I just bought tickets to see Ricky Gervais perform at Madison Square Garden on May 19. This show is part of the High Line Festival, which is connected to a charity of some sort. I believe they want to make a park out of an unsightly rail structure in West Chelsea.
Sure, I support that. Can I write this off?
You should buy tickets, too. Although we can’t sit together, we can turn our phones to vibrate and provide text message color commentary.
[This is the second installment in the You Show Me Yours series I'm running on YesButNoButYes -- I toss out an anecdote, then you tell yours. Today's topic is inappropriate co-workers. Already we've gotten some very funny contributions.]
One summer in college, for $7 an hour, I worked as an assistant shipping and receiving clerk at my old high school. I had three responsibilities:
1) Show up at 7am.
2) Man the warehouse when my boss went to lunch.
3) Not piss off my irritable co-workers.
I could do that. And I did. After a few days, I was bringing a pillow and sleeping until 10. Face down, at my desk. I found other nap rooms throughout the school and used them frequently and no one cared. But a few weeks in, I had a problem. This problem was verbalized by a frequent warehouse visitor — a custodian named Gus.
“We have a little tradition around here, Junior. At the end of the summer, I wrestle the summer help.”
And with that, the mindless summer warehouse job lost its cachet.
Let there be no suspense. I knew this match would never happen. While the looming clash of the titans did not keep me up at night, it sure did end my nap routine. The awkwardness was frequent. One day Gus asked if I wanted to know his hobby. “You’re going to make fun of me,” he warned. “It’s not something many grown men do.”
I could imagine.
His hobby, he claimed, was playing with model trains, and taking pictures of real ones. He invited me to come with him to our local train station and “take a few shots.” Whether he meant photos or liquor or first-degree murder, I’ll never be sure. Lucky for me, I’d seen the (very special) episode of Diff’rent Strokes where Arnold and Dudley were lured into dangerous territory by Horton, the creepy bike shop owner played brilliantly by Gordon Jump. It was with him — the custodian, not Gordon Jump — that I perfected my non-verbal, non-committal fake laugh/head bob. The most effective gesture in my arsenal.
Another time, Gus walked into my office area with his pants unzipped. He laughed and zipped up. He was not coming from the bathroom.
“This will all be worthwhile when I tell this story nine years from now,” I told myself.
“Let me go get the mats,” he said on my last day. I was impressed that mats would be involved. But not impressed enough to see this through. Gus left to get the mats and I went home. We never saw each other again. One day, I fully expect to be on the business end of a double-leg takedown. He’s lurking, I’m sure.
After all, it’s tradition.
After Georgetown’s big comeback to tie UNC, Ellen said to me, “At least in OT, the Hoyas have time to build a ten-point lead, so it won’t be as nerve-wracking.” I scoffed at her possibly jinx-inducing analysis. But this tournament has exposed how little I know. Georgetown proceeded to score the first fourteen points in the extra period on their way to a 94-86 win. She’s cute when she gloats.
In this pool, my champion is Georgetown, and I also have Florida and Ohio State. But after several early gaffes, I’ve got no shot. If Ohio State wins, Ellen will come in second (out of 74).
And I’m not ready to talk about my work bracket.
This spoof United Way ad was the highlight of Peyton Manning’s appearance on Saturday Night Live. In my book, throwing footballs at unsuspecting kids is always funny.
I’ve got a long night of freelance writing ahead of me. The wine should help. I found this Chief Moose mug hiding in the very back of our cupboard. Chief Moose was the public face of the DC Sniper investigation of 2002. Ellen and I can’t remember who got it for whom. Or why, exactly. But I’m glad it’s still around. Hey, I wonder whatever happened to Chief Moose…
(There goes the next half-hour.)
We need to catch up on a few things.
• Dual high-fives to Josh Evans and Meg McGinn, who got engaged yesterday. As couples go, they’re tough to beat. Wildly entertaining, perfectly paired people. Ellen seemed more excited about this engagement than she was when I proposed. “Now we just need to convince them to move to New York,” she said. Also, I took a screen shot of three instant messages Josh sent me on Thursday. Timeless.
• Guardedly Optimistic – the blog of Justin Feinstein, my fellow Renegade copywriter – has inexplicably been missing from my blogroll. We’ve discussed his site before, and I posted the transcript of his second round interview. Not sure how this happened. I’m appointing a task force to determine responsibility.
• Colin Eckert has been named head coach of the Mount Olive High School football team. I didn’t know people our age were allowed to be head football coaches, but I very much look forward to reading Daily Record profiles of him. No word on whether Col will wear his three state championship rings on the sidelines.
• Good times out in the city last night (as captured in the above photo). I had a few beers with the aforementioned Justin, design guru Michael, and Erin, the pride of Kansas. Michael posted part of an email I sent him this morning, recapping the festivities. Then for dinner, I met up with the proprietors of mental_floss. High quality people and conversation all around.
• I’ve started a new feature on YesButNoButYes called You Show Me Yours, where I toss out an anecdote and ask the community to share related stories. I’m very happy with the first episode, “Crazy Roommates.” Even Ellen got in on the action:
Like about 75 percent of the population, the roommate I was randomly assigned my freshman year of college didn’t end up a life-long friend. Here’s why:
She hated college. To compensate, she holed up in our small jail-cell room microwaving frozen home-cooked meals her mom would FedEx to her overnight. Her extreme depression and constant presence eventually drove a wedge between us, especially because she resented how much I was enjoying college life. Still, we co-existed somewhat peacefully until about a week before the school year ended.
It was then that she decided I had been purposely hanging up on her mother whenever she called. (A charge I vehemently deny to this day. At least the “purposely” part.) This led her to do annoying things like play her stereo at its loudest volume whenever I put on the TV, or vice versa. Stupid roommate crap.
So, though I don’t remember this precise moment, I do concede it’s possible that I was overheard at some point saying, “Sometimes I just want to kill her.” She decided that I truly meant this overused expression of anger, and went to our RA about it. I subsequently found myself being questioned by the RA as to whether I truly meant said roommate bodily harm.
So I moved into a friend’s room down the hall for the last few days of the school year. At that point, I wouldn’t have put it past her to kill herself and frame me just out of spite.
• And finally, yesterday was Free Iced Coffee Day at Dunkin Donuts. My friend Jess tried to do the impossible – hit every DD franchise within five square miles (there are twelve.) Here’s her map, and here’s her story.
This is my version of a clip show. You should feel cheated.
• January 25, 2005: Maybe not “Ha ha” funny, but…. My first-ever blog post.
• August 21, 2006: Regicidal Maniacs. My first-ever mental_floss entry.
• February 7, 2006: Commuting Suicide: Volume X. I read this aloud during my second Renegade interview. I’m not sure if it helped or hurt my case.
• February 25, 1998: The Best of Sanjay Email. If you don’t know Sanjay, this won’t make sense. But he was a character I went to school with from first grade through high school. When I was a freshman at Duke, Sanjay discovered email. And he discovered a way to find my roommate’s email address. And he would send him crazy emails (CCing me each time, and later CCing a whole bunch of other people). Anyway, I found this site with help from the Wayback Machine. Again, this will be hilarious to about 12 people and baffling to the rest.
• June 18, 2006: Father’s Day Filler. My first words here at jasonenglish1.com.
• February 12, 2007: Interview(er) Tips. A ton of hilarious comments made this one memorable.
• November 21, 2006: The Fan Club: Spectacular Stories of Storied Spectators. The post that I spent the most time researching.
• January 3, 2007: Who Are They Now? The NFL Quarterbacks’ Wives Club. More people read this than everything else I’ve ever written, combined. Five days later, there was even a sequel. This is probably as trashy as I’ll get.
• November 15, 2005: Man vs. Beast. Documenting Bailey’s first full day in Livingston.
That’s enough for now. But I’m sure we’ll do this again.
For the last four months of 2001, I sublet a room in a quiet neighborhood on the Durham-Chapel Hill border. This decision was questionable from the start. But they wanted $400 per month and I was poor and desperate – two things you shouldn’t be when looking for housing.
On my initial tour of the premises, my future landlord greeted me with a flashlight. “Before you see the inside,” he said without introducing himself, “I want to show you the mangos.” So he walked me out to a makeshift garden and showed me the mangos. I was not impressed but faked it.
“The next thing you need to see is the workout room.” The workout room consisted of a punching bag in an otherwise-empty screened-in porch. He proceeded to demonstrate, kicking it furiously. I now knew never to be late with rent. He offered me a turn but I declined.
This man’s name was Hector.* He called himself the homeowner, though I had my doubts. He rivaled me in age (22) and showed no signs of employment. His back windshield alleged an affiliation with Durham County Technical College, a school whose existence I could never verify. On various occasions, he said he was on the cusp of “joining the CIA,†“heading to law school†and “opening a salon, for men.“ His cousin, Joy, was a fellow roommate. A month after I moved in, they started sleeping together. We all handled the Anthrax scare differently.
He was filled with intrigue, as was his house.
One October Sunday, he woke us at 8:30 for the first (and only) “House Meeting,” held outside. This was shocking but not a complete surprise. The Wednesday before, he’d left a crude agenda under my door; I’m sure the date and time were on there somewhere. That was the same day I received a letter rejecting my BP gas card application – the low point of a low period.
In any event, as a member of the house, my presence at this meeting was insisted upon. We were five strong; our patio set was one short. Not to worry. Hector had a plan. This plan consisted of us relocating two 300-pound basement couches to the backyard. Up a flight of stairs. Through the kitchen and living room and out into the yard – all the while negotiating tricky turns and tiny doorways. When I asked why we needed both, he said he was planning to bring them up anyway (“To get them some sun.”) I’ve never witnessed another couch owner demonstrate this practice, and can’t imagine it’s something normal people do. Regardless, it’s not something I was about to try before nine on a Sunday. Hector eventually retrieved a dining room chair.
There is no task I half-ass more than shoveling.
Many of my neighbors take pride in revealing every inch of pavement, like eager children clearing their plates. Not me. I’ll take my chances with the sun. But the dog was hungry and it’s my job to provide food – food the snow prevented me from picking up yesterday. So I started digging an escape route.
As you can see, this proved difficult. Out of necessity, a seldom-used garden shovel came off the bench. The tool performed admirably under the circumstances, like Jeff Hostetler with the 1990 Giants, or Harry Truman in World War II.
After rearranging the cars, I was off.
I fully expected today’s low point to be the shoveling. But after retrieving Bailey’s food, I was grounded. Not by snow – by air. Or lack thereof. What pierced my tire is anyone’s guess.
In a slushy Starbucks parking lot, I slapped on the spare.
Upon my return from ETD Discount Tire, I watched Texas A&M – my Final Four pick – squeak out a huge win over Louisville. Just the catharsis I needed. If Winthrop finds a way to beat Oregon, I’d have to say today was a good day.
Update: I now realize Winthrop and Oregon play tomorrow. But I did treat myself to Fuddruckers tonight, which was far more satisfying. I noticed they’ve stopped asking for your name. This always baffled the staff. My two favorite examples came at the expense of college friends Phil Perry (“Fell P”) and Cass Dugan (“Ass B”). Frankly, I’ll miss that.
We’ve added a few new sites to the Blogroll.
• Phil Ramunno’s blog. This fellow Renegade is not afraid to film crazy people, and he’s kind enough to post the results.
• Nebraska Roots. Another co-worker, Dave Kortum, is new to New York. You can follow along. Cute pictures of his dog and cat as well.
• cellar door. I met Johanna this morning at likemind, and she seems like the kind of person who’d have an interesting blog. On an unrelated note, twelve hours after Duke fell apart against VCU, she was the first VCU grad I’d ever met. Eerie.
• Three Volcanoes. And I can’t remember if we’ve talked about this before, but my sister has entered the blogosphere. In other English family blog news, sources say our parents have one in the works as well. Those sources are my parents.
Let me tell you why I don’t sell advertising on this site.
Earlier today, I was mindlessly perusing Slate’s Ad Slogan Tournament. Both “The History of Advertising” and “Anything With Brackets” are high on my list of likes. I debated the relative merits of “M&M’s melt in your mouth, not in your hands” and “The one beer to have when you’re having more than one,” which is the tagline for Schaefer.
This reminded me of a fake tagline I wrote for Schlitz: “If it’s not Schlitz, it’s a drinking problem.” Penning fictional beer slogans is not something I normally do. But I recently completed a trivia game called Big Fat Lies with mental_floss and Quirk Books. My job was to pair fascinating, hard-to-believe truths with plausible fake ones. In this case, the role of hard-to-believe was played by a Bill Cosby anecdote:
After Miller unveiled the “It’s It and That’s That” slogan at a 1991 sales convention, guest speaker Bill Cosby joked to the crowd, “Which one of you idiots came up with that?”
Where were we?
Oh, the Ad Slogan Tournament. A breezy little diversion, right? Not after I glanced up at the banner advertisement. “If you died today,” it asked me in a serious serif font, “who would fund your family’s future?” Great question! Hang on, let me decide how far I have “Got milk?” going, then I’ll make plans for my untimely death. What kind of media placement is this?
Maybe it’s brilliant. Perhaps reaching me a few bars into the Alka Selzer jingle is the perfect time to chat about matters of grave importance. This ad unit (as we call it in the biz) is designed to shock me out of the carefree, frivolous world where I’d been happily existing. Hard to get worked up about the Avis (“We try harder”) vs. Delta (“We love to fly and it shows”) grudge match when you’re mentally pricing headstones.
More realistically, this ad was placed by an ad network automatically, without anyone considering the context. And I don’t want that happening here. A heavy message like this could spoil a perfectly happy post about Bailey. Other entries, like my ranting about Sprint, need no extra negativity. These ads steal focus from whatever it is I’m trying to tell you.
That’s why I don’t sell advertising on this site.
Another reason: nobody would ever consider buying advertising on this site. But I like to have long, drawn-out explanations to questions nobody has asked.
These times, as they say, demand The Times. For Christmas, Ellen ordered us a weekend subscription. I very much enjoy this new ritual.
While I’m satisfied with the news gathered by and contained within the paper, I do have one (minor) complaint: the paper is rarely delivered.
In under three months of service, our paper hasn’t come nine times. My paperboy’s batting average is dangerously low. But I can’t get too worked up at the call center operators. With Sprint, it was different. Sprint is designed to frustrate those with legitimate complaints. I can’t imagine The Times has anything to gain by not delivering my news.
The last three times this happened, I was assured my case would be “escalated to the distribution center.” And each time, satisfaction proved elusive. After I received an email this morning that claimed they were “doing everything possible to correct the situation,” I wrote this:
This is wholly unsatisfactory. You have claimed to be “doing everything possible” for weeks. For our repeated trouble, I would appreciate some sort of compensation. Six months free. A $40 credit. Something beyond words to make me think you actually are interested in keeping us as subscribers.
This email does not do that.
Much to my surprise, I received a timely response.
Thank you for contacting us. We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience. Our records indicate that we have now contacted the District Manager to have delivery commenced this weekend and going forward to have delivery consistent. In addition, we will credit your account $40.00 for all the inconvenience that we may have caused. We assure you that we will strive to serve you better in the future.
Your satisfaction is very important to us.
Well done, Times. When the paper inevitably doesn’t arrive next Saturday, I won’t be as compelled to complain.
Guess I should have asked for a plasma TV. Or help with mulching.
Chuck Klosterman’s all over the place this week.
• In Play, which comes with The New York Times: Vote for Gilbert.
I have 45 seconds to deliberate with Gilbert Arenas.
We are standing in the locker room of the Verizon Center in Washington, 20 minutes after the Wizards have been defeated by the Los Angeles Lakers in early February. It’s an uncomfortable situation; people are tired, people are naked and people are tall. Arenas has just showered. There are 18 men huddled around his locker, and they are asking him 18 variations of the same question: “Why did tonight’s outcome occur as it did?” Arenas responds with 18 versions of the phrase “Because that’s how it goes.”
• In Esquire: Things We Think We Know.
We all hate stereotypes. Stereotypes are killing us, and they are killing our children, and they are putting LSD into the water supply. Stereotypes are like rogue elephants with AIDS that have been set on fire by terrorists, except worse. We all hate stereotypes. Seriously. Dude, we fucking hate them.
Except that we don’t. We adore stereotypes, and we desperately need them to fabricate who we are (or who we are not). People need to be able to say things like, “All stereotypes are based on ignorance,” because expressing such a sentiment makes them enlightened, open-minded, and incredibly unpleasant. Meanwhile, their adversaries need the ability to say things such as, “Like it or not, all stereotypes are ultimately based in some sort of reality,” because that kind of semilogic can justify their feelings about virtually anything.”
• The Onion A.V. Club Interview: Random Rules: Chuck Klosterman.
• And his latest book, Chuck Klosterman IV, is reviewed today in The Observer (U.K.).
These were taken by Michael down in the Chelsea Market, where we work. Part of a photo exhibit planned for our new office space. I swear I’m not urinating, though I’ll admit my shirt could use an iron.
He instructed me to turn around and point to my left. Doing as I was told meant pointing directly at an angry-looking group of teens. I’m guessing this won’t make the final exhibit.
I could be an ankle model. Second pair from the left.
And here’s the classic looking-confidently-into-the-distance pose. My new headshot. See more of Michael’s artistic genius here. I have to give my Canadian friend credit; a lot of these shots of our co-workers came out pretty great.
