Professionalism.

Last night, while I was talking to Karen, she told me a story about the day that she'd had. Apparently, she was on the line with one of her managers, who was evidently having a spotty cell connection. While she was trying to take instructions from him on some project or other--which, she explained, entailed her doing his job for him--he would cut out, forcing her to ask him to repeat himself. So he would, by repeating himself from the beginning.

Now, Karen relates this story to me, prefacing it by saying, "this guy's a pig anyway." I don't even know the story yet, and already I just know I'm going to love it.

So in the process of repeating himself needlessly, he gets impatient with her and says he's going to "send [her] to shorthand school." Now don't get me wrong, I admire Karen for saying what she said next, and I think it's great that she has the kind of relationship with a boss that allows her to say it: "I'm going to send you to kiss-my-ass school."

To which this smarmy fuck replies, "Oooo. That sounds like fun."

Hey! Tony Manero! I'm talking to you: Kill yourself, you macho douchebag. You're at work. And you're somebody's manager, to boot. Why don't you start acting like it? Leave that unprofessional bullshit at home.

Now, this whole exchange--while completely unmerited on his end, being that he's thoughtlessly passing his work on to someone else--was fairly innocuous. That's mostly owing to the fact that Karen can keep things in perspective. There are women out there that would've made a federal case of this. That's where at least some of my righteous indignation comes in to play.

When I'm at work, it's time for work. I'm a professional. I'm not there to flirt, pick people up, or make snide remarks. But I still have to go to sensitivity training and sexual harassment seminars; I have to walk on eggshells at work, in spite of all this. Even though we're catering to the lowest common denominator by tailoring workplace behavior to accommodate the most PC of the PC, there would be no need for any of this if douche-roosters like this guy would just go to work and have an ounce of professionalism.

And so it is with a glad heart that I present this week's Assclown Award to Karen's macho, unprofessional pig of a manager. He's a winner in all four categories:

Worst. Blog. Ever.

This link goes to a blog where there are pictures of people's shit. I mean literal shit, sitting unflushed in the toilet. Don't click if you're not into looking at pictures of crap.

Are there people out there that are this obsessed with what comes out of their asses? Are there people who feel compelled to share their waste with everyone else? Sadly, the answer to both of these questions is, "yes."

I mean, why bother using the toilet like a civilized human being? Just go ahead and shit in the corner like an untrained puppy, if what you want is to share your shit with the world.

I used to be a real misanthropist; however, I've found that as I age, I've mellowed out. Hating people is a young man's game. But every once in a while, I get a reminder of why I think people suck.

Still No Flying Cars, But This Could Be Proof That We're Living In "The Future."

Thought-controlled bionic arms.

I saw a video of this also, in which Sullivan says that asking him how he does it is like asking anyone how they move their own arms. Amazing.

We can do this, yet I still have to jiggle the handle on my commode to keep it from running all night.

You Wish You Had a Shirt This Cool.

Seriously. I mean, I get the most unusual kind of treatment when I wear my Alex Ross "Liberty" shirt. Just this past weekend I went into Freebirds World Burrito on Greenville and they didn't charge me for the "extras" like guacamole or whatever. They even threw in some chips and salsa. I didn't even ask for it. To top it all off, the lovely young girl with the Australian accent who piled my burrito high with black beans and steak sheepishly but sincerely professed her love for me.

I was so touched, I almost made a gift of the shirt for her. But fuck that. I might need this shirt when I'm low on funds and I'm looking for some free drinks at the local watering hole.

And Now, This Brief Public Service Announcement.

All hail Frogkitty!
Kneel before his amphibious headgear!

Dallas Vice City.

The list is now four items long: coffee, sugar, "Questionable Content," and "San Antonio Rock City." I don't know what it is with the web comics. I'm sure a part of it is a legitimate nostalgia on my part for the days spent reading strips when I was a kid. I never got "Peanuts" back then, though later in life, I came to understand it. I did love "Bloom County" and its sequels. My favorite, of course, was "Calvin and Hobbes."

Part of it is probably just my addictive personality. I get into a thing and I take it to an extreme. If you give me something that gives me a little pleasure, and you're going to give it to me on a daily basis, a little at a time, that really works for some of my more obsessive-compulsive tendencies. I don't think I'm actually any more obsessive than the next person; I'm certainly not in need of medication; I'm probably just more aware of this aspect of my personality than most people are concerning their own neuroses. The problem is that when I discover something like "Questionable Content" or "Nothing Nice to Say" (Mitch Clem's other comic), I find myself having to catch up. The downside? An entire day spent last week catching up on QC. From the beginning.

I had dreams about that strip and I woke up the next day with the worst craving for Pavement. Meaning the biggest.

As an internet friend of mine put it, you start out reading it for the random destruction wrought by Pintsize, but stick around for the indie-rock in-jokes. But what I've really enjoyed was SARC--specifically, the way that Mitch Clem makes a strip of his life. Kind of a web-comic-cum-blog. It's not unlike Harvey Pekar, but punk. And Clem does his own art.

Why he moved to San Antonio of all places is beyond me, but that's a topic for another day. The thing is, I found it kind of inspiring that he can create this semi-autobiographical strip, make it so self-referential and an outright postmodern punk attack on the fourth wall, and do it with such a unique voice. What was inspiring about it was that it kind of put me back on track for what I wanted to do with this blog to begin with.

I'd thought that I could use this blog as a writing sample for prospective writing gigs I might be looking for in the future. A place to practice my writing and hone my own voice, which I've somewhat lost since grad school. The problem is that I decided this blog would not be a soapbox for my two favorite subjects, religion and politics. Right away, I limited my subject matter. In so doing, I also cut myself off from my own sense of humor. To make matters worse, I have this thing about being too serious, too grave. "Life's too short not to take it seriously," I like to say. So I just want to write about important things like my trip to Aberdeen and meeting Eric Melvin. The conflict here, though, is that I also want to post more often than once in a blue moon.

So SARC kind of showed me the way. I'm just going to stop trying to make this thing into something it's not and just let it become whatever it's going to be. And what it's going to be now is a lot more fun, and a lot more me. So without further ado, enough of this self-contemplation: I'm going to post this, then another one right away just to start me off in the right direction.