Sordid Sentients

It appears that with every new job I acquire there is endless opportunity to choose nicknames for co-workers. Who has time to actually work when there is bullshit corporate law firm time to waste with the name game? I did the same exact thing 4 years ago at a company in Oakland, CA. I did it again 2 years later at my prior law firm job in Berkeley, CA. And now I'll do the same exact thing here in the big rotten apple. Below is an ongoing list of the select people I seem to encounter on a daily basis. This list is open for interpretation and is subject to alteration/deletion at any time. It is highly biased, one dimensional, and exceptionally mean spirited. Let the good times roll.

Relics: Old lifers who are usually of the secretarial variety. They sit like frozen pillars of salt, eternally gazing into their computer monitors, wasting away year after year in a world that is quickly passing them by.

Sling: One of the many partners who has had his arm in a sling since I've started working here.

The Batwing: Insane, cracked out, hyper realistic secretary who speaks with an East coast accent and sounds like a squawking little child.

Legs yet: Paralegal with oddly skinny yet muscular legs

The Lump: Frat boy dickhead paralegal who seemed kinda nice at first but is ultimately a total douchebag. Called me a tourist one day. I should kick his fat ass.

Far Set: Extremely annoying paralegal with a pair of "far set" eyes. Like the singer from that band Garbage, but less attractive, if that is possible. One of the many overachieving, conceited, Ivy League paralegals who work here and make my life a living hell.

Lech: One of the cafeteria workers who constantly eyeballs all of the young women who come in to get their little sandwiches and sit to eat and gossip about superficial bullshit.

Screamer Sister: Annoying and immature paralegal who sits in the opposite room and talks loudly on the phone so that other can listen clearly to her screaming at some unknown party. Reminds me of my crazy sister.

The Uff: Strange and silent red headed attorney who always glares at me when I walk by his office. His last name is "Uff".

Skeletal Reception: Very irritable and mean skeleton-like receptionist whom I got into an argument with the first week on the job. Total bitch. The receptionists here are supposed to check everyone in when they first arrive in the morning. I do not agree with this rule and think that employees should be responsible for cheking themselves in. You can't really go anywhere in this place without having someone monitor your every move. Man, I gotta get the fuck outta this place.

More nicknames to come. This is just the beginning, or end. As always, NYC sucks and most of the people that live here can go to hell. Bye for now!

This morning (hater)

Snow laden ground
East coast distance
two Queens women
gabbing on the corner
cars that do not stop
breath vaporous
cold hands
frozen ears
lame pants
cumbersome jacket
miss my West coast
never this cold

A man called Luis

A day before the next day and thereafter. Always seems the same continues forth. Nothing becomes of some encounter made on the street, the bustling street, here in this decaying metropolis confined modern human zoo. Concrete paths with no real adventure--lead to where they may--may lead to edge of the city. Slimy grime and ochre colored water pools produce a stink like vomit on a rotten corpse--petrified, liquefied humanity.

Out to 43rd St. walk it like always up through the delusional faces, I pass so many. Who are all these people why are all these people? Stuck behind a man with baggage, not emotional baggage, real baggage. Wheeling it along I'm trapped in his wake flanked on all sides and nowhere to turn I must endure his slow gait for a while. Feeling frustrated I wanted to push him out of the way. In my mind he is already taken a beating from me.

I finally break free and walk around as he stares up at the sky. He's not fully aware of the situation here on this terrestrial plane--no time for star gazing in this city of un-imagination. I quickly ignore him and move along eventually ending up at the intersection of 43rd & 5th. A few seconds later and the baggage man is there standing next to me. I didn't know it was him until I saw his bags and then felt guilty for wanting to push him earlier.

I remain focused, ready to cross the street. But baggage man sees me and speaks, "Hi my name is Luis and I'm from Los Angeles I'm just here for work." Er...I didn't know what to say 'cause I didn't initiate this conversation. I'm reluctant but somehow the friendly Californian in me rears its inner voice and says, "hey, I'm Joe, I just moved out here recently from the West coast." Why must I always feel the need to give unnecessary information to strangers? I do this often without thinking or using my better judgment. I wish I could be stronger, more steadfast; blank look on face, say what I really want to say: "What, you talkin' to me? I don't give a shit where you are from I just want to get home!"

NO I cannot be like that and probably never will--some sort of internal firewall prevents it

unless really provoked, unless threatened, unless hopelessly lost and confused with a wild impulse to not give a shit at all. This man Luis talks friendly and I can see right away that he is a good person, an honest person. Just before the light turns green he pulls out his phone and asks for my number. Now, this is strange, and I don't know why he wants my phone number??

He says something about next time he's in town we should hang out. This is very weird but I can tell he means well and I sort of feel sorry for him; he seems like the kind of guy who just likes to know people from all over the place.

So just before crossing the street I give him my number--my real number. I could have easily given him a fake, a fraudulent number that would provide him nothing. Was I thinking clearly, what the hell did I just do? I'm not the type of person who randomly gives out his phone number to people on street in any city, anywhere. I tell nobody of this and proceed to extinguish it from my mind. As quickly as this happened it evaporates from my memory like some strange little dream--like it never really happened...

Fast forward to Thanksgiving eve in Ohio, 12 am in bed with Sara almost asleep:

My phone rings a strange little beep, the beep I recognize as somebody leaving a text message.

Wondering who this may be I get out of bed and go to check the message. It is there and it is surreal:

"Have a wonderful dinner today with your family...just remember same time next year it'll definitely be different!"

--Luis

Epilogue:

I explained the story to Sara and eventually fell asleep. I had the strangest most incongruous dreams I've ever had in my entire life that night. Everything from that point on was going to be foreign, but I believed I knew a little bit more about everybody just the same.

Gassed out

This morning while riding the subway, half asleep, I entered Manhattan, and at around 42nd St. I smelled gas, not human gas, but city gas, like fuel or butane leaking out somewhere. It seemed strange at the time, but I quickly dismissed it and continued on with my zombie like commute through a sea of people and the crumbling cityscape. When I got to work I logged onto my computer and started reading the news. The top local story was about the strange gas smell I had just experienced. Intrigued, I read on to discover that nobody knew exactly what it was or where it was coming from; city officials and air quality control scientists could not figure it out. Nobody knew what was causing this mysterious gas.

But I knew, sure enough, that NYC had just let out a giant fart. Yes. This disgusting city with its overly populated streets, myriad subterranean tunnels, un-countable buildings, and millions of people shitting and pissing all over the place finally had enough of everyone else's gas and let out its own nice big smelly one. In a city this size you can't expect this to not happen sometimes. This place just has to release some pressure every now and then.

Today I experienced that. Call off the emergency, call off the National Guard, don't send in supplies, there are no terrorists, we'll be alright, just cover your noses and let the city slip out a few 'silent but violents'. It was bound to happen sometime.

Some things to come

So anyone who has read this blog in the past or knows me is aware that I play drums. That is to say, I am a drummer. Seems strange to say that I am a drummer or any kind musician for that matter, but it is most certainly true; I am a drummer, I love to play drums, I love the feel and energy of playing drums. I think about drumming a lot, but I'm not one of those guys who wears his Zildjian hat and T-shirt and hangs out at the Guitar Center talking shop with the drum department dudes. Nothing against those types of people, but I think I'm just a little more unassuming than that.

Like the other day, here at this stale law firm, one of the annoying paralegals who I fortunately don't have to work with on a regular basis found out that I was a skateboarder. She said something like, "Oh I don't see that". What the fuck? What is there to see, you stupid little brat? I am me, and yes, I'm kinda balding and I wear glasses and I have to tuck in my shirt everyday. Sorry, I don't fit the 'mold' of some pre-determined skater stereotype that you've seen on the X-Games giving an interview and speaking in monosyllables. You see, this is the problem with the people around here; they want everyone to fit into some kind of easy little package so that they can figure them out, have them categorized and remove all unknown parts. The corporate world and the people who inhabit it want conformity. They don't want you to think outside the box, they want you inside the box and easily recognizable, digestible. Don't grow your hair too long, shave regularly, wear yer little slacks, and smile when the big douchebags and snobby rich bitches walk by. So what is my point? Oh yeah, drumming.

I want to continue drumming and I would love to drum again in a band. I will do this in time, maybe not right away, but it will continue. Just as skateboarding will continue in my heart and mind as well. These are a couple of major things in my life that I've had to cut back on since moving to NYC. Change is good, I know this, and I'm trying my hardest to accept it right now. I will not, however, change what I love and what ultimately makes up a large portion of my personality.

So this weekend I'm going to meet up with a band and give the drums another whirl. Not sure how it is going to work out, not even sure if these people will like me, but I'm gonna try it anyway. What the hell do I have to lose? I played in an active band for 6 years! We did more than your average little unknown indie band ever does. I'll report more on this next week, maybe.