misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

A few days ago, I received a shiny, brand-new, orange and blue Citi Diamond Rewards credit card. Every so often, I take advantage of the 0% APR offers that corrupt my mailbox, and this year, decided to give Citi the honors of charging me nothing to charge everything.

As I always do when receiving a new card, I immediately took a seat at my laptop to set-up online access to my account.

Once at the Citi site, I began navigating through the "New User Registration" process. Things went south immediately. I'm sure you're aware, the first step of any user registration process is to enter a user id. As it often is, my first choice for a user id was "manderson". Yes, I'm aware the odds of that id being available is about the same as Age one day coming over to my house totally blasted, but I always try nonetheless. As expected, upon submission, I was informed, in small red type (helvetica, i think) that "manderson is already taken. Please enter a different user id". I immediately went to my next choice: "mkanderson". While there are over 100 million "manderson's" in the world, there are only 3 million "mkanderson's", so sometimes I have more luck (by "sometimes", i actually mean i've been successful with it once in 10 years). Obviously, I was none too suprised when I was subsequently informed that "mkanderson" has also already been taken. None of this was suprising, so I quickly moved into the next realm of my names, where I usually find more luck: without hesitation, I typed in "workmonkey", and sat back confidently. Again, that fucking red type informed me I'd have to try again. I next tried "workmokey2". No luck.

Now things were getting interesting. I've rarely struck out with some variation of workmonkey. Just to test things out, I tried "workmonkey650". Taken! Unreal! Now, not only is my name of choice taken everywhere in the world, but there are now 650 workmonkeys in the world, too. I'm beyond unoriginal. I'm a walking cliche. I tried all known variations of monkey. I keyed in my fantasy football id - "snowmonkey". Taken. "Snowmonkies"? Taken. "Tiredmonkey"? Taken.

I had never, in ten years of internet usage, gone this far without success. I know the American population recently exceeded 300 million, but "tiredmonkey"? What the fuck?

After about a half hour of similiar astonishment, I remembered a "Sunday Morning in Bed" blog I had recently read about a possessed penguin that steals wedding rings. Thus, I was relieved to find that "hauntedpenguin" was available. I knew I had zero percent chance at remembering this, so I wrote it down for future use. In reality, it is the coolest user id i've ever had, so, despite the initial frustration, I feel I actually arrived at a better place than I had started.

Next, however, things took an even further step into the absurd.

I am, by now, quite familiar with the process of answering a security quesiton in the event you forget your user id or password. These security questions have been the same over the past five years or so. Usually, you are required to submit the name of your first pet, first car, or mother's maiden name -- anything the operator can ask if you have to call and confirm your identity. I'm not sure if hackers have figured out a way to get around these questions or not, but not only did Citi have me answer a total of three security questions, but the questions themselves were, to be polite, totally, fucking unanswerable.

For the first security question, I had a choice of a drop-down menu listing five questions. I scanned my choices .. and scanned again. What is this shit? The five questions were:

* What is your favorite restaurant?
* What was the last name of your kindergarten teacher?
* What was your mom's first ever job?
* What is your favorite movie?
* Where was your grandmother born?

Well, even though I was only on question one, I was already overwhelmed. First off, the favorite restaurant and movie questions are totally inappropriate, because the answers are ever-evolving. They are the type of questions you sit around a dinner table and debate with friends for hours. There is no definite answer. And besides, whatever answer I might give on that night, it would no dobut change within the week. That night, I'd think that my favorite restaurant was Jack in the Box. But in a month? It might be BLT Burger. Or Westway Diner. Who the fuck has an end-all, be-all favorite restaurant. And movie? I see a new one every fucking week. And that one is always my favorite. Everytime someone asks me that question, I give a different answer. So there was no way i'd remember the answer to that question if ever asked again.

The other three questions were simply unfair. My kindergarten teacher's last name? I don't even remember going to kindergarten. And if I did go, and had a teacher, why would i remember her last name? I hardly remember Age's last name, and I see him twice a week. I didn't know where either of my grandmas were born when they were still living, so I certainly don't know since they no longer are (as a side note, is grandmas the plural of grandma? or is it like deer, where the plural of deer is deer, and not deers? so the plural of grandma would be grandmas). And I can't even remember my first job, more or less my mother's.

Eventually, I decided on a favorite restaurant and instantly wrote it down, as I knew it'd be gone from my head in a moment.

The other two sets of questions I ultimately had to answer were equally baffling. Ultimately, I did some research to find out what my first-ever friend's first-ever poster purchase was (A Dale Murphy baseball montage) . Finally, I calculated the square root of my head. And as a bonus question, I determined the sex and weight of my as-yet unborn child.

Suffice to say, if anyone every breaks into my account, he deserves it, as he'd officially know more about my life than I do. Hell, if I met someone who could answer those questions, I'd love to meet him. I'd like to know some of the answers myself.

In the end, I've got to give it to Citi. They've created the ultimate - a security process so complex, that even the person who set up the account will never, ever be able to access it again.

For years, I've had an inexplicable habit of confidently answer stranger's questions that I, in fact, have absolutely no knowledge of. It usually goes something like this:

STRANGER: Excuse me, man, can you tell me where Ludlow Street is?

ME: (who in fact is totally lost and looking for Ludlow Street himself): Of course. Walk two blocks that way, take a right, and it will be three blocks down.

In reality, I have no idea where I just sent the person, but that is irrelevant. It allows me to keep the image that I know everything, which is what i'm ultimately going for. I know all streets, I know all people, I know all literature references. What kind of New Yorker would I be if a tourist asked me for the location of a street, and i didn't know? Better to lie.

While I've done this pretty much all my life, without guilt, that just changed, recently. A middle-age couple, obviously from the midwest, stopped me on the corner of 45th and 9th Avenue. They pointed up to a red traffic sign at the top of a pole. In large letters, it read "NO STANDING - 7 AM - 8 PM".

They innocently inquired, "What does that sign mean?"

Now, i'd seen those signs all over New York since I moved here, and had never known what they meant. But I couldn't tell them that I didn't know, as that would make me look unintelligent. Instead, I told them the following: Because of the large amount of foot traffic on 9th Avenue, pedestrians aren't allowed to stand at any point during the day. For whatever reason, perhaps my incessant charm, they bought it. And, even worse, as we were all standing on the sidewalk as I answered the question, they panicked as soon as I finished and started quickly walking away (so as not to get ticketed), while yelling, "Thanks!"

Only a few weeks later did I learn that "No Standing" referred to double-parked cars. In other words, cars can't ever pull over during the hours listed. Seems fair enough. But I can't help feeling a bit guilty that somewhere out there is a couple running around the sidewalks of New York, trying to take pictures while walking, afraid to stop even long enough to take a drink of water.

As some of you have been asking for an update about the man drinking himself to death in the apartment above me (by "some of you", of course, I mean Amanda), I, the great workmonkey, will attempt a never-before-seen feat of strength and willpower. I will suppress my tendancies to overdramatize and elaborate to provide a succinct and matter-of-fact description of my recent face-to-face encounter with said drunk.

(Here's a quick recap of my previous blog: The man living above us is a depressed, drunken, 56 year-old who we've been informed is literally drinking himself to death. We'd further been told, at his current pace, he had a few weeks or months before he'd be dead.)

A few nights after writing the blog, Jill and I were stopped outside our apartment by a concerned neighbor, Lou. Lou said that he was headed to a play, but that our drunk neighbor upstairs (who apparently had a name - Stephen) had his door open, and was in serious trouble. He politely asked JIll to call 911, and asked me to accompany him upstairs to watch over Stephen while I waited for the paramedics to arrive. Lou offered to introduce me, but he really had to get to this play (thanks, Lou. Nice priorities. Play > Dying Man). I reluctantly agreed.

As we walked upstairs towards his apartment, I encountered a smell unlike any other in the history of mankind. It smelled like rotted manatee flesh, like boiled urine soup, like your grandma's scalp. Only it was like a wind. It wasn't stagnant - It flowed from his open door with a forceful energy, like a smell spirit. It was truly overwhelming.

As I walked into the apartment, feeling as if the smell was penetrating my very essence, I was simultaneously overcome by the visuals. The door itself opened only slightly due to ceaseless stacks of porn magazines scattered across the floor. Vomit was smeared upon the walls, the dull wooden floors, the antique couch, the magazines. The apartment wasn't lit, as Stephen had somehow managed to break all sources of light. Only the light from the hallway, and some ambient light from the windows, gave us any sense of sight.

As we squeezed past the half-open door, past the stacks of magazines, I found myself outside his bedroom.

There, a mattress laid on the floor in the middle of the otherwise empty bedroom. The mattress was covered with vomit, blood, and an old comforter. Also laying on the mattress was an old man in white underwear. He wore no shirt. His legs were covered in scabs and deep bruises, like small lakes. He writhed over the mattress, almost an extension of it. He was fat, and the bruises clearly didn't stop at his legs. They reached up his back, into his neck. His hair was grey. His face, like his legs, was covered in cuts.

Lou "introduced" me to Stephen, said I was here to talk. I was petrified. What the hell were we going to talk about? Was this smell going to give me disease? What ever happened to that golden retriever from Punky Brewster? I was way out of my league. Within seconds, Lou quietly apologized to me, wished me luck, and left me alone in this man's bedroom.

It was only then that i turned around. Behind me, was what was left of a living room. Stacked three high, across three-fourths of the living room were 24-ounce cans of Fosters. All empty. I'd estimate about two hundred in total. About fifteen empty bottles of vodka were scattered among the beer cans. I was standing in a pool of dried vomit.

As I looked around for a safe place to stand, Stephen called out. He said, "Mark, I need you to do me a favor. I need you to go to the store and buy me two big cans of Fosters. You have to do this for me."

He was surprisingly lucid. For the next 15 minutes, we engaged in a battle of him asking me to get him beer (he was unable to walk) and me imagining excuses for why I couldn't get him that beer. I couldn't step anywhere, as I there was so much filth on the floor, I didn't want to test just how gross it was. The last thing I needed at his moment was to step on human feces.

After fifteen minutes of him talking, I learned that he hadn't eaten in days, he was born in Connecticut, and he really, really, really wanted two tall cans of Fosters.

Luckily, the paramedics (along with two undercover cops, two uniformed officers, and some sort of social services guy) finally appeared. Stephen said he didn't want to go anywhere, and ordered them out of his apartment, but by law, if police see a person trying to do himself harm, they have the right to take him to the hospital. It took about four people, but they strapped his almost naked, struggling body to the wheelchair, carried him out of the apartment, and wheeled him down the stairs. Before he disappeared, he turned to me and asked, "Where you able to get me those beers?"

The cops told me he would have been dead in a few weeks, judging by his current status. They said they would take him to the hospital for a few days, but that was about all they could do. He'd probably be back soon, and continue destroying himself. There was nothing they could really do. He said to be on the lookout for the smell of death.

That's the last I've seen of Stephen in the past two weeks. I don't hear anything from upstairs, so I am guessing he is still away. Jill is afraid he'll come back home, and climb down the fire escape to try and get revenge on us for calling the cops. That might be a challenge for him, considering he couldn't even stand, but let's just say, if I can't handle that guy in fight, I'm pathetic. All i'd have to do is throw a beer in the corner and watch him chase it.

Upon returning to my own apartment that night, I briefly lost my taste for beer. It took almost thirty-seven minutes for me to gain it back. And although I don't think I'll ever be having a Fosters again, I am content to know that I am not, in fact, an alcoholic.

Age is, though.

Walking by the Macy's on 34th and 7th Avenue this morning, I noticed their storefront windows were filled with displays for Black History Month. I think that is fantastic. Macy's should support Black History Month, particularly when it helps them sell coffeemakers, Seven jeans, and cashmere towels. I'm not particularly sure how they've logically linked Black History Month to Macy's, which has done as much for the black community as the Republicans, but it is noble nonetheless. Now, people like me can walk by their storefront and realize three critical things:

1) It is Black History Month.
2) Macy's supports Black History Month, which makes them quite progressive.
3) It is already February 13th, and I haven't purchased my Black History Month gifts! Now, let's see, a 20-pack razor replacement for Taj, and a History of the Pubic Afro book for Neal. That should do the trick.

I've always highly enjoyed when companies hijack social issues and history to sell shit. It reminds me of a huge print ad that hung in the halls of my previous agency: A full-bleed picture of Rosa Parks in 1955 sitting at a bus stop. Towards the bottom of the picture was a line reading, "Uncommon Courage. Uncommon Wisdom." Then, in the bottom right corner of the ad, was a Citigroup logo. So, essentially, Citigroup, a provider of financial and insurance services, firmly believes it has endless amounts in common with Rosa Parks. When Rosa Parks defied two-hundred years of bigotry, hatred, and racism with a single decision that risked her very existence, it was shockingly similar to the time Citigroup decided to raise the APR on their savings accounts to 4.25%. Parallel lives. The courage of both is astounding.

Microsoft has recently joined the same party. To celebrate the launching of Windows Vista, a PC-based operating system, they released a commercial associating the importance of Vista with the following historical events:

1) Launching man into space
2) Pele's transformation of the soccer landscape
3) The falling of the Berlin Wall

The beauty is, they believe it. I've been in these client meetings. They are so completely full of shit, they believe a release of an operating system is comparable with the most important events in human history. I guess they have to. It helps comfort them when realizing they've wasted the last 17 years of their lives as a regional marketing manager working long hours, missing their kids grow up, for a company whose sole purpose was to increase profit margins. Comparing their work to the birth of Jesus Christ helps them feel important. Granted, to us on the outside, it is the most insulting, insolent, self-righteous, ignorant, full-of-shit comparison in the history of earth, but to each his own.

Now, if you will excuse me, I've got some Sean John jeans to buy. I have to do my part, you know. I am brave like that. I am sort of like the modern-day Abraham Lincoln, the way I buy jeans to support the black cause. Emancipation Proclamation, purchasing jeans ... we are cut from the same fabric, i tell you.

Yes, in 1990 Ralph Tresvant was one of the few men in the world with sensitivity. Now, however, seventeen years later? It seems everyone is a man with sensitivity. In the last week alone, I've come across the following stories:

• This Super Bowl Snickers spot was pulled from air because gay advocacy groups claimed the two men's reaction to a man-on-man kiss was "homophobic".

• The National Jewish Democratic Council blasted presidential candidate Mitt Romney for selecting Henry Ford Museum to announce his candidacy. Why? Apparantly, Henry Ford was a anti-semite back in the early 1900s (when I think half the world were anti-semites). So by going to the Henry Ford museum, you are blatantly supporting the hatred of Jews.

• Additionally, this Super Bowl GMC spot was pulled from air because of complaints from suicide prevention groups.

It seems to me, there are two primary problems. Firstly, there are far too many advocacy groups in the United States. In reality, how many groups are needed to fight for gay rights? 150,000? Most of them have well too much time on their hands to write letters and get offended by things (though we all know gays are particularly sensitive). Secondly, and most disturbing, the time has now arrived when it isn't simply enough to accept people with differing beliefs than yourself. Now, apparantly, you must believe exactly what they do, and wholeheartedly support it.

Exhibit A: In the aforementioned Snickers spot, two men try to eat a Snickers bar at the same time, and end up touching lips. Their reaction is actually quite realistic: they freak the fuck out. If two heterosexual men mistakenly kiss, they would be expected to freak out. I certainly would.

So then what's the issue?

Gay groups announced the reaction of the two men was "homophobic". By their logic, not wanting to kiss another man is homophobic, even if you are heterosexual. Kissing men is beautiful, and should be supported everywhere. Similarly, if you ever find yourself lip to lip with a man, you should celebrate, not hide, as you are engaging in a liberating and wonderful activity. Essentially, we've reached the stage in human "development" where two heterosexual men who accidentally kiss are not allowed to feel disgust. Instead, they are required to feel pleasure. Anything less is homophobic.

The Henry Ford thing is a stretch, even as far as advocacy groups are concerned. So Henry Ford was an acknowledged hater of Jews over 90 years ago. Can I not drive his cars? George Washington had slaves, so by spending a dollar am I condoning slavery? Can a man not be recognized for his strengths and weaknesses? Or does inventing the car not allow you a certain amount of leeway?

Ultimately, here is what i've learned this week with the help of the guidance and wisdom of this country's advocacy groups:

1. Kissing men are beautiful. All men should kiss, without any feelings of repulsion.
2. The Ford Mustang hates Jews.
3. Robotic arms shouldn't get depressed and jump off of bridges.

For years, advocacy groups have fought for a world where a man does not judge another man based on his religion, race, or beliefs. Now, however, it seems they have forgotten their own teachings: They judge worse than any of us. Maybe it is time for us to repay the favor, and remind them a thing or two about tolerance.

(Man, i just love dramatic endings to blogs. It's the new thing. Indians!)

You bitches are lucky today. A slower-than-usual day at work (literally, not one task to accomplish) is responsible for your pleasure of a second blog. Don't get use to these two-a-days, as I don't want you getting spoiled. A few observations, as I've spent the previous six hours at my desk observing things:

1. Because I started my current job as a freelancer before going full-time, I still sit with all the freelancers (whom I never told I went full-time, as that is an absolute betrayal of trust. Kind of like crossing the picket lines during a strike). Viewed as corporate mercenaries, the freelancers are crammed in this dark backroom at desks that are literally stacked right next to each other. (Imagine a scene out of those bad 80s corporate movies like "Secret of my Success" where all the non-MBA workers toil away in a yellow, decayed office, but without Michael J Fox telling cute little jokes.)

In any event, the guy that sits at the desk directly in front of mine is a total douchebag. He's one of those guys that hasn't accepted that he is a total geek, so goes to great lengths to prove to those of us here that he isn't (i.e. frosted hair, sport coats with puma sneakers, misuse of the word "dawg"). I've got nothing against geeks, I have been one for 31 years. But I don't fight it. This douchebag will take calls during the work day on his cellphone, and have private conversations loudly enough that we can all hear. Such as the one I just recently heard, where he made it very, very clear he was talking to a GIRL on the other line. Here's what I was subjected to for 30 minutes:

DOUCHEBAG: "Hey, babe. How ARE you?? (pause) Yeah. Yeah. I know. (pause) Are you flirting with me? Is that too direct of a question? I can recognize flirting and I know flirting, and you are definately flirting with me. (pause) Hahahaha. I know! (pause) So we hooking up tonight, or what? (pause) That's what I thought! (pause) A little wine, a litte music, a little couch, you know! (pause) Ok, babe. Talk to you when I get outta this HELL HOLE. Hhhahahah!"

Usually after such an experience, me and the other freelancer just sit there, shaking our heads, disgusted with what we just witnessed. When lucky enough, the douchebag will hang up the phone and make the type of comment that only a douchebag could think up, such as, "Gotta keep the ladies, happy, fellas, and wine always helps." Then I have to mutter some sort of acknowledgement of his comment, like "Yeah, I hear ya."

The douchebag frequently uses the words "bro", "dogg", and "ladies". And he'll give advice out of the blue, such as today, when he told me the following, "Bro, we need umbrellas to deal with all the shit that falls onto us here. Hahahhahaha! Shit Umbrellas! Hahhahaha!"

Awesome.

2. While I'm on the topic of work annoyances: I hate these fuckers that stand at the water cooler for 20 minutes to fill up those little naglene water bottles things everyone has these days:

These fucking things take like forty minutes to load up, while I sit there with a cup that takes four seconds to fill up. And what's up with the markings on the side? Since when does anyone care exactly how much water they are drinking? Then I hate the way people slobber all over these germ jars during the day, "getting my four liters of water!" They remind me of Santa Cruz, hippies, and douchebags. The only thing worse are the people at the gym with these things. They are too enlightened to use the fucking drinking fountain like everyone else. I'm going to start a new trend of pissing in the Naglenes late at night when everyone has left work. Then, i'll sit back and enjoy watching them drink up all day long.

A week ago Sunday, before leaving for Mexico, we woke up to find the following handwritten letter slipped under our door:

The Letter

I haven't responded since the letter. Not sure if I should.

If you ever find yourself in the red-tiled room of a Puerto Vallarta resort at 4:26 A.M, holding nothing but a Canon digital camera and your penis, hovering over a friend in the grips of a tequila-induced coma, my advice to you is not to panic. The reason for this position is simple: You have outlasted your friend in a drinking contest, and as a result of this victory, you have the opportunity to immortalize your conquest through the use of the aforementioned Canon digital camera.

Further thought reveals what is fairly obvious: what image better signifies complete domination and victory than the male penis? A search through the annals of human history (not the history of human anals) will reveal the penis to be the single most important icon of dominantion in virtually every culture and time. In the first days, when people still thought the sun and moon were the eyes of a sky-giant, one culture would fight another in order to prove they had the bigger penises. To fight, they would mold metal weapons into the shapes of penises (swords, spears, arrows, maces (which were actually nothing other than huge testicles surrounded by thousands of sharpened iron penises) and catapults (which were large penises that launched large testicles over the stone labia of the enemies castle). And this is to mention nothing of the modern age of bullets, rockets, and missles). Once the culture with the superior penis-weapons prevailed, they would erect large statues shaped like penises (cleverly-named "obelisks") to represent the superiority of their genitals. In later years, these statues were replaced by penis-shaped buildings and skyscrapers that people would climb within. And in the future, we will all fly within penis-shaped shuttles that will take us to the giantest testicle of them all - The Moon.

In conclusion, returning to the initial scenario, the reason your penis is in your hand is because you are celebrating a victory over your adversary in a grand drinking battle. And what better way to celebrate your dominant position than to lay your smooth penis across your passed-out friend's forehead?

Now, I must warn you: Attempting to photograph your penis upon your friend's forehead is tricky and, thus, you must proceed with EXTREME caution. Some pointers:

• It is not possible without the use of camera strap, which will permit you to handle the camera with only one hand, while handling your penis with the other (depending, of course, upon the weight and girth of said penis). I cannot repeat enough the importance of the camera strap. It provides the balance you need to complete your mission, and is CRITICAL considering the highly inebriated state you will find yourself in if you have survived a drinking battle with a worthy adversary. And the last thing you want to do is break the camera before snapping photos of your penis on his forehead.

• Another point that cannot be stressed enough: Be absolutely CERTAIN your friend is COMPLETELY passed-out. The last thing you need is to have your friend awake while your penis gently approaches his forehead. Damage can result to the both of you. A simple test: Place a warm bottle of beer on his forehead while he lays. If he does not stir, you should be safe. If he moves, even just a little bit, abort mission. I repeat, ABORT MISSION.

• If you are holding the camera in your right hand, while guiding your penis with the left, you'll have a split-second to position everything in order to snap the photo. Hamstring and quadricep muscles are critical to holding the position long enough to snap a photo without motion blur. You may not be able to directly contact the forehead directly, but that is of little consequence. Again, the focus here is on speed.

If all elements go well, you will result with a picture such as this one, though i've spared you from the actual visual with the use of a prop. In hindsight, i would have come in at a 123 degree angle, rather than the 41 degree angle you see here. That would have allowed me to lean against the table behind me, stabilizing me enough to gain time. But given the circumstances of 193 Coronas and 17 tequila shots of the battle, I am pleased with the ultimate result.

I have immortalized myself, conquered Mexico, and laid claim to the lands of that third-story room. I shall never return to Mexico again. My work is complete.