Rambling Thoughts on Travel

For the past couple of months, I've been traveling for work.  Both my previous firm and now current employer thought I would be better served doing work away from the office and minimize the certain negative impact on other workers (or maybe they just had work that needed to be done away from the office.  It's more fun to imagine being the bad boy influence but nonetheless).  

As it stands, I usually travel Sunday to Thursday night, spend a glorious 48 hours in my tiny apartment that I pay too much for, then repeat the process.  It's quite thrilling, don't you think? Doing all this travel has emboldened me, dear reader, to doll out some tips (or just ramble).

1) I know TSA has this stupid rule about liquids needing to be in 3 ounce containers all contained inside a quart sized ziplock bag which must be taken out of the main luggage at the security checkpoint. Thankfully, it seems TSA agents (much like travelers) really don't give quite a shit about this. In 5 months, I've never once taken my liquids out of my luggage or been given a hard time about it. Also, since I don't check my bags, I started carrying liquids larger then 3 ounces in my bags because well, why the hell not? I'm not going to spend 3 dollars on a travel size toothpaste when I've got a perfectly good regular sized tube at home.

And the rule IS stupid - another societal overreaction to that one time some proposed terrorist was found with possible explosive liquids (one supposes larger then 3 ounces) on his person.  Personally I like to imagine that there are people who clean up the cargo bay areas of planes and they went to their union (or whatever bureaucratic horseshit organization they are governed by) and complained about exploding liquids (larger then 3 ounces) causing big messes.

2) Planes are the ideal place to cut a fart. It's loud and the stink gets recycled. Try it sometime.

3) Airlines have this new thing of "boarding zones" which amount to another caste system. First people with disabilities (or elderly) and individuals that are in the armed forces can board.  Next up are those folks with "preferred status" at the airline. Up next are the boarding zones, usually 1-8. These zones appear to be in place for orderly boarding by us sheep but seem to really a mechanism for boarding agents to exert a small amount of power on the masses.

So fuck them. I enjoy get on the boarding line a boarding zone before my boarding zone is announced and then being boarded. I am a rebel. (This failed once and the boarding agent made a big stink about it not being my boarding zone and asking me to please get out of line. I did because I'm not a savage but in my mind, I was SO cool about it.)

4) For some reason, I always think that one day I'm going to enter my hotel room and find the cleaning lady (or man) having sex on my hotel bed.  The worst part? I'm not sure I would really be angry or disgusted and in fact would probably break out into applause.

Subway Farts

The New York City subway system is one giant centrifuge.  It strips away all the bull shit and leaves you at your most human.  My most human moments occur in the subway, like when I’m up to my neck in stranger wondering who is touching me and not really caring that it’s happening - a sentiment I’m sure isn’t shared by fellow women riders.  But it is what it is.  We’re all stuck on this metal tube snaking underneath the city; better make the best of it.

Usually I’m totally ok with all of it.  This morning however, I reached a new point.  I followed my usual protocol for mornings; I stood along the back doors, halfway leaning on the hand rails and door.  Everything was going along swimmingly until somewhere between Grand Central and 14^th street my olfactory nerves were suddenly under siege like the French in WW2.  I was under enemy fire from a familiar foe: a fart.

Now I understand the attractiveness in letting one rip on the subway.  I can’t act holier-than-thou since I, in acts of a desperate man, have had to let one rip indiscriminately.  There is something, however, to be said to letting something out of your body that you know will stink.  Some will say “you don’t know that a fart is or isn’t going to smell”, but we know that’s a lie.  Sometimes you feel that pit in your stomach and a familiar grumble.  Sometimes you know when the fart is on the tip of your butthole much like words on the tip of your tongue.  It lingers there, momentarily and you wonder “what have I eaten that led to this?”

Now I don’t know the solution.  Sometimes you just can’t hold it in no matter how hard you try.  Should we institute a warning system despite how embarrassing that might be?  Should people raise their hand and say “I’m sorry but I can no longer hold it in!”  I’m not really sure but for now, I’ll just bury my nose in my scarf and give you the stink eye for giving me the stink nose.

Short Takes

I'm a big proponent of half-thoughts.  I end up writing small little paragraphs that I am then unable to fully flesh out into something more substantial.  Most of the time, I have no idea what to do with these idea fetuses.  So, I've decided to post some up regularly as "short takes."

·       Of the large amounts of things that I’m self-conscious about, nothing is as existentially troublesome as my lack of significant chest hair.  Now I certainly have some chest hair, but it’s akin to an adolescent’s peach fuzz facial hair.  This peach fuzz chest hair makes me question my own Hispanic-ness.  How Hispanic/Latino can you really be if you don’t have an impressive chest rug?  In my case, I fear that I should maybe start checking off a different box on governmental forms when it comes to ethnicity.

·       It shouldn’t, but sometimes drinking stresses me out.  It should be a fun activity – debaucherous even – but it’s hard to enjoy yourself when it becomes an “art.”  What I mean is that I don’t understand this new cocktail culture where you go to a bar, sit down and watch the bartender mix a $12 drink with a hokey name like “The Caribbean Sunset.”  I don’t want to discuss the use of fresh fruit juices and bitters.  I really don’t want your opinion on how the Tequila is barely noticeable and mixes extremely well with mint.  I don’t want the bartender advising me on the “correct way” to drink the cocktail (apparently you are supposed to savor every sip – ponder it, dissect it like some abstract idea).  Well fuck you buddy.  I want to taste the tequila.  I don’t want to think about all the ingredients in my drink.  I want to drink it at my own pace (CHUGGING) and get on with my evening.

·       Without any hint of irony or shame, I’d like to state for the record that I fully endorse “high-fiving.” I realize this aligns me with David Puddy from Seinfeld but that’s ok.  You can have your bro-tastic fist bump.  The stuffy hand shake is all yours kiddo.  Leave the half-handshake-half-hug to those who are smoother and cooler.  Next time, in a social situation, whip out the high-fives.  Maybe even go around the room handing them out like pamphlets of AWESOME.  But be sure to be cognizant of the shorter types and not extend your hand too high.  No one likes a TOO-high fiver.

Enemies of the State - Subway Edition

It’s been awhile since I’ve run through a current list of “Enemies of the State.”  As an informal reintroduction, let’s so a special “Enemies of the State” about something that makes NYC, NYC: the subway. 

Accordingly to internet sources procured through only the most intense research, 1.1 million miserable bastards use the NYC subways on any given day.  1.1 million Dolts are sharing the same experience daily.  All of them strangers, some going to the same stop - maybe even to end up at the same destination, others not so much.  Some of these strangers you might never see again, others you might see frequently.  Some might even die by the end of the day and you’ll never be the wiser; which is to say, yea, the subway is sort of a big deal.  It is the life force of the city – the common enemy we all despise but rely on.

Enemies of the State:

1)      Old Ladies - Stop judging me you old hag.  I was on the train before you so therefore have a right to sit here cramped between the nervous looking girl and construction worker.  I understand you’re no spring chicken but through various sporting activities and life in general, neither am I.  Stop looking at me with those eyes – half judgmental, half hungry.  I’m not budging.  I’m not getting up and letting you sit down.  Judging by your “Sketchers Fit” shoes, maybe you shouldn’t even mind standing up for a bit.  It’s good for your glutes you know.

2)      Pan Handlers – as Terrence Howard once sang, it’s hard out here for a pimp.  I don’t begrudge you trying to make your nut by any means necessary.  I do begrudge however two specific pan handlers: the Central American performs and the seemingly Gypsy types with the accordion and lady usually carrying a baby.

Maybe it’s paranoia but the Central American performs make me increasingly self-conscious.  All of a sudden I am VERY well aware that besides them, I’m the only other Hispanic on the train.  I can feel the stares from other passengers - the stares that seem to say “you’re going to give them money for playing YOUR music right?”  The worst part is that I actually enjoy the music.  Who hates mariachis? Certainly not this jaded bastard.  It takes every ounce of strength not to yelp out an “AYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYE” in accordance with all Mariachi music.

The Gypsy types are a fairly recently development in NYC subways.  It’s always a family of indeterminate ethnicity.  There’s a dad playing an accordion in ill-fitting Euro trash clothing and a Kangol, a mom in an unfortunately short shirt unveiling her bread grown stomach, and a baby.  Sometimes there’s also a small child of about 2 or 3 holding the mother’s hand.  Now, the accordion is obviously the greatest instrument ever but this act is always wrist-slashingly depressing.  The dad plays some ethnic song on the accordion while the mom – holding the baby – walks around with a baseball hat collecting any tips.  In one case, the mom was actually BREAT FEEDING the baby as she was collecting.  I’m here to tell you that something evil happens inside a man when you’re simultaneously hoping a nipple makes an appearance, grossed out, and incredibly sad in the same moment.

3)      Close Talkers – during rush hours, the trains aren’t the best places for those that value their personal space.  You’re never really sure whose hand is touching what or why.  You just accept the situation for what it is and go to your happy place.  Unfortunately, there are those that decide it would be a great time to start a conversation on how closely packed everyone is.  We are extremely tight; please don’t try to engage me.  I can LITERALLY see the piece of meat in your molar from last night’s dinner good sir.  Please don’t talk to me for I fear that you might actually bite my nose off.   Good Day.  I SAID Good Day!

The Bench

Oh the bench.  I wish I were using the term to describe an athletic bench.  You know, “riding the pine”.  Staying active and alert, awaiting my turn to enter the game and hopefully dominate in some small, meaningless way.  But no, the bench is the 2^nd grade recital for consultants – a necessary, mind numbingly boring exercise full of children (or adults in this case) drunk of self-grandeur.  It is the period between projects where you sit at a computer in the main office, awaiting the next client or engagement.  Everyone asks the same questions in that barely alive tone of voice associated with fatally injured victims on those police procedural shows omnipresent on network television.  “What client were you at? Where do you think you’ll go next?  What are you working on now?” It’s like being on a date with a computer who has only been fed the “Wall Street Journal” as an example of human speech.

The worst is realizing that you shouldn’t be complaining.  It is really THAT bad that you don’t have anything to do and can leave at 5?  Or that sometimes you can work from home?  It really isn’t all that bad, save for the short, sweet descent into possible madness when you realize you are about as valuable to the firm as a granite statue of you.  Well that’s a bit unfair.  At least people can lean on and stick gum onto statues.  You just take up space and valuable oxygen.  I just realized I’m mouth breathing and there occupying more oxygen than usual.  I’m at a -2 for value today.

Working from home is fine, until your couch conforms to the shape of your body.  You struggle to find the motivation to do anything productive.  Oh let me check this website again for the 5^th time in the last 20 minutes, maybe they’ve updated it.  Have I read that story on runaway dogs in Canada yet?  No but maybe I should to kill off 7 minutes of my day.  In these small moments of boredom, you pretend to learn deep things about yourself.  Assumptions deduced by tiny actions that are multiplied by the lack of larger actions occurring.  Suddenly you realize that you haven’t eaten anything in a couple hours.  A couple hours without food and you start planning your casting video to be on “Survivorman” or go live in the woods, off the grid.  Yea, that’s the ticket.  A couple hours without food and suddenly Ghandi is a pussy for going on a hunger strike.  BIG DEAL, I could do it on my couch, pansy.

Let's Get a Job

My week days are often filled with time spent wondering what I should be doing.  I don’t mean this in some preposterous existential manner but rather I really don’t do anything at work and figure I should be doing something to occupy my time, even if it’s not work related.  My problem, apart from lack of work to do during work, is that you can only surf the web for so long.  After a while, despite the vast hole that is the internet, articles and columns and pieces congeal into an unintelligible amoeba.  So I’ve taken to other internet activities to fill my day up.

I’m not afraid to admit that a large portion of my day is dedicated to perusing job postings on various websites.  This exercise serves firstly as a basic job search looking for greener grass, but also as a voyeuristic escape imagining myself with new coworkers and new responsibilities, sharing funny anecdotes that I might have tired with old coworkers but who new coworkers would be so eager to listen to.  I start imagining myself during the interview, nailing questions rapidly like a the protagonist in a Billy Wilder movie while sprinkling hints of humor throughout and finishing the interview with a high-five (or a fist bump for a brotha cause I’m all about equal opportunity) to the hiring manager.

Simultaneously, however, the exercise also serves to make me feel terrible about myself and question what is valued by firms.  The algorithm which produces the line of work I do usually includes a sum of various factors including an Ivy League education, amazing grades, and/or a professional certification, neither of which I possess.  This creates a vortex where I’m at once good at what I do (when I have stuff to do) and qualified to do other things yet no hiring manager would dare look at my resume.  Further, while I have the current job I have, I do so with the knowledge that I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for having a foot in the door in the form of my aunt knowing my firm’s founder.

Still, I do my best to go through job postings.  One firm I tried applying to has the following passage on the careers main page:

“If you have strong analytical skills, business-level fluency in the language of the region where you wish to work, international work experience, and hold a degree with an outstanding academic record from a world-renowned academic institution, we encourage you to apply…”

I happily submit that I fit the first three criteria but I worry that the small shitty school where I attended University in the backwoods of Jersey wouldn’t qualify as a “world-renowned academic institution.”  It’s not even a Jersey-renowned one in fact.  Don’t confuse this with me decrying Ivy League institutions or those fortunate enough to have attended them.  I’m merely wondering how important one’s education is if there is 4+ years of superb work related experience in one’s canon.  Fine, I wasn’t taught by decorated professors, but I somehow managed not to embarrass myself or get caught picking my nose (what picking one’s nose has to do with education is beyond me, but it seemed like the appropriate analogy to make) like some dunce.

Even more amazing was the one firm who after accepting my years of experience still asked for my SAT scores from 10 years ago (FUCK I’m old).  Don’t we have enough evidence to show that standardized scores mean nothing in terms of one’s intelligence?  What does a test score from 10 years ago demonstrate about my propensity to perform my job at a high level?  Ten years ago I had a Spanish afro, wore pajama pants to school twice a week, spent weeknights playing NFL2K with friends and watched Saturday morning cartoons (fine I still do, but still).  The scarier proposition is that this firm is world renowned and provides management consulting and analysis to some of the most important firms in the world and yet they still rely on meaningless 10 year old test scores to predict future performance.  But whatever, fine I’ll play your game prestigious firm, but you better believe I lied my ass off when I put down my SAT score.  

So I don’t know what the answer is.  Growing up we are told to work hard and go to school in exchange for promises of upward mobility.  BE ALL YOU CAN BE! YOU CAN BE ANYTHING YOU WANT!  But what happens when that’s not enough? A small block of text of my resume determines if anyone will even look at my resume.  Should I try to go to business school and get my MBA, even though it certainly means over 150k in loans and no guarantee of future employment?  Are we effectively saying that the select few that attend prestigious schools will the only ones able of finding higher-paying jobs?  Will we be ruled by the brainy minority?

Make a Wish

“Sportscenter” or rather ESPN and its many affiliates and programs, serve as the background noise of my life.  It seems they are always on, a constant sporting presence on TV while I do whatever else I am doing.  Most of the time, it’s pretty innocuous but every once in awhile a tear jerking special will run for the “Make a Wish Foundation.”  The basic gist is that the network will find some poor sick kid whose wish is to meet his or her athlete idol.

And the segment is always produced in the same way.  Start off with a high camera shot of some abandoned field or parking lot with a somber, slow voice over  explaining how in this small town, the people are known for this fastidious trait.  The voice over narration continues until the moment to sell comes and there is a reveal “for poor little Joe (or Jane), suffering from Death Disease 1 (the disease is usually something just fatal enough to be scary without being hopeless like cancer or auto-immune deficiency.  It never gets as serious as something like AIDS since that would presumably turn off many viewers who don’t want to imagine the kid getting his wish and then swiftly kicking the bucket).  Next we are given a review of the kid’s medical history, interviews with the parents and other authority figures who give anecdotes about the kid and their hero which they will soon meet, and interviews with the sick kid explaining why he admires the athlete in question.  Finally, the kid is whisked away to meet the athlete and the outcome is always the same.  The kid is terrified while the athlete awkwardly tries to explain what is happening.  Usually the segment will continue with the kid playing catching or doing something active with the athlete then receiving some sort of memorabilia (which I always assume is some sort of death parting gift but then I’m macabre).  Finally, the segment ends with the athlete and child saying their goodbyes.  All the while, sad, mood setting music plays through-out for maximum effect.

I’m never really sure how I should feel during these produced segments. Couldn’t something be done to spruce up the proceedings?  Do the segments ALWAYS have to follow the same recipe?  The obvious intended outcome (from the network’s point of view) is for the viewer to feel some sadness, maybe cry a little.  But I’m too cynical for that.  I often end up wondering how the parents of the sick kid could allow them to have athletes as role models.  How often are we as a society berating athletes for being selfish and/or getting embroiled in things such as sex scandals?  Aren’t we always saying how athlete’s AREN’T role models, but rather just highly skilled human beings, warts and all?  What’s the real message?  It’s OK to look up to an athlete so long as you had a serious disease?

Now listen, I’m all for a bit of happiness in the sucky life of some kid who has spent most of his childhood in and out of hospitals.  I’m not a total heartless turd (well maybe I am), but I’m also worried about the larger picture.  What about all the other sick kids?  How are these kids chosen?  Besides meeting the athletes, couldn’t there be a way for the network or team to donate some money towards research for the disease afflicting the (bald) kid? A signed jersey and some sporting paraphernalia isn’t going to replenish Johnny’s low white blood cell count.