misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

My lifelong battle against the Anderson traits of impatience and anger is slowly being lost. I spent years watching my father and brother solve problems with anger and force, and vowed to not use the same tactics. I wanted to be enlightened, patient, and peaceful. I wanted to think rationally before acting. My brother went to a military school. I decided to go to a Jesuit school. My dad was in the Navy. I was in the acting troupe. If I wanted to throw a filled coffee cup against the kitchen wall, after long thought, if it still seemed a good idea to throw that coffee cup, then I would do so. However, I would never take action without calm, rational introspection.

Well, this is a noble idea in theory. But i must accept that I have Anderson blood in me, and Anderson blood relies on anger to solve any apparant problem. We are a military people. We can be diplomats, as well, but if talking doesn't solve the problem, than hopefully our fists will. I cannot challenge my own genetics. I cannot control who I am. I must remit.

I am not sure if it is age that has brought upon my recent failures, or New York City. All I know is when I am walking behind an old woman walking slowly with a cane on a crowded New York sidewalk, I have an immense urge to knock her over, tell her to get off the streets, and beat her with the cane. Yesterday, trying to squeeze past a crowd on the sidewalk, I nearly knocked over a crippled woman hobbling as she tried to keep pace with the frantic pace of the crowd. And I wasn't sorry. In lines at grocery stores, I curse under my breath at the old man digging through his wallet to find a nickel. When I hear a car horn blast outside my window, I want to leave my apartment, search for the person who honked, and urinate on their face. I cannot let it go. I cannot stand any of these people. My impatience with them has consumed me.

And, as the worse sign that the Anderson curse has settled upon me, I've recently begun to take on the "drunk face". This is an Anderson classic. When under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol, I now withdraw from any group I am a part of, sit by myself, and scowl at anyone who tries to approach me. I learned this one from my brother. I remember going to Singapore the first time, and going out with his friends one Friday night. After a full night of drinking, I looked upon my brother. He was sitting alone in a chair, looking off in the distance, with a look of total disgust on his face. I wondered at the time what he could be thinking about. Now I know. The past year or so, I too get this face. It is so noticeable now, a number of people have made comments. They ask me, "what are you so angry about?" Well, it is difficult to explain. But, as an Anderson male, you have a constant, underlying discord with the world. An unhappiness with how things have turned out. Humanity disappoints us. It is a constant stress. We don't like problems or imperfections. And the world, and people, are full of them. So, when seriously drunk, this underlying emotion takes control and consumes us. It is my fate. I must relent.

Some have suggested that in order to solve this, we should stop drinking. Well, in reality, drinking is the only release. It allows the valve of stress to open, and release. Others have suggested therapy. Not sure about therapy. My sister tried that, and she still is afraid to fly and a little bit crazy, so I don't know how well it worked. Plus, it is expensive. For now, I'll have to rely on this blog.

Yes, my friends, there is a time when every man must accept who he is. You cannot run from your past. When I was 11, and the Padres lost a game because Craig "shit-ball" Lefferts couldn't close a game to save his life, I would kick my garbage can and throw my radio. Well, it is 17 years later, and I still do the same things, only now I replace my garbage can with a cell phone, and my radio with an old woman that has a cane. And if you ever come to visit me in NYC, I recommend you walk faster than most people, or you'll get the beat down.

Thank you, my lovely readers, for allowing me to release my steam.

I do not believe in privacy laws. Privacy laws, of course, being the laws liberal groups are trying to get passed which would make it illegal for the government to tap phones, look through email, check library check-out records, track website visits, etc. Maybe it is me, but if the government wants to monitor my cellphone calls or read my emails, I really have no problem with it. Feel free to overhear me telling Neal how I picked the most perfect booger ever the other day. And enjoy reading my emails to Carlos about whether or not I want to trade Shaun Alexander for Jake Delhomme and a 2nd round pick. And if you want to scour the public library records to find out that the last book I checked out was Where the Red Fern Grows, well, then, help yourself. Who gives a shit? I'll tell you all right here, I frequently look at internet porn. I don't care if you, or the government, is aware of it. Who should? Only people who are hiding things. The other people, particularly the liberalists who propose these laws, would like to think they are important enough or cool enough that anyone would actually want to listen in on their conversations. I guarantee you their cell phone conversations are boring as shit. Nobody would want to listen. They just don't wanna admit it.

So who should be concerned? I am guessing the few people who checked out a book called Bombmaking For Dummies: The Ins and Outs of Fertilizer Bombs along with the book 101 Ways to Destroy the Pentagon. If I'm checking out these books, and having conversations on my cellphone with some guy in the United Arab Emirates, well then, I hope the FBI would call me up with some questions. Hell, if they wanna call me up with questions about the booger I picked on Saturday and told Neal about, feel free. It'd be the most exciting thing to happen to me ever. I'd have a real story to tell then. I could talk about my encounter with the FBI. In fact, I hope they are reading this now. I hope some computer bot that searches websites and blogs finds the word "bomb" and puts me in a database as a potential threat. I'm loco! The FBI needs to know these things. And if they want to monitor my website surfing, well, I think they are entitled to. Maybe they would have some suggestions on how to pull my fantasy baseball team out of 10th place. With luck, maybe one day, some Special Agent for the FBI will send me an email:

"Hey dude -- I've been tracking your web surfing now for a few weeks. I gotta tell you, if you started Pat Burrell instead of Cliff Floyd last week, you would have gained four points in your fantasy league!! Just thought I'd let you know. Good luck. Special Agent Tom Boddard."

Now that'd be something useful .. So, before you go off and think you are so important that your lame cell phone conversations need to be private, I suggest you tape the next conversation you have with someone. Or, even better, go over some emails you've written lately. Chances are they will be so boring, you couldn't pay someone to read them. So stop whining about privacy and come to grips with your uneventful, unimportant life. And be careful about what comments you make to this blog. The FBI just might be reading.

I've grown to hate car horns with an intense passion. In San Francisco, I hated car horns, but nobody ever used them, except for Lee. That little fucker would sit back in his cute silver Acura Integra and beep at everything that crossed his path: cars, animals, people, bugs, rain, air. The worse part was his car horn was Japanese, meaning it made a whiney, high-pitched sqeek sound, the kind of sound a large mouse would make if you stepped on his testicles. My problem with the car horn is two-fold. Firstly, it doesn't serve any purpose. They are so common, nobody listens to them. They don't express warning or anger. They simply make an annoying sound that bothers everything, and everyone, around. My second problem with the car horn is that is the weapon of the weak. Weak, timid people sit back in their cars and honk at things around them, knowing full well they are surrounded by two tons of steel. This makes them brave. So, a little Honda Accord will honk at a Chevy Suburban, as if daring the Suburban to fight. If the person driving the Honda was outside of his/her car, they wouldn't say a thing to the driver of the Suburban. They'd be much too afraid. Lee fits this category.

In New York, it has become unbearable. People honk as a sort of language. It expresses everything. Anger, happiness, impatience, boredom. Where I sit in my office on the 12th floor, I can overlook the main onramp to the Lincoln Tunnel (the tunnel taking people into New Jersey). It is always packed, sometimes for miles. From my vantage point, I look down at four million cars packed together like cheetos in a bag. It is total chaos. There aren't even lanes. It is like 100 penises trying to get into a single vagina at the same time. And, worse of all, half of these cars trying to enter the tunnel are honking. What the fuck are you honking at? There are four million cars stuck in a tunnel. What is your honk going to do? Start some sort of mass revolution of movement? Is there somebody at the front of this whole traffic jam causing the whole thing, and all he needs to hear is a car horn to snap him out of it? Is it a frustration thing? Well, keep it to yourself. Just say "fuck" a lot in your car, like I used to do. Don't drag me into it with your honk, asshole. It is totally useless.

Maybe we should all walk around with little horns strapped to our chest, and anytime we get upset, we can honk at people. That'd be sweet. I'm sure Lee would be the first guy in line for one of them. Which horn would he pick? The Ford Explorer horn? Or the Acura Integra horn? Which horn would you pick? These human-horns would cause their fair share of fights, i can assure you of that. People would be much less apt to use them after getting whooped up on by some Samoan with a 34-inch neck who didn't like the idea of you honking at him. If only the same thing could happen in cars ... This city would be a much more pleasant place.

Fuck this shitty blog of mine. It sucks. Luckily, I've figured out why. First of all, I have no readers, so my motivation to write in it sucks. Secondly, it takes effort to write some sort of entertaining blog. You have to worry about form, humor, content, structure, etc. If I didn't worry about these things, my blogs would start looking like Lee's, and that is the last thing I want. But the main culprit of my shitty blogs is self-awareness. In other words, it is a lack of honesty. I got lots of shit going on in my life at this point, but I have no desire to publish these things to the masses. Which is ironic, considering nobody reads this thing in the first place. Every once in a while though, some random person tells me they've been reading my blog - someone I used to work with, someone I met in the past, random people named Glendon who read Taj's blog, etc. I do not want any of these people to know what is really going on in my head, or who I really am, so instead I write about caulking my bathtub. Which is totally unacceptable. But necessary? I'm not sure. I could write about real things. But, unlike my sister, I am not necessarily at peace with my neurotic thinking. I hate admiting how much like her I am. Mostly, because I am a dude, I am not supposed to show my weaknesses or fears. Well, according to my dad at least. Who was always in control, and has left the enduring impression that men always need to be in control and unemotional. So I present that person in this blog. And instead of directly talking about the source of any anger I let it ooze out in little ways, like when telling you how I want to knock over old people who get in my way when walking.

I'd imagine I can write about these things, now, though, because who am I protecting exactly? My family? I'm quite sure my sister Lisa and brother Dane don't read this blog. I haven't even talked to my brother for like a year? Don't even remember. I don't think my dad reads this thing either. My mom isn't alive, so she isn't reading this thing, though if she were alive, I'm sure she'd read it. Debbie reads it, which is good, cause she is the only family member I really keep in touch with. Or at least the only one that makes genuine effort to stay on top of things. Which I appreciate. So who am i protecting exactly? I've already determined I can't really insult my family members, since they don't read, outside of Debbie, who already knows all this shit anyway. Who else reads?

Kenta is the only confirmed reader I actively know of, by way of comments. Thank you for that, K-ro. Slaven maybe. Taj as well. My current group of homies, my new family. Much appreciated. I don't know if Lee even reads this shit anymore. In my last blog, I directly insulted him in an attempt to garner a response. To judge if he even reads. Suffice to say, it has been a week, and I've heard nothing. So that means he isn't reading actively. So I cross him off the list. If anyone else is reading, they like to do so incognito, so I am just going to assume they aren't there. And if you don't wanna look inside my head then don't read. Cause the four confirmed readers I just named, all of you already kind of know what I got going on in my head, so I am not really hiding anything anyway.

And, now that I am working in a creative industry, I've found that the only way to really breakthrough and do true, original, creative shit, is to breakthrough all the pretense and masks you wear and look directly at yourself. Speak directly to someone else, honestly, at the most basic level. The reason most the creative shit you see out there sucks, including movies, music, tv shows, magazines, etc, is because the people who create these things are dishonest with themselves and create things that cover up their true feelings and thoughts. So instead of showing their true thoughts, they show the thoughts of others, who probably borrowed if from someone else as well. Which is how we get to cliche shit. Cause it is all borrowed, none of it original, none of it coming from the person who actually created it, all taken from something the person saw or heard at some point. Cause they're too fucking afraid to express themselves honestly. Cause they'll be judged. Which is what I am doing. But I need to stop, in order to be truly original. I need to stop writing about bathroom caulking. So today's topic:

Situation: I have about five boxes sitting in Kenny's garage. These are the remnants of my entire existence, left over from when I moved out of my SF apartment to go to Prague.

Problem: Kenny needs these boxes out of his garage.

Solution: To be determined. Being that I am now living on the East Coast, I've been trying to get some member of my family living in California to drive up to San Jose to get my boxes. I've been trying this for more than six months. All three members of my family live in houses. Houses have garages. I live in a four-bedroom apartment in NYC with four-roommates. I don't have a garage. However, being that it is my family, asking for favors is a no-no. Which is why the boxes are still in Kenny's garage. So tell me, what is the right way to go from here? Do I fly to San Jose from New York, rent a car, drive to Kennys, take the boxes to a storage location, and fly back to New York? Or do I ask my father to drive up to San Jose from Los Angeles, pick up the five boxes, and keep them in his garage until I can make it back to California? Which is the most rational solution? The fairest? How come my sister Debbie is pissed off at me for asking my dad to go get the boxes? Is it unfair to ask a member of your family to do something for you? Debbie is married and has a kid. Lisa is engaged and has a house. My father is married and has a house. Three houses, three garages, and I am getting yelled at for wanting one of them to store five boxes? And they want Lee, who I'm not even related to, to drive these boxes down for them? Including an Armoire? Which I've kept for the past three years because my sister wanted it to honor my mom, only to find out we are gonna go ahead and donate it to Salvation Army anyway? And why the hell is Lee dealing with all of this?

So I'll fly out, put the boxes in storage, fly back three hours later, pissed the whole time, cause getting a favor from my family is like getting a favor from a random stranger.

Hmmm. I actually feel better now. This whole blog-as-therapy thing might actually work. Hope you enjoy the new style. If not, tomorrow I can continue in the old style and tell you about why I hate people who drink coffee, people who take shitty pictures, and thugs who walk across the middle of a four-lane street tempting cars to hit them. Let me know.

In regards to Amanda's blog concerning the disappointing ends of movies she's recently seen. While i've seen two of the three movies she's referenced (Open Water, Collateral), I believe her argument can be applied to a majority of the movies released this year. And though I've only been working in the creative industry for less than four months, let me offer an explanation.

When spending a lot of money on a piece of creative work, the clients (in the case of Collateral, the client is Dreamworks SKG) tend to prefer playing the numbers. In other words, they are risk-adverse. They are corporate people, so they want to ensure their investment is guaranteed to be returned. So they treat a piece of creative work (i.e. a movie), as if it were any product, such as, let's say, educational software. Then they maximize its earning potential. How do they do this? They follow a pattern. They do what they know has worked in the past. They have zero interest in setting a new standard, or trying something new. Their interest in the creative integrity of the project is negligible. One such way they guarantee financial success is to make sure the movie appeals to as many people as possible. So they get focus groups to check out various endings and test their response. Now, as Neal can tell you, a focus group in Columbus, Ohio comprised of 30 - 40 year old woman with two children are going to give you radically different responses than a 28 year-old Chinese-American named Adrian Liang. And a focus group of 14-year old girls from Northern Florida will provide different responses from a 28-year old woman from Santa Maria, California. So, they get all this feedback, all these different opinions. Whose opinion should win? Ultimately, they pick the one that will earn them the most money, which is the one that offends the least amount of people, i.e. satisfies the greatest number of people possible. Unfortunately, that's often the ending that totally sucks. Cause it is generic.

So, I guarantee you the original ending for Collateral was different from what you saw on screen. But, most people don't want to see the bad guy win. It is upsetting. And upset people don't spend money. Which, in the end, is the point.

These are the same corporate people that looked over a script I just wrote, and edited out any of the entertaining parts, because they were too risky. Too funny. Too emotional. Too effective. Be safe, they say. Don't rock the boat. Fuckers. Safe is boring. Safe is cliche. Safe is middle manager. People playing not to lose, instead of playing to win. Fear governs all of it. Everyone trying to cover their own ass. Which is why I'm gonna go as long as possible without any obligations to things, such as house payments, kids, etc. Cause that impedes my ability to take risks. And in this career, it seems like taking risks is the best way to get ahead.

As far as the ending of "Open Water", I am unable to comment, because the entire time I watched the movie I had three thugs behind me yelling at the screen. Fuckers. It is what i refer to as the "Captive Audience". People who abuse the fact others are sitting there quietly watching a movie. They need to be noticed by yelling. It is their time to be a star. To get attention. Not like we paid to hear their fucking lame comments about the film they are watching. We don't have a choice in the matter. But they shout them out anyway. Stupid, unfunny things. At least take advantage of the situation, and shout funny things. But they don't. They just shout. Endlessly. Shouting. Never stopping. Never. In any event, Age/Amanda, if you don't mind me saying, you guys have become movie Nazis. I can't remember the last movie you liked. You have to watch movies for more than the ending. Movies are more than a story .. enjoy the mood, the experience, the popcorn. Individual scenes. Funny little bits of conversation. Don't judge the whole, just the parts. You'll have much more fun.

That said, don't see the remake of "Texas Chainsaw Massacre". I've found horror movies are ineffective when you are actually rooting for the Killer to win, because the teenagers he is hunting are so repulsive you want them to die off, just so you don't have to hear their stupidity anymore. In "Texas Chainsaw Massacre", the only smart person in the movie was the massacrer (the dude with the chainsaw) .. so, survival of the fittest, right? I am appalled at a movie where a strong, fit twenty-year old man cannot outrun a fat, inbred, fifty-year old Texan with a skin-mask on and a chainsaw. It disgusts me. Hey man -- If you can't outrun a guy with a chainsaw, then you are shit out of luck, as far as I am concerned.

Time to end this blog. I'll have to do a few focus groups to find the best ending possible, then get back to you.

Some of the better slang i've heard for "taking a crap":

launch a missle
let the cars out of the garage
dump the doo

there's more .. i'll update soon, if you can wait that long.

I was bitched slapped twice on Friday night.

Before I proceed with the story, I feel it is important to define my definition of "bitch slap". As used in the following context, "bitch slap" is a composite term referring to the act of being slapped by a bitch. To further define, a "bitch" is a woman of questionable character. And a "slap" is an open-palmed hit of considerable force to the cheek area of the face.

After work this past Friday, I went to happy hour with co-workers. Starting at around five, and ending around midnight, there was a fair amount of alcohol consumed (by others, of course. as described in previous blogs, I have dramatically toned-down the amount of alcohol I drink in one sitting). Towards the end of night, I found myself sitting with my roommate, and a co-worker. This co-worker of mine is a thirty-year old female who works in the cube opposite of mine. One could describe her as a "bitch" if necessary. She can be moody, verbally-aggressive, and an attention-hound. I was never her biggest fan, but found she could be pleasant enough if you handled her properly. Now, the facts leading up to the bitch slap are a bit hazy, as the bitch slap itself seemingly came out of nowhere. I do know that the girl in question was fairly drunk. I also know that she was, as is her character, being condescending towards me. Having had a few beers, I made an honest comment to her about how often she is condescending to me and others, and how annoying it can be. Suffice to say, she was in no mood to hear my opinion. She leaned in towards me, ripped off my new $500 dollar glasses and threw them into a chair. Then she slapped me. A real, true slap like in the movies. She then proceeded to verbally attack me, using your garden variety form of insults, none of which are really interesting enough to describe in detail (they were all particularly uninsightful -- i'm an asshole, i think i know it all, i have no right to say what i do, i'm cynical, etc. to her defense, i am a know it all, i am cyncial, and often don't have right to criticize as i do). So I listen to her go off on me for a minute or so. At this point, my roommate had retrieved my glasses. I put them back on, looked at my co-worker, and told her I think she's had too much to drink, and should probably go home. She ripped off my glasses for a second time, threw them into the same seat as before, and slapped me again. Then she stormed out.

Well then. There is more to the story, such as her subsequent apology on my voicemail the following morning, and some other tidbits. Suffice to say, I haven't talked to her since that night, even though as I write this, she is seated ten feet from me. Now, as this was my first experience being bitch-slapped, I am unsure as to whether or not I handled it properly. Being slapped causes as instinctive desire to slap back. But, being that she was a girl, I didn't feel this was an option. And likewise, being verbally abused causes a desire to verbally abuse the verbal abuser. However, I wanted to appear more mature than her, and thus didn't respond.

In a way, I am glad to add this experience to my life's memories. Being slapped by a girl as it happens in the movies pleases me. Next, I'd like to get a girl to throw her drink on me. That would give me the daily double I've always wanted.

Suprisingly, the night got even stranger after I had returned home and gone to bed.

Around 6 am I was awoken by the sound of my apartment's doorbell ringing like crazy. Tired and hungover, I layed in bed, hoping a roommate would get it. The doorbell kept ringing. So I got up, went to the frontdoor, and opened it. I wasn't wearing my glasses, but I could clearly make out the fact that my roommate was standing there, completely naked, with his hands covering his schlong. As an added note, we live at the top of a five-story walkup in the middle of Manhattan. I said, "Uh. Hey." He pushed past me, ran into his room, and slammed the door.

I just stood there for a second, turned around, and went back to bed. After the night I had just experienced, the naked roommate thing seemed to fit.

The following afternoon, when I saw him, there was no mention of why he was outside naked at 6 in the morning. He said nothing, I didn't have the guts to ask, so at this point, you're guess is as good as mine.

I'm thinking werewolf, myself.

So, if i live with a werewolf, and get bitch-slapped, all in the same night, I'd have to say manhattan has spiced up my life a bit more than even i expected.