Doctors Orders

Immune system you are on notice. Come on, is mending abroken bone and fighting off the flu too much to ask? Frankly, you are doing neither very well. I am taking over:

1. 1000 mg Multi-vitamin
2. 1000 mg Echinacea
3. 1000 ml Ginger-ale
4. 100 ml nyquil (drink directly from bottle)
5. 1000 mg ibubrofen (whenever the bone fragments grinding against each other gets to me)
6. 300 mg sleeping aid (in case nyquil fails)

I prescripe reading by the pool in the afternoon followed by napping.

I Predict the Future

This is not my x-ray, but I did break my collar bone snowboarding today. Just practicing the one hand typing.

See, I knew this December it would health-related.

from » they-wouldn't give me a morphine drip dept

Cynicism Questioned, Life Purpose Undermined

Diamonds are to be found only in the darkness of the earth, and truth in the darkness of the mind. Having penetrated to those depths, having groped in my heart of darkness, I have found and grasped a diamond of truth that now lays gleaming in my hand. That diamond, that truth, is that my life has been and always will be full of pain, disappointment, and nagging self-loathing.

Though covered with a leafy html foliage of tongue-in-cheek sarcasm and acidic wit, my life is nothing but recidivism personified, impulsiveness defined, and boredom made flesh. My life is a, je ne sais quoi, hemorrhoidal eruption of agony sprung from the wretched travail of introverted self-destruction.

In a spirit of glasnost, let me expound. Imagine me as a character in a book, the book of life. Well not The Book of Life. The book of my life. (Never mind that it is a movie. You'll see. This is a party. We are all here. Having fun. Watching my life.)

Scene:

(A dramatic--and clichéd--shot of the earth. Globe spins, zoom in on the Pacific, zoom into the Hawaiian Islands, zoom into the gritty industrial park where I work, zoom into the deep interior of a bunker-like building, into a room with no windows, that stinks of Legionnaires disease and carpet glue.)

I am busy researching the cost difference between printing a plastic card (like your credit card) and a laminated paper card (like your grocery store frequent shopper card). This information is surprisingly difficult to stumble upon. Hold the scene for 12 hours.

Home from work, I walk into a hot muggy and very deserted apartment. All my friends are there: my Pineapple Room steak and my Tivo.

I lay down, chew on my steak (the fourth this week--should I become a vegetarian?), and fast-forward through repetitive episodes of whatever escapist, hackneyed show I have. Ha ha. It IS funny that the title of your interviewee is "Chief Child-Molestation Expert." Clever. Yawn. Fresh. Whatever. Steak. Water. Teeth. Bed.

I carefully arrange the bedding--one pillow to lay my left cheek on, one pillow to hold in a headlock with my right arm, and my feet sticking off the end of the mattress and uncovered (to promote cooling). Quick, hurry, fall asleep before they come. Past loves. (Clip of her) Wasted opportunities. (Clip of Good Will Hunting) Dead-end paths. (Clip of Bourne Identity. So I have a Matt Damon thing.) Too late. Headlock tightens in a flood of obscuring, blinding murderous rage and sorrow.

So with blood beating violently at my temples, I grab the laptop and blog. I steal material from books, blogs, and movies without citing them. I hack together things that are occasionally funny, but are usually not. Sometimes its self-canonization, other times self-aggrandizement, and occasionally self-flagellation. Sometimes true and sometimes false. Usually stretched. Inherently fatalistic. Brimming with pathos when written. Mostly confusing and exhibitionistic when read.

Sometimes I even metablog--that is, blog about blogging. So while I am self-conscious about being self-referential, I am knowingly so. That I am cognizant about being knowingly self-referentially self-conscious (you can see where I am going with this, if you have lasted this far), only further adds a layer of complexity to this completely imagined amorphorous blogosphere which serves a useful proxy for close friends, social interaction, and meaningful life.

End Scene

from » negativity dept

Spring Time for Hitler

No NYC trip is complete without a musical. Moreover, the fact that I flew a male friend (Kent) from LA out to hang with me in NYC (and pose as my significant other at the firm Christmas party--so they would expense his trip) required that we do something stereotypically gay. Hence the musical. Frankly, I found The Producers an absolute riot. My favorite line, Ulla (the Swedish legs that were cast in the play) just got hired as an actress slash receptionist. She responded: "Okie slash dokie." Classic.

Saw some college friends, some India friends, and hung out with an OC princess (not the highlight of the trip).

My flight is at 7 AM--just time enough to blog a bit. Oh, NYC you suck up so much money. You are so full of beautiful women--who are completely out of my league. You make me feel poor, ugly, unintelligent and untalented. But (McDonald's jingle "ba da ba ba baaa") I am indeed loving it.

from » the-shameless-"eye" dept

Not Sleeping in the City That....I Hate Cliches

Unfortunately I am still on Hawaii time so despite it being 4 AM I am wide awake. PM Lounge hosted our company Christmas party in NYC this year. I am still processing the event. Work parties are still very much work, so I made sure to cover the room, congratulate the new partners, build relationships with the main partners, and vie for upcoming gigs (Massachussetts or Western Europe may be in my future). I also received an award for community service from my firm for my efforts to raise money for orphanages in Nepal. (I will update that site soon with additional info).

Like everyone else, we like to pretend we are rockstars so the event included chest-thumping base, a handful of photographers, live comedians, and my favorite part--leggy Eastern European blondes tending bar all night. I was multi-tasking throughout the night--sipping cranberry juice on the rocks and schmoozing inebriated partners all while giving the bartender with fishnets and a rear-end shaped like a backwards "P" a little something I call "the eye."

As an aside, nothing stops a conversation about why I don't drink cold in its tracks like the phrase: "I have been sober 8 months." It's almost as good as Bonny's explanation of why she was not immediately pregnant after marriage: "Why, that would mean we would have to have sex."

Lastly, I think I have cancer. I must. Work is going well--managers & partners all seem to appreciate my inherent genius. Bonuses and promotions are coming up--(shake 8-ball) and all signs look good. I am on the way down from 200 lbs. Hawaiian sunsets are beautiful. Life is good.

But I have felt like this before and heartache must be just around the corner. Last year it was employment-related. The year before, it was the fairer sex. This year it has to be health. I am willing to take bets to defray chemo costs.

from » oh-so-trendy-oh-so-meatpackingy-dept

Gerbils

In the high-stakes game of consulting I play, the morning tide of death is often washed away by an afternoon swell of relief. What drives this rollercoaster ride of emotion, you may ask? Client demands? No. Unreasonable boss? No. Long hours? Low pay? Lack of job security? Bonus speculation? No, no, no, and (again) no. A single number!

Having taken off from work early enough to feel completely immoral, Wednesday's high tide found me enjoying one of the pecularities of surfing with the boss--no waves, sun setting in the distance, bobbing in the ocean, talking shop. Cocktails, a choir, and a Christmas tree lighting in a 5-star resort followed surfing. Seaside dining with the requisite hulla dancers followed cocktails.

The turbulent tide of the next morning brought a secret monster, a hydra lurking beneath. Parties who may not be named agreed to "make the deal work" to book revenue in fiscal 2006. Cancel the NYC Christmas party next week. Cancel the week in SLC. Cancel the week in LA. Cancel Christmas. Cancel my life. Pencil in despair.

Emails were sent. The coasts were contacted. A honeymoon was interupted. Cranks were turned. Numbers were crunched. Bets were made. A call was anticipated.

The number was off! Christmas is on! Hallelujah Chorus echoes down the hallways. Clouds part. Sun shines brighter. Rainbows spontaneously appear in the sky like Kings bouncing across the screen in a completed game of solitaire.

The afternoon tide brought celebratory (root) beers and steaks in addition to new client anecdotes. Very soon the schmooze-fuel influenced one man to bring up his two previous failed engagements (as in to be married).

One was a Celtic Hand Ceremony.
His view: in a non-legal and non-binding way, let's reaffirm our commitment to each other every three years.
Her view: no contract and a renegotiation every three years, how is that marriage?

The other was a hybrid approach.
His view: I will buy a house. I will buy two houses. Next door to each other. You live in one, I in the other. A connecting breezeway will "marry" us together. You can come over to see me anytime you want. Otherwise I will be watching TV.
Her view: "Are we #@%&-ing gerbils!"