___
Part nine tomorrow.
- TJG
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Tongue In Face, Part 7
Here's part seven of my essay, "How to Write: A Guide."
It’s odd to think of, but you can tell who wrote some books without looking at the name on the spine. That’s because of the style in which the books were written. It’s a fading trend, but you may want to play the retro card at the beginning of your literary career. It could get you some attention.
Often, writing is not what you write about – it’s how you write about it. A boring story written in plain English will almost always go unnoticed, while a boring story written in some fancy-pants way will be hailed as a triumph nine times out of ten.
Let’s start with a simple sentence, and go from there:
“The wet dog crossed the street.”
Boring, right? It’s simple, declarative. It’s not evoking much, except possible sympathy for the dog, as he is wet. Let’s fancy it up a bit:
“Tired and lonely, the wet dog crossed the street.”
More effective, isn’t it? And with only three more words. Imagine what twenty-five or forty more words would do. Let’s go just a little bit further:
“Tired, lonely and bleeding from both ends, the wet dog crossed the street.”
That’s poetry. But maybe you don’t want to alienate your audience. (They’re known to be suckers when it comes to animals.) They might get too sad after reading that sentence to finish your story. And who could blame them? People don’t want to read about nice dogs in peril. So let’s twist it:
“Tired, wet, angry and bleeding from both ends, the meanest dog in the world crossed the street.”
By taking away the dog’s feeling of loneliness, replacing it with a feeling of anger and an assertion I couldn’t possibly prove, the dog has gone from being a sad, terrorized puppy to being the ultimate canine badass. And we haven’t even gotten truly fancy yet!
Here’s a final, fancied-up version:
“Tired from a fresh kill, wet and angry and bleeding from both ends, the meanest dog in the world licked his lips, savoring the blood-taste and growling a contented growl, his yellow eyes illuminated by the headlights of a passing car, as he crossed the dark, rain-slicked city street.”
Did you notice how repetitive it was? How many unnecessary words it contained? There were forty-nine words in that sucker, and that was just one sentence. Imagine how quickly you could write a book-full of those! So what if it was hard to read? That just means the author (you) is smarter than the critics. Hell, you’re smarter than most people! If you’re really smart, you’ll leave out all punctuation but the periods. Then you’ll look really smart – just like a real writer.
Part eight tomorrow.
___
Step Seven: Develop a Style
It’s odd to think of, but you can tell who wrote some books without looking at the name on the spine. That’s because of the style in which the books were written. It’s a fading trend, but you may want to play the retro card at the beginning of your literary career. It could get you some attention.
Often, writing is not what you write about – it’s how you write about it. A boring story written in plain English will almost always go unnoticed, while a boring story written in some fancy-pants way will be hailed as a triumph nine times out of ten.
Let’s start with a simple sentence, and go from there:
“The wet dog crossed the street.”
Boring, right? It’s simple, declarative. It’s not evoking much, except possible sympathy for the dog, as he is wet. Let’s fancy it up a bit:
“Tired and lonely, the wet dog crossed the street.”
More effective, isn’t it? And with only three more words. Imagine what twenty-five or forty more words would do. Let’s go just a little bit further:
“Tired, lonely and bleeding from both ends, the wet dog crossed the street.”
That’s poetry. But maybe you don’t want to alienate your audience. (They’re known to be suckers when it comes to animals.) They might get too sad after reading that sentence to finish your story. And who could blame them? People don’t want to read about nice dogs in peril. So let’s twist it:
“Tired, wet, angry and bleeding from both ends, the meanest dog in the world crossed the street.”
By taking away the dog’s feeling of loneliness, replacing it with a feeling of anger and an assertion I couldn’t possibly prove, the dog has gone from being a sad, terrorized puppy to being the ultimate canine badass. And we haven’t even gotten truly fancy yet!
Here’s a final, fancied-up version:
“Tired from a fresh kill, wet and angry and bleeding from both ends, the meanest dog in the world licked his lips, savoring the blood-taste and growling a contented growl, his yellow eyes illuminated by the headlights of a passing car, as he crossed the dark, rain-slicked city street.”
Did you notice how repetitive it was? How many unnecessary words it contained? There were forty-nine words in that sucker, and that was just one sentence. Imagine how quickly you could write a book-full of those! So what if it was hard to read? That just means the author (you) is smarter than the critics. Hell, you’re smarter than most people! If you’re really smart, you’ll leave out all punctuation but the periods. Then you’ll look really smart – just like a real writer.
___
Part eight tomorrow.
- TJG
Monday, November 2, 2009
Tongue in Face, Part 6
Here's the sixth part of my essay, "How to Write: A Guide."
Step Six is directly related to Step Five in many ways. Preferably, you should find a place that contains few people. Try the place you live first. If your family (should you have one) gets in the way, do something about it. Throw them out of the house and have the locks changed. If you do this correctly, you may never have to see them again, which will give you more time than ever to work.
If, however, you have some unexplained attachment to the, you may wish to try a different track. Perhaps you could find a room that comfortably holds no more than one person. If you aren’t troubled by odd smells, the sound of running water or grout, the bathroom could be the perfect choice. Most of them come equipped with locks, which can be used to keep out nosey spouses or pesky children. If your residence has only one bathroom, you may want to write somewhere else, lest your family take to urinating in your waterproof galoshes.
You may want to avoid the house altogether. Your car may be the better choice, as you can use it to drive somewhere your family can’t find you, like an airport parking lot or an abandoned drive-in theatre. Unlike the bathroom, having a car could be very helpful to the budding writer. Without proper transportation, it is next to impossible for your loved ones to find you in a timely fashion.
To be continued.
___
Step Six: Find A Place to Write
Step Six is directly related to Step Five in many ways. Preferably, you should find a place that contains few people. Try the place you live first. If your family (should you have one) gets in the way, do something about it. Throw them out of the house and have the locks changed. If you do this correctly, you may never have to see them again, which will give you more time than ever to work.
If, however, you have some unexplained attachment to the, you may wish to try a different track. Perhaps you could find a room that comfortably holds no more than one person. If you aren’t troubled by odd smells, the sound of running water or grout, the bathroom could be the perfect choice. Most of them come equipped with locks, which can be used to keep out nosey spouses or pesky children. If your residence has only one bathroom, you may want to write somewhere else, lest your family take to urinating in your waterproof galoshes.
You may want to avoid the house altogether. Your car may be the better choice, as you can use it to drive somewhere your family can’t find you, like an airport parking lot or an abandoned drive-in theatre. Unlike the bathroom, having a car could be very helpful to the budding writer. Without proper transportation, it is next to impossible for your loved ones to find you in a timely fashion.
___
To be continued.
- TJG
Friday, October 30, 2009
Tongue In Face, Part 5
Here's part five of "How to Write: A Guide."
Although it’s good to go out and experience things, it’s not advisable when you’re working on a story. This sentiment shocks most people because writers are, on the whole, tanned, good-looking alpha males who spend the majority of their lives outdoors. But it’s true. Distractions will only hinder your creativity.
The great works were all composed in monk-like environments that offered the fewest outside influences. Do you think F. Scott Fitzgerald went out and partied every night when he was writing The Great Gatsby? Was Hemingway cavorting around Paris when he wrote The Sun Also Rises? Nope. They stayed inside and wrote their brains out.
But don’t worry. You can still go out and experience things. Just wait until your work is finished.
One more thing: Never stop working!
To be continued next week. Don't forget to become a follower of this blog! Have a good weekend.
___
Step Five: Stay In
Although it’s good to go out and experience things, it’s not advisable when you’re working on a story. This sentiment shocks most people because writers are, on the whole, tanned, good-looking alpha males who spend the majority of their lives outdoors. But it’s true. Distractions will only hinder your creativity.
The great works were all composed in monk-like environments that offered the fewest outside influences. Do you think F. Scott Fitzgerald went out and partied every night when he was writing The Great Gatsby? Was Hemingway cavorting around Paris when he wrote The Sun Also Rises? Nope. They stayed inside and wrote their brains out.
But don’t worry. You can still go out and experience things. Just wait until your work is finished.
One more thing: Never stop working!
___
To be continued next week. Don't forget to become a follower of this blog! Have a good weekend.
- TJG
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tongue In Face, Part 4
Part four of my essay, "How to Write: A Guide."
Still stuck for an idea? Experience got you down? Just can’t bring yourself to lie? Have no fear. There is still an option for you. Theft.
I’m not talking about products from your friendly corner store. That’s wrong. (Unless, of course, you’re writing a story about shoplifting.) I’m talking about stealing stories.
Are you boring? Are the stories that make up your life dull? No problem! You’ve got friends, don’t you? Of course you do! You’re a writer! Aren’t your friends stories interesting? Take them. Your friends won’t miss them.
Rookies will often make the mistake of asking permission to use episodes from another person’s life in their work. Don’t give in to temptation. It will only arouse the contempt of your friend. Instead, just take the story. They won’t mind. Trust me. In fact, they’ll probably admire your tenacity. Just imagine the delight on their face when they find a story they’ve been telling people for yeas is I print in the latest edition of Harper’s or The Atlantic Monthly. They’ll probably call you to schedule a lunch where they can thank you in person.
If, for some reason, they are unhappy about it, you should sever all ties with them. A true friend wouldn’t mind. They would feel a sense of pride for their role in your success.
Part five tomorrow.
___
Step Four: Steal Something
Still stuck for an idea? Experience got you down? Just can’t bring yourself to lie? Have no fear. There is still an option for you. Theft.
I’m not talking about products from your friendly corner store. That’s wrong. (Unless, of course, you’re writing a story about shoplifting.) I’m talking about stealing stories.
Are you boring? Are the stories that make up your life dull? No problem! You’ve got friends, don’t you? Of course you do! You’re a writer! Aren’t your friends stories interesting? Take them. Your friends won’t miss them.
Rookies will often make the mistake of asking permission to use episodes from another person’s life in their work. Don’t give in to temptation. It will only arouse the contempt of your friend. Instead, just take the story. They won’t mind. Trust me. In fact, they’ll probably admire your tenacity. Just imagine the delight on their face when they find a story they’ve been telling people for yeas is I print in the latest edition of Harper’s or The Atlantic Monthly. They’ll probably call you to schedule a lunch where they can thank you in person.
If, for some reason, they are unhappy about it, you should sever all ties with them. A true friend wouldn’t mind. They would feel a sense of pride for their role in your success.
___
Part five tomorrow.
- TJG
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Tongue In Face, Part 3
Here's part three of my essay.
Always remember: You can’t write on an empty stomach. If you’re hungry, you better eat. Otherwise, food will insert itself into your story in unexpected ways. This could negatively affect your reputation as an author. William Carlos Williams got hungry for plums one night, and consequently, it’s all we remember him for today. Don’t let this happen to you!
How about thirst? It’s okay to drink, so long as it’s something good, such as milk, water or lemonade. You should never ingest alcohol when you’re writing. It makes your brain foggy, and your pencil hand clumsy. You need to be able to cross those T’s and dot those I’s, so cut out the vino. It’s not worked for one writer yet. Writers are many things, but they are not drinkers. Just try to name one. Can’t do it, huh? It just proves my point.
While we’re on the subject, you probably shouldn’t ingest anything that could affect your brain function. Are and questionable substances don’t mix. They never have. And don’t let any hippy tell you different!
More tomorrow.
___
Step Three: Ingest Something
Always remember: You can’t write on an empty stomach. If you’re hungry, you better eat. Otherwise, food will insert itself into your story in unexpected ways. This could negatively affect your reputation as an author. William Carlos Williams got hungry for plums one night, and consequently, it’s all we remember him for today. Don’t let this happen to you!
How about thirst? It’s okay to drink, so long as it’s something good, such as milk, water or lemonade. You should never ingest alcohol when you’re writing. It makes your brain foggy, and your pencil hand clumsy. You need to be able to cross those T’s and dot those I’s, so cut out the vino. It’s not worked for one writer yet. Writers are many things, but they are not drinkers. Just try to name one. Can’t do it, huh? It just proves my point.
While we’re on the subject, you probably shouldn’t ingest anything that could affect your brain function. Are and questionable substances don’t mix. They never have. And don’t let any hippy tell you different!
___
More tomorrow.
- TJG
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Tongue In Face, Part 2
Part two:
A famous person once said the best way to write about something is to experience it first. They weren’t wrong, but they weren’t completely right, either. Sometimes you just can’t experience your stories first-hand. But that’s not always a bad thing.
Example: If you’re going to write a story about the Donner Party, that shouldn’t require you to rush out and buy a bunch of pioneering gear and get lost in the mountains. That’s just ridiculous – especially when we consider the current state of the economy, which has driven the price of both time machines and human meat out of most people’s buying ranges.
So what to do? Write about what you have experienced? Hell, no. There are only so many tales you can spin about going to the grocery store or eating in a restaurant.
My best advice is just to lie. That’s what writing is all about. Ever read an autobiography? Good, wasn’t it? Ten pounds of bull, every single one of them.
See you tomorrow.
___
Step Two: Experience Something
A famous person once said the best way to write about something is to experience it first. They weren’t wrong, but they weren’t completely right, either. Sometimes you just can’t experience your stories first-hand. But that’s not always a bad thing.
Example: If you’re going to write a story about the Donner Party, that shouldn’t require you to rush out and buy a bunch of pioneering gear and get lost in the mountains. That’s just ridiculous – especially when we consider the current state of the economy, which has driven the price of both time machines and human meat out of most people’s buying ranges.
So what to do? Write about what you have experienced? Hell, no. There are only so many tales you can spin about going to the grocery store or eating in a restaurant.
My best advice is just to lie. That’s what writing is all about. Ever read an autobiography? Good, wasn’t it? Ten pounds of bull, every single one of them.
___
See you tomorrow.
- TJG
Monday, October 26, 2009
Tongue In Face, Part 1
Here's the first part of my essay, "How to Write: A Guide."
Lots of people want to write, but many of them don’t seem to know what to do about it. For them, I have drawn up a list of helpful suggestions to make the process run a little more smoothly.
For a writer, there’s nothing scarier than sitting down to work and seeing that blank sheet of paper staring back at you. Every sheet of it in your possession symbolizes a massive failure on your part. It’s like a bakery without bread. It just shouldn’t be.
That being said, the fear aroused by those white sheets is highly conducive to creativity. You want something to show for your day’s work? Good. Start writing. Working on a deadline? Even better. Don’t start until five minutes before it’s due. You’ll be so ready to prove you’re not a complete hack that the words will come shooting out of your at a rate immeasurable by modern science.
Don’t worry if it’s full of grammatical, spelling and punctuation errors. People will be so impressed by the speed at which you work that it won’t matter. “Garsh!” you can almost hear them say. “You wrote that whole story in five minutes? You must be a genius!”
That’s the part when you lean back and flash a humble smile. Shake your head a little bit, too.
“That’s just my job,” you will say.
This is what a real writer would do.
Part two tomorrow. Don't forget to become a follow of this blog. Thanks.
___
Lots of people want to write, but many of them don’t seem to know what to do about it. For them, I have drawn up a list of helpful suggestions to make the process run a little more smoothly.
Step One: Procrastinate
For a writer, there’s nothing scarier than sitting down to work and seeing that blank sheet of paper staring back at you. Every sheet of it in your possession symbolizes a massive failure on your part. It’s like a bakery without bread. It just shouldn’t be.
That being said, the fear aroused by those white sheets is highly conducive to creativity. You want something to show for your day’s work? Good. Start writing. Working on a deadline? Even better. Don’t start until five minutes before it’s due. You’ll be so ready to prove you’re not a complete hack that the words will come shooting out of your at a rate immeasurable by modern science.
Don’t worry if it’s full of grammatical, spelling and punctuation errors. People will be so impressed by the speed at which you work that it won’t matter. “Garsh!” you can almost hear them say. “You wrote that whole story in five minutes? You must be a genius!”
That’s the part when you lean back and flash a humble smile. Shake your head a little bit, too.
“That’s just my job,” you will say.
This is what a real writer would do.
___
Part two tomorrow. Don't forget to become a follow of this blog. Thanks.
- TJG
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Camp, Part 6
Here's the last part of my essay, "Notes On Church Camp." I'll post something new tomorrow.
I have a theory about why camps exist. I can tell you they don’t exist to instill in kids a sense of the outdoors and a love of nature. The only ones who could possibly think any camp I’ve ever seen constitutes a real outdoors experience would be a 5-year-old whose idea of camping is to pitch a pup tent in the back yard, or a suburban couple who thinks roughing it is what happens when their favorite restaurant is closed and they have to prepare their own dinner.
Camps exist to make kids miss being home with their parents. Be it through dilapidated facilities, lousy food, or the threat of death by livestock, camps are designed to make their daily lives seem better than they’d previously thought. And if it takes a couple of near-death experiences to make them see the light, so be it. They’ll be happy to see their parents again – they might even stop complaining. In other words, they’ll just be glad they’re home.
At least until school starts again.
That's it. See you tomorrow.
___
Lesson 5: There’s No Place like Home
I have a theory about why camps exist. I can tell you they don’t exist to instill in kids a sense of the outdoors and a love of nature. The only ones who could possibly think any camp I’ve ever seen constitutes a real outdoors experience would be a 5-year-old whose idea of camping is to pitch a pup tent in the back yard, or a suburban couple who thinks roughing it is what happens when their favorite restaurant is closed and they have to prepare their own dinner.
Camps exist to make kids miss being home with their parents. Be it through dilapidated facilities, lousy food, or the threat of death by livestock, camps are designed to make their daily lives seem better than they’d previously thought. And if it takes a couple of near-death experiences to make them see the light, so be it. They’ll be happy to see their parents again – they might even stop complaining. In other words, they’ll just be glad they’re home.
At least until school starts again.
___
That's it. See you tomorrow.
- TJG
Friday, October 9, 2009
Camp, Part 5
Here's part five. To be continued on Monday.
I think part of the reason I was sent to this camp was because I was relatively familiar with how to ride a horse: Sit in a saddle, pull the bridle this way, that way. Pretty simple. With sane horses, anyway. For some reason, the horse that was chosen for me to ride throughout the week – Doc – was young and suffered from an advanced case of what appeared to be the horse equivalent of ADD. Whenever I would ride him, something would catch his attention, and he’d investigate. No amount of whining, bridle-pulling, or kicking could convince him to do otherwise. When he wasn’t walking where he wasn’t supposed to go, Doc was standing still, often snorting and trying to snap me in the back with his long brown tail.
In short, Doc was an asshole.
He was also fast, and unfortunately, he knew it.
Doc’s favorite (and my least favorite) part of our daily rides together was when the whole group would gather at the bottom of a hill to trot up to the top. Doc would treat each trot as though it were his last, and not trot at all, but run up the hill full-gallop, as though he were a part of the team on the Western Union stagecoach.
And each time, his eagerness to get to the top of the hill would annoy our riding group leader, a small 20-ish woman employed to look out for our safety.
“Stay behind me!” she would shout each time Doc, and by extension I, lunged out ahead of her.
“I’m trying!” I would shoot back halfheartedly, hoping I wouldn’t fall of the saddle and be trampled by the other horses, which were 25 feet behind us by now.
I remember feeling after our first ride that I had been screwed. I hated this stupid horse and made an oath to myself that I would be able to control him by the end of the week.
Unfortunately, life is not a 1980s teen movie, and nothing of the sort happened. Doc and I never became the perfect blend of boy and horse, and instead maintained our current persona, Special Olympics Kentucky Derby.
The kicker came on the second-to-last day of camp, the last ride we would ever have together. The group gathered at the bottom of the steepest hill we had come to all week, and the riding group leader reiterated her mantra: “Try and stay behind me,” while I repeated mine: “Rub a lamp.”
Of course, as soon as the rest of the group started trotting, Doc began a wild gallop toward the top of the hill.
“Stay behind me!” the leader shouted.
I would have shot back a witty response like, “I hate this fucking horse!” had the hill not been so steep. Trying to maintain a grip on the saddle, I began to breathe a sigh of relief when I saw that we were almost to the top. But just then, I saw something else. Instead of the peak sloping down gently like a hill is supposed to do, it just stopped altogether. It was then that I realized this was not a hill we were running on, but a cliff.
I knew then that my life was over. There is no other way to describe it. You know you are going to die, and you become suddenly, strangely, serene. “So this is how it’s going to end,” I thought to myself. “Off the edge of a cliff, trapped on a runaway horse. Not what I’d pictured.”
Fortunately, it wasn’t what Doc had pictured, either, for he made a swift, 90-degree turn, running parallel to the edge of the cliff for nearly 50 yards.
By this time, I had lost all semblance of control. No longer facing death, I felt I had nothing more to lose. I also forgot I was at a church camp and began expressing to Doc my true feelings about his character.
“You stupid fucking horse!” I shouted. “What in the fuck is wrong with you, you cocksucking motherfucker!”
By this time, the rest of the group had gathered at the top of the cliff and were watching Doc take me off across the edge, before he eventually slowed down and stopped.
I continued to scream at him the entire way. Although I don’t remember my comments exactly, I do remember it was something along the lines of, “Motherfuckinggoddamnstupidfuckinghorsefuckfuckfuckfuckingstupidfuckinghorse!”
Or something like that.
Once Doc finally stopped, I turned him around, and he slowly began to walk back to the group.
When we arrived, one of the guys got a stupid smile on his face and began to speak. “Hey, Travis –”
“Shut the fuck up,” I told him quietly.
He did.
The group began the slow ride back to camp when, at the bottom of another hill, the riding group leader had the brilliant idea of letting us trot just one last time.
The word trot, of course, was not in Doc’s vocabulary, and he ran full-speed up the hill again, and down the other side. It soon occurred to me that Doc could at any time trip, fall end over end, and crush me underneath him. By this point, I was on the verge of tears, pulling Doc’s bridle back as firmly as I could to prevent him from running any more once we had reached the bottom. For whatever reason – possibly because these were the final minutes of our last ride – Doc obeyed. The riding group leader soon came down on her white horse and asked if I was okay. I decided not to dignify that question with a response.
“I’m really sorry about this,” she said. “I shouldn’t have let them trot this time.”
“No shit,” I replied.
I turned around to see the rest of my group walking, leading their horses down the hill by their bridles. About a mile away, my brother Brian was having “Bible study” with his group, and someone noticed what was going on.
“Why are they doing that?” the person asked.
“Someone wasn’t listening, or one of the horses was acting up,” their counselor said.
Being a comedian, my brother said, “Yeah, it’d be funny if Travis came back with a hoofprint on his forehead.”
Yeah. Funny.
I remember reading somewhere that after people have a near-death experience, they are often overcome with a sense of exhilaration. Now that they’ve cheated the Grim Reaper out of another acquisition, they feel they can do anything. I skipped this phase and went immediately to the second, which is to dissolve into a shaking, quivering mass, emitting the occasional stifled cry or whimper, not unlike Richard Nixon the night he begged Henry Kissinger to pray with him on the Oval Office floor.
I learned something that evening: Not only are the things you are required to do dull, pointless and mind-numbing, they also can get you killed. In other words, always have an exit strategy in case things go south. I keep this lesson in mind every time I vote, go to the post office, or badmouth Jimmy Buffet in a bar.
I have not ridden a horse since that evening. I don’t suspect I ever will. It was never an activity I took a lot of pleasure in, but I would have preferred choosing not to ride, rather than have that decision thrust upon me. I also know that Doc was just an animal, that there was nothing I could have done, and that it would be foolish to hold a grudge.
I don’t care. I hope that bastard’s glue by now.
More Monday. Have a good weekend.
___
Lesson 4: Camp as a Near-Death Experience
I think part of the reason I was sent to this camp was because I was relatively familiar with how to ride a horse: Sit in a saddle, pull the bridle this way, that way. Pretty simple. With sane horses, anyway. For some reason, the horse that was chosen for me to ride throughout the week – Doc – was young and suffered from an advanced case of what appeared to be the horse equivalent of ADD. Whenever I would ride him, something would catch his attention, and he’d investigate. No amount of whining, bridle-pulling, or kicking could convince him to do otherwise. When he wasn’t walking where he wasn’t supposed to go, Doc was standing still, often snorting and trying to snap me in the back with his long brown tail.
In short, Doc was an asshole.
He was also fast, and unfortunately, he knew it.
Doc’s favorite (and my least favorite) part of our daily rides together was when the whole group would gather at the bottom of a hill to trot up to the top. Doc would treat each trot as though it were his last, and not trot at all, but run up the hill full-gallop, as though he were a part of the team on the Western Union stagecoach.
And each time, his eagerness to get to the top of the hill would annoy our riding group leader, a small 20-ish woman employed to look out for our safety.
“Stay behind me!” she would shout each time Doc, and by extension I, lunged out ahead of her.
“I’m trying!” I would shoot back halfheartedly, hoping I wouldn’t fall of the saddle and be trampled by the other horses, which were 25 feet behind us by now.
I remember feeling after our first ride that I had been screwed. I hated this stupid horse and made an oath to myself that I would be able to control him by the end of the week.
Unfortunately, life is not a 1980s teen movie, and nothing of the sort happened. Doc and I never became the perfect blend of boy and horse, and instead maintained our current persona, Special Olympics Kentucky Derby.
The kicker came on the second-to-last day of camp, the last ride we would ever have together. The group gathered at the bottom of the steepest hill we had come to all week, and the riding group leader reiterated her mantra: “Try and stay behind me,” while I repeated mine: “Rub a lamp.”
Of course, as soon as the rest of the group started trotting, Doc began a wild gallop toward the top of the hill.
“Stay behind me!” the leader shouted.
I would have shot back a witty response like, “I hate this fucking horse!” had the hill not been so steep. Trying to maintain a grip on the saddle, I began to breathe a sigh of relief when I saw that we were almost to the top. But just then, I saw something else. Instead of the peak sloping down gently like a hill is supposed to do, it just stopped altogether. It was then that I realized this was not a hill we were running on, but a cliff.
I knew then that my life was over. There is no other way to describe it. You know you are going to die, and you become suddenly, strangely, serene. “So this is how it’s going to end,” I thought to myself. “Off the edge of a cliff, trapped on a runaway horse. Not what I’d pictured.”
Fortunately, it wasn’t what Doc had pictured, either, for he made a swift, 90-degree turn, running parallel to the edge of the cliff for nearly 50 yards.
By this time, I had lost all semblance of control. No longer facing death, I felt I had nothing more to lose. I also forgot I was at a church camp and began expressing to Doc my true feelings about his character.
“You stupid fucking horse!” I shouted. “What in the fuck is wrong with you, you cocksucking motherfucker!”
By this time, the rest of the group had gathered at the top of the cliff and were watching Doc take me off across the edge, before he eventually slowed down and stopped.
I continued to scream at him the entire way. Although I don’t remember my comments exactly, I do remember it was something along the lines of, “Motherfuckinggoddamnstupidfuckinghorsefuckfuckfuckfuckingstupidfuckinghorse!”
Or something like that.
Once Doc finally stopped, I turned him around, and he slowly began to walk back to the group.
When we arrived, one of the guys got a stupid smile on his face and began to speak. “Hey, Travis –”
“Shut the fuck up,” I told him quietly.
He did.
The group began the slow ride back to camp when, at the bottom of another hill, the riding group leader had the brilliant idea of letting us trot just one last time.
The word trot, of course, was not in Doc’s vocabulary, and he ran full-speed up the hill again, and down the other side. It soon occurred to me that Doc could at any time trip, fall end over end, and crush me underneath him. By this point, I was on the verge of tears, pulling Doc’s bridle back as firmly as I could to prevent him from running any more once we had reached the bottom. For whatever reason – possibly because these were the final minutes of our last ride – Doc obeyed. The riding group leader soon came down on her white horse and asked if I was okay. I decided not to dignify that question with a response.
“I’m really sorry about this,” she said. “I shouldn’t have let them trot this time.”
“No shit,” I replied.
I turned around to see the rest of my group walking, leading their horses down the hill by their bridles. About a mile away, my brother Brian was having “Bible study” with his group, and someone noticed what was going on.
“Why are they doing that?” the person asked.
“Someone wasn’t listening, or one of the horses was acting up,” their counselor said.
Being a comedian, my brother said, “Yeah, it’d be funny if Travis came back with a hoofprint on his forehead.”
Yeah. Funny.
I remember reading somewhere that after people have a near-death experience, they are often overcome with a sense of exhilaration. Now that they’ve cheated the Grim Reaper out of another acquisition, they feel they can do anything. I skipped this phase and went immediately to the second, which is to dissolve into a shaking, quivering mass, emitting the occasional stifled cry or whimper, not unlike Richard Nixon the night he begged Henry Kissinger to pray with him on the Oval Office floor.
I learned something that evening: Not only are the things you are required to do dull, pointless and mind-numbing, they also can get you killed. In other words, always have an exit strategy in case things go south. I keep this lesson in mind every time I vote, go to the post office, or badmouth Jimmy Buffet in a bar.
I have not ridden a horse since that evening. I don’t suspect I ever will. It was never an activity I took a lot of pleasure in, but I would have preferred choosing not to ride, rather than have that decision thrust upon me. I also know that Doc was just an animal, that there was nothing I could have done, and that it would be foolish to hold a grudge.
I don’t care. I hope that bastard’s glue by now.
___
More Monday. Have a good weekend.
- TJG
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Chuch Camp, Part 4
Continued:
___
Lesson 3: Camp, Or, I’m Friends With You Because I Have No Other Choice
I would be lying if I said I was a hit with my peers back home. Sure, I had a few friends, but in a peripheral kind of way. We rarely did anything together outside school, partly because I lived out of town, but also because I really didn’t have much in common with them. If it were a sitcom, I would have definitely been one of those characters who are always just hanging around, not really doing anything, occasionally getting a good line in. Shows would rarely revolve around my character, and if they did, it would only be once or twice per season. Kind of like Klinger in M*A*S*H, but without the dresses and all the references to Lebanon.
In camp, however, the social pool was much, much smaller. And since we were only there for a week, I wouldn’t have enough time to alienate everybody. But even keeping this in mind, my group’s reactions to what my mother sensitively described as my “weirdness” were not what I had come to expect. My hobbies (which included such friend repellent as silent film, Jelly Roll Morton, and museums) were seen as being at best, quirky, at worst beating-worthy by my schoolmates. (In all fairness to them, interests like mine would have been better suited to a nursing home resident than a middle-schooler.) My fellow campers, by comparison, seemed almost mildly interested. Some of them even asked questions, as though I were some type of repository of archaic cultural information. While some people might have been offended at being reduced to the status of walking parlor trick, those people weren’t as starved for attention as I was. They also had a thing called pride. Luckily for me, I’d had mine removed over a long period of time characterized by shouting, taunting, and name-calling, much of it provided by non-relatives.
Looking back, I think the (admittedly low) level of interest in me could have been due to the fact that I was the most mature male (of the three) in my group. Of course, it’s hard not to look dignified when the kid sitting next to you is writing a letter home using bug guts instead of a pencil like everyone else.
Nevertheless, I do remember one girl actually took my address so she could write me letters to ask questions about obscure films. She never wrote, and I think this is when I learned another lesson: Being in camp is like being stuck in a hostage situation (albeit a hostage situation with sing-alongs). You don’t contact each other afterwards and say, “Oh, man, you remember when they put that gun to my head? Let’s go have lunch some time.” In other words, since their real friends were nowhere in sight, most people jut decided to make due with what they had until the week was up. Which was me.
___
More tomorrow.
- TJG
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Camp, Part 3
Here's part three:
Although the purpose of this camp, ostensibly, was to learn about God, He definitely took a backseat to no less than three or four other areas of concern. First and foremost were the horses, of which there were dozens. I haven’t mentioned it before, but the camp was actually a co-ed organization (I’m assuming it had quite the legal team behind it), and there were many more girls than boys in attendance. The reason for this is, of course, one of the oldest truths known to man: GIRLS GO APESHIT OVER HORSES. I don’t get it myself, but I know it’s true because I saw it proven repeatedly throughout the week. Indeed, you always knew if one was clopping around within nearby, because you’d suddenly hear a chorus of maybe ten to fifteen girl-voices chiming in unison, “Awwwww.”
The campers were organized into about four groups based on age, and each group would take the horses out for a ride at least once every day. We’ll get to more of that later.
The second major focus of the camp was Bible study, which could more accurately be described as avoiding Bible study. The counselors (usually college kids who’d failed to get jobs at Kmart) had no problem with this. At least mine didn’t. I can remember more than one study session quickly devolving into a discussion of pop culture. Being that we were out in the middle of nowhere and the counselors had been there for about three months, they were desperate to talk about anything not related to the camp. One day it was discovered that someone in my group had brought a Blues Traveler CD along with them. It was immediately borrowed (and played nonstop) by the guy who ran the mess hall. This should tell you how dire their situation was: They were happy to repeatedly listen to “Runaround” because they had not yet grown to hate it through constant radio overplay.
Since the camp was co-ed, the third priority (okay, probably the first) for almost everybody was thinking about – and doing things with – members of the opposite sex. Not for me, though. You know.
Maybe after all that stuff we’d think about God. But probably not.
That is not to say I feel I lost anything by not discussing theological questions with my counselor. I think I had more fun by avoiding those questions altogether. In our culture, spirituality is most often reserved for the dying, those who have just given up a long-time addiction, or conservative political candidates. It’s not something for fourteen-year-olds. Sorry, God.
More tomorrow.
___
Lesson 2: Avoiding the Task At Hand
Although the purpose of this camp, ostensibly, was to learn about God, He definitely took a backseat to no less than three or four other areas of concern. First and foremost were the horses, of which there were dozens. I haven’t mentioned it before, but the camp was actually a co-ed organization (I’m assuming it had quite the legal team behind it), and there were many more girls than boys in attendance. The reason for this is, of course, one of the oldest truths known to man: GIRLS GO APESHIT OVER HORSES. I don’t get it myself, but I know it’s true because I saw it proven repeatedly throughout the week. Indeed, you always knew if one was clopping around within nearby, because you’d suddenly hear a chorus of maybe ten to fifteen girl-voices chiming in unison, “Awwwww.”
The campers were organized into about four groups based on age, and each group would take the horses out for a ride at least once every day. We’ll get to more of that later.
The second major focus of the camp was Bible study, which could more accurately be described as avoiding Bible study. The counselors (usually college kids who’d failed to get jobs at Kmart) had no problem with this. At least mine didn’t. I can remember more than one study session quickly devolving into a discussion of pop culture. Being that we were out in the middle of nowhere and the counselors had been there for about three months, they were desperate to talk about anything not related to the camp. One day it was discovered that someone in my group had brought a Blues Traveler CD along with them. It was immediately borrowed (and played nonstop) by the guy who ran the mess hall. This should tell you how dire their situation was: They were happy to repeatedly listen to “Runaround” because they had not yet grown to hate it through constant radio overplay.
Since the camp was co-ed, the third priority (okay, probably the first) for almost everybody was thinking about – and doing things with – members of the opposite sex. Not for me, though. You know.
Maybe after all that stuff we’d think about God. But probably not.
That is not to say I feel I lost anything by not discussing theological questions with my counselor. I think I had more fun by avoiding those questions altogether. In our culture, spirituality is most often reserved for the dying, those who have just given up a long-time addiction, or conservative political candidates. It’s not something for fourteen-year-olds. Sorry, God.
___
More tomorrow.
- TJG
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Camp, Part 2
Here's part two of my essay, "Notes on Church Camp."
After they get acclimated to their surroundings, the first thing most campers do is complain. They hate the cabins, hate the food, hate the fact that there’s not a bathroom within spitting distance. Surprisingly, I did not share their vitriol for our lodgings. Having attended more Scout camps than I could count in the years previous, it seemed I was going a step up from what camp had come to personify in my mind.
Instead of sleeping in tents so old that Lord Baden-Powell himself could have used them, we slept in a cabin that had once been a barn. Sure, it still smelled of straw and stale horse apples, but almost everything at the camp did. We did not have to assemble the cabin to be able to go to bed, it did not leak when it rained, and, most importantly, did not blow over in the slightest breeze.
While the food left something to be desired (How many times can you eat Spam in a day? Three, it turns out.), it was not Scout cuisine, which is located on the food chain somewhere between dirt and freeze-dried chicken.
Also appreciated was the plumbing – actual toilets compared to the Scouts’ hole in the ground with a tin tube and toilet seat affixed to it. You really can’t appreciate what you have until you’ve stood after using the commode and found there were not one, not two, but twelve mosquito bites on your ass.
So when most of my campmates would sit around and complain how they missed edible food, their Gameboys, and bedroom-adjacent bathrooms, I would sit back with a smug smile and think, ‘You have no idea.’
More tomorrow.
___
Lesson 1: Camp as a Home Away From Home. No, Seriously.
After they get acclimated to their surroundings, the first thing most campers do is complain. They hate the cabins, hate the food, hate the fact that there’s not a bathroom within spitting distance. Surprisingly, I did not share their vitriol for our lodgings. Having attended more Scout camps than I could count in the years previous, it seemed I was going a step up from what camp had come to personify in my mind.
Instead of sleeping in tents so old that Lord Baden-Powell himself could have used them, we slept in a cabin that had once been a barn. Sure, it still smelled of straw and stale horse apples, but almost everything at the camp did. We did not have to assemble the cabin to be able to go to bed, it did not leak when it rained, and, most importantly, did not blow over in the slightest breeze.
While the food left something to be desired (How many times can you eat Spam in a day? Three, it turns out.), it was not Scout cuisine, which is located on the food chain somewhere between dirt and freeze-dried chicken.
Also appreciated was the plumbing – actual toilets compared to the Scouts’ hole in the ground with a tin tube and toilet seat affixed to it. You really can’t appreciate what you have until you’ve stood after using the commode and found there were not one, not two, but twelve mosquito bites on your ass.
So when most of my campmates would sit around and complain how they missed edible food, their Gameboys, and bedroom-adjacent bathrooms, I would sit back with a smug smile and think, ‘You have no idea.’
___
More tomorrow.
- TJG
Monday, October 5, 2009
Camp, Part 1
Here's the first part of my essay, "Notes On Church Camp."
Like most children, I never went to church gladly. While you could say that two of my hobbies during my childhood were sitting still and being quiet, I found it impossible to do either once I was in the confines of a House of God. My mother still recalls with embarrassment the times she would take me to morning services, only to have me shout repeatedly and at the top of my lungs: “I don’t like this! I don’t like this!” Not much had changed by the time I reached eighth grade, except that I no longer verbalized my discomfort. Rather than whine about boredom, I now used the pastor’s sermons as opportunities to indulge in fantasies which, based on the church’s teachings, would get me condemned to Hell immediately if I acted on them.
When I wasn’t taking mind-trips to the land that dare not speak its name, I was mournfully pondering the fact that now, as a 14-year-old, I was being forced to undergo the torturous process known as Confirmation. As a result, I was required to come to church not only on Sunday mornings, but for two hours each Wednesday night, as well. While designed as an opportunity for youths such as myself to better understand what our church was all about, and thus come of age spiritually, I saw it as more proof that God was going out of His way to make my life a Hell on Earth.
For starters, after the Confirmation class’ opening hour of Bible study, we were segregated by both sex and grade for private instruction. While I was on limited speaking terms with some of the girls my age, the only role I played among the boys was that of human punching bag. Coupled with this, Wednesday tended to be the biggest homework night of the week, so by the time I got home at about nine, I had only an hour to do everything. (Why didn’t I do it when I got home from school, you ask? You shut up.) And – possibly worst of all – while I was busy trying to fake an interest in things like Zaccheus, the Sacrements, or manna, the rest of the nation was able to stay home and watch The Drew Carey Show.
But this was not all. Rather than just steal two hours of my Wednesdays away from me, the church’s Confirmation program promised to sink its talons into my summer vacation, as well. One of its main requirements was that each student spend at least one week of their summer at a church-sanctioned camp. It was a rule that seemed murky at best, as paying to attend said camp was also a requirement. But, because attendance was mandatory, logical arguments would not get me out of it. No camp, no Confirmation. It was as simple as that. Flimsy as they may have been, the rules were law, although I remember thinking at the time that another set of (much more important) church rules had no mention of camp in them. At least they didn’t in that Charlton Heston movie.
Anyway, it was decided that I would attend a camp that doubled as a horse ranch. We always had at least one horse when I was growing up, so the surroundings weren’t as foreign to me as they may have been to other campers. But it still seemed an odd choice. Although I was able to ride, I was never overly fond of it. I was always more interested in things like counting and shelving my many books, reading about and watching old movies, and listening to old music. While I didn’t grasp it at the time, my parents’ intentions in sending me to this camp/ranch may have been an unconscious desire on their parts to try and toughen me up. I don’t really blame them. What else can you do with a 14-year-old boy whose favorite singer is Billie Holiday? And so, toward the end of August, I was driven, along with my older brother, to the camp, which was located in the north-central part of South Dakota. For those who’ve never been there – and you haven’t – it is a land as flat and dry as a Triscuit, hotter (in August, anyway) than a cramped auditorium, and about as densely-populated as a theater showing a Paris Hilton movie. As my parents drove away, I hoped I would be able to write this wasted week off as a good learning experience, and luckily, I was. While I’m still not a proponent of the enforced-fun factor a summer camp exemplifies, I have realized there are several lessons that can be learned from attending one.
Lesson one tomorrow.
___
Like most children, I never went to church gladly. While you could say that two of my hobbies during my childhood were sitting still and being quiet, I found it impossible to do either once I was in the confines of a House of God. My mother still recalls with embarrassment the times she would take me to morning services, only to have me shout repeatedly and at the top of my lungs: “I don’t like this! I don’t like this!” Not much had changed by the time I reached eighth grade, except that I no longer verbalized my discomfort. Rather than whine about boredom, I now used the pastor’s sermons as opportunities to indulge in fantasies which, based on the church’s teachings, would get me condemned to Hell immediately if I acted on them.
When I wasn’t taking mind-trips to the land that dare not speak its name, I was mournfully pondering the fact that now, as a 14-year-old, I was being forced to undergo the torturous process known as Confirmation. As a result, I was required to come to church not only on Sunday mornings, but for two hours each Wednesday night, as well. While designed as an opportunity for youths such as myself to better understand what our church was all about, and thus come of age spiritually, I saw it as more proof that God was going out of His way to make my life a Hell on Earth.
For starters, after the Confirmation class’ opening hour of Bible study, we were segregated by both sex and grade for private instruction. While I was on limited speaking terms with some of the girls my age, the only role I played among the boys was that of human punching bag. Coupled with this, Wednesday tended to be the biggest homework night of the week, so by the time I got home at about nine, I had only an hour to do everything. (Why didn’t I do it when I got home from school, you ask? You shut up.) And – possibly worst of all – while I was busy trying to fake an interest in things like Zaccheus, the Sacrements, or manna, the rest of the nation was able to stay home and watch The Drew Carey Show.
But this was not all. Rather than just steal two hours of my Wednesdays away from me, the church’s Confirmation program promised to sink its talons into my summer vacation, as well. One of its main requirements was that each student spend at least one week of their summer at a church-sanctioned camp. It was a rule that seemed murky at best, as paying to attend said camp was also a requirement. But, because attendance was mandatory, logical arguments would not get me out of it. No camp, no Confirmation. It was as simple as that. Flimsy as they may have been, the rules were law, although I remember thinking at the time that another set of (much more important) church rules had no mention of camp in them. At least they didn’t in that Charlton Heston movie.
Anyway, it was decided that I would attend a camp that doubled as a horse ranch. We always had at least one horse when I was growing up, so the surroundings weren’t as foreign to me as they may have been to other campers. But it still seemed an odd choice. Although I was able to ride, I was never overly fond of it. I was always more interested in things like counting and shelving my many books, reading about and watching old movies, and listening to old music. While I didn’t grasp it at the time, my parents’ intentions in sending me to this camp/ranch may have been an unconscious desire on their parts to try and toughen me up. I don’t really blame them. What else can you do with a 14-year-old boy whose favorite singer is Billie Holiday? And so, toward the end of August, I was driven, along with my older brother, to the camp, which was located in the north-central part of South Dakota. For those who’ve never been there – and you haven’t – it is a land as flat and dry as a Triscuit, hotter (in August, anyway) than a cramped auditorium, and about as densely-populated as a theater showing a Paris Hilton movie. As my parents drove away, I hoped I would be able to write this wasted week off as a good learning experience, and luckily, I was. While I’m still not a proponent of the enforced-fun factor a summer camp exemplifies, I have realized there are several lessons that can be learned from attending one.
___
Lesson one tomorrow.
- TJG
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Buster Keaton
On this day in 1895, Buster Keaton was born. I wrote this piece a couple years ago for a different project, but I think the points it makes are still valid.
Buster Keaton saved my life on the night of October 15, 1995, even though he had died twenty-nine years before that.
Between 1920 and 1928, he was an independent filmmaker and produced a body of work that, for sheer originality and overall quality, is unmatched before or since in the history of movie-making.
Then in 1928, his producer, Joseph Schenck, sold his contract to MGM, and he never had creative freedom again. Within five years, he’d become an alcoholic, was divorced by his wife, and was fired by MGM after making a whole series of shitty movies for them.
After that, he starred in low-budget shorts, wrote gags for Red Skelton, eventually quit drinking, and married the love of his life. He found personal happiness.
But he never got the chance to make another one of his movies.
People spend a lot of time talking about it, and about how it wasn’t fair. They’re right – it wasn’t fair, but so is dwelling on it. He never did. When someone asked him if he was bitter about going back to MGM years later to write gags for two hundred dollars a week after having been paid three thousand dollars a week by them when he was still a star, do you know what he said?
“If I’m worth more, they’ll pay me more.”
For a little while – in his career, at least – he got to do exactly what he wanted. Luckily, we still have his work from that era. Nineteen short films and ten features. That’s what we should dwell on – the fact that he had total freedom for eight years of his life.
Most people don’t have it for one.
Happy birthday, Buster.
___
Buster Keaton saved my life on the night of October 15, 1995, even though he had died twenty-nine years before that.
Between 1920 and 1928, he was an independent filmmaker and produced a body of work that, for sheer originality and overall quality, is unmatched before or since in the history of movie-making.
Then in 1928, his producer, Joseph Schenck, sold his contract to MGM, and he never had creative freedom again. Within five years, he’d become an alcoholic, was divorced by his wife, and was fired by MGM after making a whole series of shitty movies for them.
After that, he starred in low-budget shorts, wrote gags for Red Skelton, eventually quit drinking, and married the love of his life. He found personal happiness.
But he never got the chance to make another one of his movies.
People spend a lot of time talking about it, and about how it wasn’t fair. They’re right – it wasn’t fair, but so is dwelling on it. He never did. When someone asked him if he was bitter about going back to MGM years later to write gags for two hundred dollars a week after having been paid three thousand dollars a week by them when he was still a star, do you know what he said?
“If I’m worth more, they’ll pay me more.”
For a little while – in his career, at least – he got to do exactly what he wanted. Luckily, we still have his work from that era. Nineteen short films and ten features. That’s what we should dwell on – the fact that he had total freedom for eight years of his life.
Most people don’t have it for one.
___
Happy birthday, Buster.
- TJG
Friday, October 2, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Weekend
There will be no posts this weekend, as I am sick and will be taking the time to recover. Hope it's a good one for all of you. It will be a sleepy one for me.
I'll be back Monday with something new.
I'll be back Monday with something new.
- TJG
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Work As Hell, Part 7
I hope everyone had a good weekend. Here's the final part of the essay:
After that day, I resolved to find a new line of employment, but nothing had come of it, even months later. By this point, I was a full-fledged member of the call center generation: I had a college degree that was going to waste, more than a full year after I had graduated, and was working a shitty job that didn’t even require a high school degree. I was one of those people who goes around telling everyone, especially themselves, that a change is coming soon, and that it will be good. But it’s all just talk. Day after day of a soul-sucking job, they’re no longer interested in trying to make a better life for themselves. So as long as the banks, the credit card companies, the phone services keep signing the checks and providing the insurance, they will stay where they are. They will not be happy, but they will stay. Their resistance is too worn down for them to care much after a while.
I would have stayed this way myself had my poor work record not caught up with me. It turned out the company had installed a new monitoring system and not told anyone, and this is how they discovered I (and about half the other employees) was hanging up on the fraud calls. I barely even realized I was doing it anymore – it was almost a reflex at this point. But the system found me out, and I was fired. It was April 20, Hitler’s birthday, and I had been there just over a year and four months. Had they not fired me, I’d probably still be there.
When it was done, I gathered my belongings, said goodbye to my friend Isaac, and left. The air was cool outside, and it began to rain as I walked back to my car and wondered what I should pick up for dinner.
Well, that's it. I'll find something new for tomorrow.
___
After that day, I resolved to find a new line of employment, but nothing had come of it, even months later. By this point, I was a full-fledged member of the call center generation: I had a college degree that was going to waste, more than a full year after I had graduated, and was working a shitty job that didn’t even require a high school degree. I was one of those people who goes around telling everyone, especially themselves, that a change is coming soon, and that it will be good. But it’s all just talk. Day after day of a soul-sucking job, they’re no longer interested in trying to make a better life for themselves. So as long as the banks, the credit card companies, the phone services keep signing the checks and providing the insurance, they will stay where they are. They will not be happy, but they will stay. Their resistance is too worn down for them to care much after a while.
I would have stayed this way myself had my poor work record not caught up with me. It turned out the company had installed a new monitoring system and not told anyone, and this is how they discovered I (and about half the other employees) was hanging up on the fraud calls. I barely even realized I was doing it anymore – it was almost a reflex at this point. But the system found me out, and I was fired. It was April 20, Hitler’s birthday, and I had been there just over a year and four months. Had they not fired me, I’d probably still be there.
When it was done, I gathered my belongings, said goodbye to my friend Isaac, and left. The air was cool outside, and it began to rain as I walked back to my car and wondered what I should pick up for dinner.
___
Well, that's it. I'll find something new for tomorrow.
- TJG
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Work As Hell, Part 6
We're getting down to the end here, folks. There's only two installments left. However, you'll have to wait until Tuesday to get the final one. I have to go out of town and won't have Internet access. But I shall return, so don't get your hopes up.
The job was beginning to take its toll, no doubt about it. When people would ask me how work was, it was all I could do to keep from punching them in the throat. I would groan a feeble “ehhh” and move on to less unpleasant topics, such as then-President George W. Bush’s foreign policy.
What I now see as the turning point came one late-winter afternoon, with a call between a young couple. The girl called the guy, who was busy with friends, to tell him she was pregnant. He spoke to her in a calm, even voice, as though he were double-checking a grocery list.
“Wait ‘til I get home, baby, and we’ll take care of it,” the guy said.
“Take care of it?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“How?” she asked.
“I’ll show you how to fall on it,” he said. “I gotta go now, baby. I’ll see you later.”
“Fall on it where?” she asked.
“On the back of the couch.”
“How?”
“You can fall into it, like you’re divin’ into a pool,” he said.
“Okay, hold on,” she said, and put the phone down.
“Hello?”
No response.
“Did she hang up on me?” the guy asked.
“No sir,” I said, “she is still on the line.”
“Where’d she go?”
“I cannot get involved in the call, sir.”
After what seemed like hours but was probably only two minutes, she returned.
“I just tried it, but I don’t know if it worked,” she said.
“Well, baby, I told you to wait ‘til I get home, then I’ll show you.”
“When are you coming home?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m out with the guys right now, but I’ll be back soon, okay baby? Just wait for me.”
“Okay,” she said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, baby. I gotta go now.”
When they were finished, I logged off my computer, went to the bathroom and stayed there for ten minutes, sitting on the toilet seat and hugging my knees, wanting more than anything to be somewhere else.
I'll be back with the conlusion on Tuesday. Have a great weekend!
___
The job was beginning to take its toll, no doubt about it. When people would ask me how work was, it was all I could do to keep from punching them in the throat. I would groan a feeble “ehhh” and move on to less unpleasant topics, such as then-President George W. Bush’s foreign policy.
What I now see as the turning point came one late-winter afternoon, with a call between a young couple. The girl called the guy, who was busy with friends, to tell him she was pregnant. He spoke to her in a calm, even voice, as though he were double-checking a grocery list.
“Wait ‘til I get home, baby, and we’ll take care of it,” the guy said.
“Take care of it?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“How?” she asked.
“I’ll show you how to fall on it,” he said. “I gotta go now, baby. I’ll see you later.”
“Fall on it where?” she asked.
“On the back of the couch.”
“How?”
“You can fall into it, like you’re divin’ into a pool,” he said.
“Okay, hold on,” she said, and put the phone down.
“Hello?”
No response.
“Did she hang up on me?” the guy asked.
“No sir,” I said, “she is still on the line.”
“Where’d she go?”
“I cannot get involved in the call, sir.”
After what seemed like hours but was probably only two minutes, she returned.
“I just tried it, but I don’t know if it worked,” she said.
“Well, baby, I told you to wait ‘til I get home, then I’ll show you.”
“When are you coming home?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m out with the guys right now, but I’ll be back soon, okay baby? Just wait for me.”
“Okay,” she said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, baby. I gotta go now.”
When they were finished, I logged off my computer, went to the bathroom and stayed there for ten minutes, sitting on the toilet seat and hugging my knees, wanting more than anything to be somewhere else.
___
I'll be back with the conlusion on Tuesday. Have a great weekend!
- TJG
Friday, August 28, 2009
Work As Hell, Part 5
And here we have yet another installment in the continuing saga, "Life in the Call Center Generation." Fans of schadenfreude, enjoy!
After a while, I decided to switch to the day shift. At the time, I told people that it was because I was tired of the boredom, the sometimes 15-minute chunks between calls, but in actuality, I switched because I had begun to do calls in my sleep. Because of the late hours, there wasn’t much of a gap between the time I got off work and the time I went to bed, so I would often find myself waking up and saying, “Thank you for calling, this is... huh?” So I decided to make the change.
In retrospect, this was probably the first (well, second) element of my downfall within the company.
For starters, there weren’t only more fraud calls, there were more calls in general. Even though it made the day go a lot faster, it also made things a lot more stressful.
It really cut into my ability to read on the job, too. While improving my literacy wasn’t the reason I had applied for the position, it did end up being the reason I halfway enjoyed coming to work. I finally had the opportunity to finish all those books I had either not made it past the first chapters of, or just plain lied and said that I had read. (I would like to take this opportunity to make a formal apology to the estates of Joseph Heller, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Mikhail Bulgakov.) During the day, it was impossible to read even a paragraph most of the time because there was rarely a call-free gap of 15 seconds, much less 15 minutes.
There were a lot more business calls during the day, too. I didn’t realize it before (again: idiot!), but people rarely, if ever, do business after, well, business hours. Even mundane things, like setting up a doctor’s appointment, are impossible after 5 p.m. most of the time. Not that I minded too much, but these calls could be the most embarrassing – far worse than anything a half-wit fratboy could concoct. Luckily, almost everyone who works in doctors’ offices is familiar with TTY calls and understands it’s not you but the deaf person who’s calling. Even so, it was hard not to remind them to make that distinction. Unfortunately, you would be fired if you prefaced one of the comments with something like, “Remember, this isn’t me talking, so when I say I have an itchy anus from chronic diarrhea, I’m speaking for someone else, so direct your stifled laughter at them, and not me.”
I guess the biggest difference between the day and the night shift, apart from there being more than five employees in the center at a time, was how much more urgent the calls seemed to be. If you call someone at night and they don’t answer, you assume they’re either asleep or they’re out of town. If they don’t answer during the day, it becomes an insult to your honor, a black mark so great that you must have the operator leave no less than five messages on the answering machine, asking what have you done to deserve this, often ending with a statement like, “With friends like you, who needs friends?” This will usually be followed by three or four more messages, each more vitriolic than the last, telling your now-former friend that their children are ugly, stupid and ill-mannered. You will then move on to insulting their spouse or significant other, saying something like, “They’ve changed you. What happened? Why won’t you let me in?!” This may be followed by a quick, 10- to 15-word message asking to please ignore the previous messages, that you spoke hastily, and that you truly value the friendship, or you would if they would just call you back. This final message is not mandatory, however, and should rarely be used, lest you lose the upper hand in the relationship.
There was a difference between the day shift and night shift employees, as well. The night-shifters generally consisted of a gaggle of pale, scrawny, sad-faced worms, usually single men in their early 20s who were “between jobs” and lived with their parents. They rarely spoke, and tried to sit as far apart as humanly possible from each other within the call center. On the whole, it was nice. By comparison, the day-shifters seemed to enjoy each others’ presence, forever passing around photos of kids and grandkids in the break room, or using the slightest excuse to bring enough casserole to feed a small army, which everyone could then fight over like a pack of rabid dogs.
And there was no chance of you getting an isolated cubicle during the day. I usually considered myself lucky if I could find a place to sit that was only partially surrounded. In those close quarters, it was next to impossible to pretend you were by yourself, what with the talking, the coughing, the sneezing. The leaving of crumbs or other unknown sticky substances on the keyboards, ready for some unfortunate person to put their hands in – a person who, even on his better days, has trouble shaking even gloved hands. A person who was discovered crying and hysterically washing his hands in the break room sink after he squished a mosquito that was filled with somebody else’s blood. A person who would now have to wait possibly hours before he could get up from the sticky, germ-ridden keyboard to finally wash his hands again, only to be interrupted by a supervisor, who would admonish, “You forgot to log off your computer!”
More tomorrow. Have a great weekend!
___
After a while, I decided to switch to the day shift. At the time, I told people that it was because I was tired of the boredom, the sometimes 15-minute chunks between calls, but in actuality, I switched because I had begun to do calls in my sleep. Because of the late hours, there wasn’t much of a gap between the time I got off work and the time I went to bed, so I would often find myself waking up and saying, “Thank you for calling, this is... huh?” So I decided to make the change.
In retrospect, this was probably the first (well, second) element of my downfall within the company.
For starters, there weren’t only more fraud calls, there were more calls in general. Even though it made the day go a lot faster, it also made things a lot more stressful.
It really cut into my ability to read on the job, too. While improving my literacy wasn’t the reason I had applied for the position, it did end up being the reason I halfway enjoyed coming to work. I finally had the opportunity to finish all those books I had either not made it past the first chapters of, or just plain lied and said that I had read. (I would like to take this opportunity to make a formal apology to the estates of Joseph Heller, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Mikhail Bulgakov.) During the day, it was impossible to read even a paragraph most of the time because there was rarely a call-free gap of 15 seconds, much less 15 minutes.
There were a lot more business calls during the day, too. I didn’t realize it before (again: idiot!), but people rarely, if ever, do business after, well, business hours. Even mundane things, like setting up a doctor’s appointment, are impossible after 5 p.m. most of the time. Not that I minded too much, but these calls could be the most embarrassing – far worse than anything a half-wit fratboy could concoct. Luckily, almost everyone who works in doctors’ offices is familiar with TTY calls and understands it’s not you but the deaf person who’s calling. Even so, it was hard not to remind them to make that distinction. Unfortunately, you would be fired if you prefaced one of the comments with something like, “Remember, this isn’t me talking, so when I say I have an itchy anus from chronic diarrhea, I’m speaking for someone else, so direct your stifled laughter at them, and not me.”
I guess the biggest difference between the day and the night shift, apart from there being more than five employees in the center at a time, was how much more urgent the calls seemed to be. If you call someone at night and they don’t answer, you assume they’re either asleep or they’re out of town. If they don’t answer during the day, it becomes an insult to your honor, a black mark so great that you must have the operator leave no less than five messages on the answering machine, asking what have you done to deserve this, often ending with a statement like, “With friends like you, who needs friends?” This will usually be followed by three or four more messages, each more vitriolic than the last, telling your now-former friend that their children are ugly, stupid and ill-mannered. You will then move on to insulting their spouse or significant other, saying something like, “They’ve changed you. What happened? Why won’t you let me in?!” This may be followed by a quick, 10- to 15-word message asking to please ignore the previous messages, that you spoke hastily, and that you truly value the friendship, or you would if they would just call you back. This final message is not mandatory, however, and should rarely be used, lest you lose the upper hand in the relationship.
There was a difference between the day shift and night shift employees, as well. The night-shifters generally consisted of a gaggle of pale, scrawny, sad-faced worms, usually single men in their early 20s who were “between jobs” and lived with their parents. They rarely spoke, and tried to sit as far apart as humanly possible from each other within the call center. On the whole, it was nice. By comparison, the day-shifters seemed to enjoy each others’ presence, forever passing around photos of kids and grandkids in the break room, or using the slightest excuse to bring enough casserole to feed a small army, which everyone could then fight over like a pack of rabid dogs.
And there was no chance of you getting an isolated cubicle during the day. I usually considered myself lucky if I could find a place to sit that was only partially surrounded. In those close quarters, it was next to impossible to pretend you were by yourself, what with the talking, the coughing, the sneezing. The leaving of crumbs or other unknown sticky substances on the keyboards, ready for some unfortunate person to put their hands in – a person who, even on his better days, has trouble shaking even gloved hands. A person who was discovered crying and hysterically washing his hands in the break room sink after he squished a mosquito that was filled with somebody else’s blood. A person who would now have to wait possibly hours before he could get up from the sticky, germ-ridden keyboard to finally wash his hands again, only to be interrupted by a supervisor, who would admonish, “You forgot to log off your computer!”
___
More tomorrow. Have a great weekend!
- TJG
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Work As Hell, Part 4
It continues. I hope you're getting some enjoyment out of what was one of the worst periods of my life. Here's part four:
When I began working as a full-time CA, I thought I would be ideally suited for the night shift, which began at 4:30 p.m., and ended at one in the morning. I don’t sleep well, and I reasoned the traffic wouldn’t be as bad when I was driving to and from work. What I didn’t plan on was how utterly boring that shift would be. After about 10 p.m., the place was so quiet that you could almost forget you were at work, were it not for the constant dull glow of fluorescent lighting and the general sense of malaise radiating off the other employees. It would get so slow that sometimes I didn’t even mind doing fraud calls. And anyway, by that time of night, most of the businesses they were trying to scam were closed, so I had no problem dialing numbers that were never going to be answered. I remember one night a scammer had me dial 24 outgoing numbers before they finally gave up. By that time, two hours had passed, and it was time for me to go home.
Of course, there was always the off chance that one of the calls would be picked up, and then the even more unlikely possibility of a card going through. Whenever it happened I felt bad for the store, because it was usually a small business selling some random item that no one would ever want to buy. The fact that someone was calling them in the middle of the night wanting to buy not one but 50 pieces of their product must have seemed like a gift from God. “What’s that?” you could almost hear them thinking. “Someone wants to buy a gross of my velvet art paintings of Bob Marley? Oh lord, blessed by thy name!”
The first time that happened, I almost disconnected the call, but I was afraid that if I did, sirens would go off and I would be chased out of the building like Boris Karloff at the end of Frankenstein. So I didn’t disconnect it. For two months or so. The first time it happened was by accident, and when nothing came of it a week or so later, I began disconnecting the frauds regularly.
10 p.m. was also about the time the prank calls started up. I didn’t mind hanging up on them, either. It was usually a couple of fratboys who heard about our Internet service on Howard Stern, and decided to call and make the operators type and say embarrassing things. This often revolved around some form of homosexual sex, but fortunately most fratboys are too insecure with themselves to actually describe what such acts would entail, so it would usually revolve around something mild, like, “I’m gay. You make me so hot. Will you be my boyfriend?” Considering some of the legitimate doctor/patient, husband/wife, and occasionally, dominatrix/client calls I’d performed, the fratboy antics really weren’t so bad.
But I hung up on them, anyway. Not many other people did, though, and I’ll admit that it could be amusing to hear what some of them were forced to say. One of the greatest joys of my life was hearing my high school health teacher – who worked at the call center for a second job – utter the words, “Lick my balls.” She didn’t hang up, though. I’ve got to hand it to her. She had more stamina for the work than I did.
Come to think of it, most people seemed to. For a while there, I thought I was the only person who ever hung up on anybody. Then one night a woman sitting adjacent to me looked up and said in a conspiratorial tone, “I’m feeling really hangy-uppy tonight.”
She was gone a few weeks later, but I didn’t let that stop me.
Like I said before: I’m an idiot.
There's still more to come, but I'm sure you can see where this is going. Thanks for reading.
___
When I began working as a full-time CA, I thought I would be ideally suited for the night shift, which began at 4:30 p.m., and ended at one in the morning. I don’t sleep well, and I reasoned the traffic wouldn’t be as bad when I was driving to and from work. What I didn’t plan on was how utterly boring that shift would be. After about 10 p.m., the place was so quiet that you could almost forget you were at work, were it not for the constant dull glow of fluorescent lighting and the general sense of malaise radiating off the other employees. It would get so slow that sometimes I didn’t even mind doing fraud calls. And anyway, by that time of night, most of the businesses they were trying to scam were closed, so I had no problem dialing numbers that were never going to be answered. I remember one night a scammer had me dial 24 outgoing numbers before they finally gave up. By that time, two hours had passed, and it was time for me to go home.
Of course, there was always the off chance that one of the calls would be picked up, and then the even more unlikely possibility of a card going through. Whenever it happened I felt bad for the store, because it was usually a small business selling some random item that no one would ever want to buy. The fact that someone was calling them in the middle of the night wanting to buy not one but 50 pieces of their product must have seemed like a gift from God. “What’s that?” you could almost hear them thinking. “Someone wants to buy a gross of my velvet art paintings of Bob Marley? Oh lord, blessed by thy name!”
The first time that happened, I almost disconnected the call, but I was afraid that if I did, sirens would go off and I would be chased out of the building like Boris Karloff at the end of Frankenstein. So I didn’t disconnect it. For two months or so. The first time it happened was by accident, and when nothing came of it a week or so later, I began disconnecting the frauds regularly.
10 p.m. was also about the time the prank calls started up. I didn’t mind hanging up on them, either. It was usually a couple of fratboys who heard about our Internet service on Howard Stern, and decided to call and make the operators type and say embarrassing things. This often revolved around some form of homosexual sex, but fortunately most fratboys are too insecure with themselves to actually describe what such acts would entail, so it would usually revolve around something mild, like, “I’m gay. You make me so hot. Will you be my boyfriend?” Considering some of the legitimate doctor/patient, husband/wife, and occasionally, dominatrix/client calls I’d performed, the fratboy antics really weren’t so bad.
But I hung up on them, anyway. Not many other people did, though, and I’ll admit that it could be amusing to hear what some of them were forced to say. One of the greatest joys of my life was hearing my high school health teacher – who worked at the call center for a second job – utter the words, “Lick my balls.” She didn’t hang up, though. I’ve got to hand it to her. She had more stamina for the work than I did.
Come to think of it, most people seemed to. For a while there, I thought I was the only person who ever hung up on anybody. Then one night a woman sitting adjacent to me looked up and said in a conspiratorial tone, “I’m feeling really hangy-uppy tonight.”
She was gone a few weeks later, but I didn’t let that stop me.
Like I said before: I’m an idiot.
___
There's still more to come, but I'm sure you can see where this is going. Thanks for reading.
- TJG
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Work As Hell, Part 3
Here's the third part of my essay, "Life in the Call Center Generation." I hope you're enjoying it.
Soon, it was the last day of our second week, and the first day we were on the phones full-time. It began awkwardly enough, with a conversation between a deaf Polish immigrant who was trying to verify the time of his wife’s AA meeting, and a surly ex-drunk who had never had a TTY call before.
We were given a page of instructions to read to the TTY virgins, but it usually only succeeded in angering and confusing them even more. Most people would eventually get the hang of it, while others seemed to understand it less and less as the call went on, saying things like, “What is this you’re doing? Why can’t they just talk to me?”
The man the immigrant was calling fell into the latter category. Of course, it didn’t help that after the caller obtained the information he had requested, he kept repeating how his wife’s drinking made he and their children cry, and how AA would truly be a blessing in their lives.
“Yeah, are we done now?” the AA man said. “I don’t have time to listen to this.”
“I cannot get involved in the call, sir,” I chirped, surprised that I remembered the response we’d learned in class.
“I’m gonna listen to this crap two hours tonight, I’ve gotta listen to it now, too?” he said.
The immigrant continued the monologue about how his family would get back on its feet, and that now his wife was going to AA, nothing was going to stop them.
“Yeah, okay, bye then,” the AA man said curtly, and hung up.
My next call was probably one of the three or four worst I ever had. I won’t go into specifics, other than to say that it involved a child molestation case and an inconsolable social worker. I could have used a stiff dink after the two parties hung up, had I not just previously heard how my family would be irreparably damaged by it.
That afternoon, my class graduated. They gave us cake and poorly-designed “diplomas” and said they were looking forward to having us at the company for years to come.
Two weeks later, there were only three of us left.
The saga continues tomorrow. Thanks for stopping by.
___
Soon, it was the last day of our second week, and the first day we were on the phones full-time. It began awkwardly enough, with a conversation between a deaf Polish immigrant who was trying to verify the time of his wife’s AA meeting, and a surly ex-drunk who had never had a TTY call before.
We were given a page of instructions to read to the TTY virgins, but it usually only succeeded in angering and confusing them even more. Most people would eventually get the hang of it, while others seemed to understand it less and less as the call went on, saying things like, “What is this you’re doing? Why can’t they just talk to me?”
The man the immigrant was calling fell into the latter category. Of course, it didn’t help that after the caller obtained the information he had requested, he kept repeating how his wife’s drinking made he and their children cry, and how AA would truly be a blessing in their lives.
“Yeah, are we done now?” the AA man said. “I don’t have time to listen to this.”
“I cannot get involved in the call, sir,” I chirped, surprised that I remembered the response we’d learned in class.
“I’m gonna listen to this crap two hours tonight, I’ve gotta listen to it now, too?” he said.
The immigrant continued the monologue about how his family would get back on its feet, and that now his wife was going to AA, nothing was going to stop them.
“Yeah, okay, bye then,” the AA man said curtly, and hung up.
My next call was probably one of the three or four worst I ever had. I won’t go into specifics, other than to say that it involved a child molestation case and an inconsolable social worker. I could have used a stiff dink after the two parties hung up, had I not just previously heard how my family would be irreparably damaged by it.
That afternoon, my class graduated. They gave us cake and poorly-designed “diplomas” and said they were looking forward to having us at the company for years to come.
Two weeks later, there were only three of us left.
___
The saga continues tomorrow. Thanks for stopping by.
- TJG
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Work As Hell, Part 2
Here's the second part of my essay, "Life in the Call Center Generation." It's not as long as yesterday's installment, so that should make everyone happy.
Training took two weeks, and in retrospect, was the most enjoyable aspect of the 16 months I spent with the company. There were only four people in the class, so we got through things pretty quickly. Of course, some aspects of it were obvious time-fillers, such as the half-hour video explaining how to adjust our chairs, but who was going to complain? We were getting paid to learn how to swivel, for God’s sake.
But there were other exercises that were surprisingly useful, such as performing test calls with each other. For this, one person would get on a computer that was connected both to a telephone and a TTY machine, which is what most deaf people use to make calls. One person would use the phone, which was located in another room, and another would use the TTY machine, and the operator would relay the conversation between the two of them.
Two of my classmates didn’t go for creativity when making these test calls. They would stick to mundane conversations like, “When will you be home?” “In ten minutes.” “Okay, bye.” “Bye.” Weak stuff.
My friend Isaac and I would at least try to make it enjoyable for whoever had to type and read. My favorite exchange came when he pretended to be a doctor and asked if we could move my appointment to a later time.
My response: “Okay, but I don’t know how much longer I can take the itching.”
Of course, the calls we performed in class didn’t always end well. In the middle of the first week, we began to call our loved ones using the TTY machine so we could see what it was like to be on a call from a deaf person’s perspective. I was performing the operating duties for a girl classmate and her boyfriend, who appeared to be on his lunch break. We had been told repeatedly to type everything that was heard, whether the speaker intended it for broadcast or not. So when the boyfriend, frustrated at the girl’s insistence that he take part in this conversation, muttered a phrase one isn’t supposed to use in mixed company, I had no choice but to type it. The class reacted with a mixture of horror and mirth.
The relationship ended shortly thereafter.
At the end of the first week, we began to sit in on calls with the real operators, who worked upstairs. The calls I heard my first time up there were dull - just as ordinary and boring as the ones that had been made up in class. They were all parent/child or husband/wife conversations, and they never dealt with anything interesting, like ritual cannibalism or abnormal growth of body hair.
When we came back downstairs, I soon realized I was the only one who hadn’t learned what the business was really all about.
“Did anybody get one of those scam calls?” someone asked.
“Yeah,” the others said.
“What do you mean, scam calls?” I asked.
Our instructor sighed, and then patiently explained that if people didn’t have a TTY machine, they could use the Internet to make calls. Some of these people, it seems, had access to stolen credit cards. Mountains of them. So many cards that if the person on the other line told them that their card had been denied, they would be able to substitute an unlimited number of others in its place. And with these cards, they would attempt to purchase any number of products.
Most of the people doing the scamming seemed to hail from Nigeria, which meant that their grasp of the English language was not as strong as it could have been. For example, while a native speaker might say, “I would like to buy 50 T-shirts,” the scammer might say something like, “I will like for purchases 50 pieces of T-shirt.”
If the request were read out as typed, it would elicit a response such as, “Huh?” This would send the scammers (in my mind, anyway) scrambling for a dictionary, because it would often take about four minutes for a response to be sent. Usually it would be the same flawed statement as before, but it would have about ten GA’s behind it. (GA stood for “Go ahead,” and was supposed to conclude each comment from both parties, so everyone would know when to speak without interrupting.)
At first, these calls were hilarious.
This did not last.
I asked the trainer, “Is there any way we can get rid of these calls? Can we hang up on them at all?”
She was vehement. “No. It could be a deaf person on the line. It usually isn’t, but you never know.”
As I later learned, the real reason for the lack of hang-ups stemmed from a contract the company had. They couldn’t hang up on anybody if they wanted to stay in business, illegal activity or not. Which is ironic, considering that the constant deluge of fraud calls invariably made most of the employees annoyed with any call, even the legitimate ones. I could have tried to explain to my trainer that if we really wanted to help our customers, we should come up with a procedure that would allow us to hang up on the frauds and still keep the contract, but it was too early in my career for me to have such insight. It probably wouldn’t have made a difference, anyway. A hang-up procedure was instituted in my final weeks at the company, but there were so many things that had to happen before the hang-up could take place it was barely worth it. And then, of course, a new fraud call would come in five seconds later, so it just ended up being a vicious cycle. That’s business for you.
Thanks for stopping by! More tomorrow.
___
Training took two weeks, and in retrospect, was the most enjoyable aspect of the 16 months I spent with the company. There were only four people in the class, so we got through things pretty quickly. Of course, some aspects of it were obvious time-fillers, such as the half-hour video explaining how to adjust our chairs, but who was going to complain? We were getting paid to learn how to swivel, for God’s sake.
But there were other exercises that were surprisingly useful, such as performing test calls with each other. For this, one person would get on a computer that was connected both to a telephone and a TTY machine, which is what most deaf people use to make calls. One person would use the phone, which was located in another room, and another would use the TTY machine, and the operator would relay the conversation between the two of them.
Two of my classmates didn’t go for creativity when making these test calls. They would stick to mundane conversations like, “When will you be home?” “In ten minutes.” “Okay, bye.” “Bye.” Weak stuff.
My friend Isaac and I would at least try to make it enjoyable for whoever had to type and read. My favorite exchange came when he pretended to be a doctor and asked if we could move my appointment to a later time.
My response: “Okay, but I don’t know how much longer I can take the itching.”
Of course, the calls we performed in class didn’t always end well. In the middle of the first week, we began to call our loved ones using the TTY machine so we could see what it was like to be on a call from a deaf person’s perspective. I was performing the operating duties for a girl classmate and her boyfriend, who appeared to be on his lunch break. We had been told repeatedly to type everything that was heard, whether the speaker intended it for broadcast or not. So when the boyfriend, frustrated at the girl’s insistence that he take part in this conversation, muttered a phrase one isn’t supposed to use in mixed company, I had no choice but to type it. The class reacted with a mixture of horror and mirth.
The relationship ended shortly thereafter.
At the end of the first week, we began to sit in on calls with the real operators, who worked upstairs. The calls I heard my first time up there were dull - just as ordinary and boring as the ones that had been made up in class. They were all parent/child or husband/wife conversations, and they never dealt with anything interesting, like ritual cannibalism or abnormal growth of body hair.
When we came back downstairs, I soon realized I was the only one who hadn’t learned what the business was really all about.
“Did anybody get one of those scam calls?” someone asked.
“Yeah,” the others said.
“What do you mean, scam calls?” I asked.
Our instructor sighed, and then patiently explained that if people didn’t have a TTY machine, they could use the Internet to make calls. Some of these people, it seems, had access to stolen credit cards. Mountains of them. So many cards that if the person on the other line told them that their card had been denied, they would be able to substitute an unlimited number of others in its place. And with these cards, they would attempt to purchase any number of products.
Most of the people doing the scamming seemed to hail from Nigeria, which meant that their grasp of the English language was not as strong as it could have been. For example, while a native speaker might say, “I would like to buy 50 T-shirts,” the scammer might say something like, “I will like for purchases 50 pieces of T-shirt.”
If the request were read out as typed, it would elicit a response such as, “Huh?” This would send the scammers (in my mind, anyway) scrambling for a dictionary, because it would often take about four minutes for a response to be sent. Usually it would be the same flawed statement as before, but it would have about ten GA’s behind it. (GA stood for “Go ahead,” and was supposed to conclude each comment from both parties, so everyone would know when to speak without interrupting.)
At first, these calls were hilarious.
This did not last.
I asked the trainer, “Is there any way we can get rid of these calls? Can we hang up on them at all?”
She was vehement. “No. It could be a deaf person on the line. It usually isn’t, but you never know.”
As I later learned, the real reason for the lack of hang-ups stemmed from a contract the company had. They couldn’t hang up on anybody if they wanted to stay in business, illegal activity or not. Which is ironic, considering that the constant deluge of fraud calls invariably made most of the employees annoyed with any call, even the legitimate ones. I could have tried to explain to my trainer that if we really wanted to help our customers, we should come up with a procedure that would allow us to hang up on the frauds and still keep the contract, but it was too early in my career for me to have such insight. It probably wouldn’t have made a difference, anyway. A hang-up procedure was instituted in my final weeks at the company, but there were so many things that had to happen before the hang-up could take place it was barely worth it. And then, of course, a new fraud call would come in five seconds later, so it just ended up being a vicious cycle. That’s business for you.
___
Thanks for stopping by! More tomorrow.
- TJG
Monday, August 24, 2009
Work As Hell, Part 1
When I see people I've been out of touch with, they usually ask if my current job is the one I got when I graduated. It isn't. To tell them what happend would take too long, so I wrote an essay about it. It'll take about a week to get it all on here.
I skipped out on my college graduation ceremony. It didn’t matter that I’d spent four and a half years of my life working toward a degree; I just wanted out. I didn’t miss anything, anyway. I had been to friends’ ceremonies before, and I’d always bolted for the door as soon as they received their diplomas, thanking god that their last names occurred relatively early in the alphabet. I could barely stomach the thought of waiting two hours in a hot, cramped auditorium before they finally got to the letter “G.” Any sense of relief after getting my diploma would stem not from having accomplished something, but from finally being able to go use the restroom.
Besides, nobody pays any attention at those things – even the speakers acknowledge this. Indeed, it’s usually the only part of the speech anybody remembers. So instead of going through the charade of giving a damn, I just stayed home, slept in, and waited for my degree to arrive in the mail.
It was just after Christmas when the reality of my situation set in. I was living with my parents, back in my old room, and without a job. Suddenly it became hard to sponge money off of them, even though I’d been doing it, in one way or another, for my entire career as a student. The realization that it’s much more difficult to beg across the breakfast table than it is over a long distance telephone call sunk in with depressing speed. So I began to look for temporary employment – something to support me until a “real” job came along.
That is not to say, however, that I was going to take just any position that came my way. I couldn’t be called upon for anything requiring special qualifications, such as having “a winning personality,” or being the type who “loves to work with people.” This is not my forte. I’d sooner clean up after a dysenteric elephant than help somebody find a pair of jeans that fits.
In the end, I found something that seemed unimposing. Something that appeared neither stressful nor boring. A job, which, while it required interaction with the human race, it did not require that I actually see them.
In short, it was something even I was qualified for.
The ad was simple:
“Wanted: Communication Assistant ... We are an industry leader in providing telecommunication services to deaf, hard of hearing, and speech impaired callers across the nation. This position does not involve sales or telemarketing, but it does involve making a difference in the lives of others. Walk-in interviews every Thursday.”
I say with some pride that I was more moved by the mention of no sales or telemarketing than I was by the opportunity to make a difference. I don’t usually go out of my way to help the poor, needy, or disabled. When homeless people ask me for change I usually say, “Sure, can you break a twenty?” Even those sad-faced five-cents-a-day Angela Lansbury kids seem like too much work to me.
However, when the opportunity to both help my fellow man and get paid at the same time arose, I was more than happy to lend a hand.
I filled out the application as quickly as possible, only to have the desk-girl approach me several times with the question, “What does this say?” Stifling the urge to tell her, “Who gives a crap? You people would probably hire a chimpanzee if he knew how to type,” I would simply supply her with the correct information, such as, “Co. is an abbreviation that stands for Colorado,” and, “That says ‘Travis,’ which is my name.”
Soon, it was time for me to take a typing test. I and another applicant, a 50-ish woman who looked like she smoked too much and smelled like she lived with 12 cats, were led down a narrow, dimly-lit hallway to a table with two computers. “I’m so nervous,” the cat lady whispered to me. “I haven’t typed in about 20 years.”
The test moderator looked like a strange cross between Lisa Kudrow and some type of humanoid lizard, and had all the charm and efficiency of an evening with Martin Boorman.
“All right,” she said coolly. “Just type what it says on the top of the screen and it will register at the bottom. As you finish one line of text, a new line will appear. Keep typing until the computer tells you to stop. You have two minutes.”
She then left us alone.
As I didn’t care one way or another about being hired, I typed away steadily, with no thought as to whether I was doing a good job. Cat lady, however, would punctuate the silence with an occasional “Darn it,” or, “Where’s the delete key?”
“Don’t worry about deletions,” the moderator said impatiently from another room. “Just continue typing!”
Soon the two minutes were up. The moderator approached us. “I will go retrieve the results of your tests,” she said. “Please wait here.”
After she left, my companion said, “I don’t think I did very good. I’m so nervous!”
Apart from feeling annoyed that she felt the need to make such an obvious statement, I felt a certain sympathy for her. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m sure you did fine.”
I don’t think either of us believed me.
Soon, the moderator returned. It looked like she was trying to smile at me, but I couldn’t tell. It seemed as though she’d heard about smiling all her life, but had never actually seen one, much less tried one. The corners of her mouth were pulled out straight, rather than turned upward. She looked more scared than happy – like she’d just been told by Charles Manson that she was his long-lost daughter and didn’t want to offend him in case the girls were lurking nearby.
“You did pretty well,” she told me. “You typed 50 words a minute. To work here, you have to be able to type 60, but this is good enough to get into training.”
“Lucky me,” I thought.
When the moderator turned her attention to the cat lady, her mood changed. She spoke as though she were addressing someone truly unfortunate, like a child with terminal cancer, or a mime.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but you did not do as well. You only typed 30 words a minute.”
“Aww,” the cat lady said, looking even less sorry than she sounded.
The moderator nodded her head, blinking slowly. I almost expected her to pull out a copy of “When Bad Things Happen to Good People” when she said, “You can try to reapply if you want. But you’ll have to wait six months.”
“Oh,” the cat lady replied.
“Maybe you’ll be able to practice your typing a little before then,” the moderator chirped, suddenly, inexplicably happy again.
I cringed, embarrassed that she could be so unashamedly cruel to a perfect stranger while in the company of a potential employee. It did not seem a good sign of things to come.
Minutes later, the moderator and I were chatting in her office. It, like her demeanor and people skills, was cold and efficient.
I hummed a few bars of Wagner to myself as she explained the job requirements: As the ad had read, I would be a communication assistant (a CA for short) and it would be my job to help deaf and hearing people communicate with each other over the telephone. I would type what the hearing person said, and the deaf person would read it and type their response, which I would read out loud to the hearing person.
Then we went through the usual interview questions, and in the midst of “Where did you go to school,” “What do you like to do,” and “Where do you see yourself in five years,” came a question I would never have guessed she’d ask.
“What are your feelings on profanity?” she asked.
I blinked a few times.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Do you have a problem with using it?”
At first I thought this could be some sneaky interview trick to fool me into dropping the F-bomb, but it was not so.
She explained, “As a CA, you will be required to say everything the deaf person types, and it can get pretty graphic sometimes. Do you have a problem with swearing?”
This is usually the point of the story where my friends start laughing. Now, I could lie and say that they’re too quick to confuse an occasional emotional outburst with a condition known as “potty mouth,” but I’ll be honest. When I heard that there was a job where I could be fired for NOT using an expletive or two, I felt I had found my life’s work.
This is because I am an idiot.
“No,” I told her. “That won’t be a problem.”
And just like that, she hired me.
More tomorrow.
___
“Life in the Call Center Generation”
I skipped out on my college graduation ceremony. It didn’t matter that I’d spent four and a half years of my life working toward a degree; I just wanted out. I didn’t miss anything, anyway. I had been to friends’ ceremonies before, and I’d always bolted for the door as soon as they received their diplomas, thanking god that their last names occurred relatively early in the alphabet. I could barely stomach the thought of waiting two hours in a hot, cramped auditorium before they finally got to the letter “G.” Any sense of relief after getting my diploma would stem not from having accomplished something, but from finally being able to go use the restroom.
Besides, nobody pays any attention at those things – even the speakers acknowledge this. Indeed, it’s usually the only part of the speech anybody remembers. So instead of going through the charade of giving a damn, I just stayed home, slept in, and waited for my degree to arrive in the mail.
It was just after Christmas when the reality of my situation set in. I was living with my parents, back in my old room, and without a job. Suddenly it became hard to sponge money off of them, even though I’d been doing it, in one way or another, for my entire career as a student. The realization that it’s much more difficult to beg across the breakfast table than it is over a long distance telephone call sunk in with depressing speed. So I began to look for temporary employment – something to support me until a “real” job came along.
That is not to say, however, that I was going to take just any position that came my way. I couldn’t be called upon for anything requiring special qualifications, such as having “a winning personality,” or being the type who “loves to work with people.” This is not my forte. I’d sooner clean up after a dysenteric elephant than help somebody find a pair of jeans that fits.
In the end, I found something that seemed unimposing. Something that appeared neither stressful nor boring. A job, which, while it required interaction with the human race, it did not require that I actually see them.
In short, it was something even I was qualified for.
The ad was simple:
“Wanted: Communication Assistant ... We are an industry leader in providing telecommunication services to deaf, hard of hearing, and speech impaired callers across the nation. This position does not involve sales or telemarketing, but it does involve making a difference in the lives of others. Walk-in interviews every Thursday.”
I say with some pride that I was more moved by the mention of no sales or telemarketing than I was by the opportunity to make a difference. I don’t usually go out of my way to help the poor, needy, or disabled. When homeless people ask me for change I usually say, “Sure, can you break a twenty?” Even those sad-faced five-cents-a-day Angela Lansbury kids seem like too much work to me.
However, when the opportunity to both help my fellow man and get paid at the same time arose, I was more than happy to lend a hand.
I filled out the application as quickly as possible, only to have the desk-girl approach me several times with the question, “What does this say?” Stifling the urge to tell her, “Who gives a crap? You people would probably hire a chimpanzee if he knew how to type,” I would simply supply her with the correct information, such as, “Co. is an abbreviation that stands for Colorado,” and, “That says ‘Travis,’ which is my name.”
Soon, it was time for me to take a typing test. I and another applicant, a 50-ish woman who looked like she smoked too much and smelled like she lived with 12 cats, were led down a narrow, dimly-lit hallway to a table with two computers. “I’m so nervous,” the cat lady whispered to me. “I haven’t typed in about 20 years.”
The test moderator looked like a strange cross between Lisa Kudrow and some type of humanoid lizard, and had all the charm and efficiency of an evening with Martin Boorman.
“All right,” she said coolly. “Just type what it says on the top of the screen and it will register at the bottom. As you finish one line of text, a new line will appear. Keep typing until the computer tells you to stop. You have two minutes.”
She then left us alone.
As I didn’t care one way or another about being hired, I typed away steadily, with no thought as to whether I was doing a good job. Cat lady, however, would punctuate the silence with an occasional “Darn it,” or, “Where’s the delete key?”
“Don’t worry about deletions,” the moderator said impatiently from another room. “Just continue typing!”
Soon the two minutes were up. The moderator approached us. “I will go retrieve the results of your tests,” she said. “Please wait here.”
After she left, my companion said, “I don’t think I did very good. I’m so nervous!”
Apart from feeling annoyed that she felt the need to make such an obvious statement, I felt a certain sympathy for her. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m sure you did fine.”
I don’t think either of us believed me.
Soon, the moderator returned. It looked like she was trying to smile at me, but I couldn’t tell. It seemed as though she’d heard about smiling all her life, but had never actually seen one, much less tried one. The corners of her mouth were pulled out straight, rather than turned upward. She looked more scared than happy – like she’d just been told by Charles Manson that she was his long-lost daughter and didn’t want to offend him in case the girls were lurking nearby.
“You did pretty well,” she told me. “You typed 50 words a minute. To work here, you have to be able to type 60, but this is good enough to get into training.”
“Lucky me,” I thought.
When the moderator turned her attention to the cat lady, her mood changed. She spoke as though she were addressing someone truly unfortunate, like a child with terminal cancer, or a mime.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but you did not do as well. You only typed 30 words a minute.”
“Aww,” the cat lady said, looking even less sorry than she sounded.
The moderator nodded her head, blinking slowly. I almost expected her to pull out a copy of “When Bad Things Happen to Good People” when she said, “You can try to reapply if you want. But you’ll have to wait six months.”
“Oh,” the cat lady replied.
“Maybe you’ll be able to practice your typing a little before then,” the moderator chirped, suddenly, inexplicably happy again.
I cringed, embarrassed that she could be so unashamedly cruel to a perfect stranger while in the company of a potential employee. It did not seem a good sign of things to come.
Minutes later, the moderator and I were chatting in her office. It, like her demeanor and people skills, was cold and efficient.
I hummed a few bars of Wagner to myself as she explained the job requirements: As the ad had read, I would be a communication assistant (a CA for short) and it would be my job to help deaf and hearing people communicate with each other over the telephone. I would type what the hearing person said, and the deaf person would read it and type their response, which I would read out loud to the hearing person.
Then we went through the usual interview questions, and in the midst of “Where did you go to school,” “What do you like to do,” and “Where do you see yourself in five years,” came a question I would never have guessed she’d ask.
“What are your feelings on profanity?” she asked.
I blinked a few times.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Do you have a problem with using it?”
At first I thought this could be some sneaky interview trick to fool me into dropping the F-bomb, but it was not so.
She explained, “As a CA, you will be required to say everything the deaf person types, and it can get pretty graphic sometimes. Do you have a problem with swearing?”
This is usually the point of the story where my friends start laughing. Now, I could lie and say that they’re too quick to confuse an occasional emotional outburst with a condition known as “potty mouth,” but I’ll be honest. When I heard that there was a job where I could be fired for NOT using an expletive or two, I felt I had found my life’s work.
This is because I am an idiot.
“No,” I told her. “That won’t be a problem.”
And just like that, she hired me.
___
More tomorrow.
- TJG
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Welcome
So it's come to this.
After years of scoffing at the technologically-minded, I have decided to throw my hat into the virtual ring and share the crap that I've written with the masses. All eleven of you.
No, that isn't some winning brand of self-deprecating wit on display. Much of what will be posted here is, to put it bluntly, crap. Most of it will be so long you probably won't bother finishing it, no matter how much I split it up.
But hey, what matters is that you're here, right?
Right?
Sigh. Let's just hope you're patient.
After years of scoffing at the technologically-minded, I have decided to throw my hat into the virtual ring and share the crap that I've written with the masses. All eleven of you.
No, that isn't some winning brand of self-deprecating wit on display. Much of what will be posted here is, to put it bluntly, crap. Most of it will be so long you probably won't bother finishing it, no matter how much I split it up.
But hey, what matters is that you're here, right?
Right?
Sigh. Let's just hope you're patient.
- TJG
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