#1: Posting a photograph of yourself throwing gang signs on the wall of your cubicle is probably within the generally accepted bounds of eccentricity. Throwing gang signs at the company photo shoot is not simply unprofessional, it’s plain not funny.

#2: Wearing a tie is a nice effort.  Wearing a tie and rolling up your sleeves is a little informal, but entirely within the generally accepted bounds of office decorum.  Wearing a tie with a short-sleeve shirt, and then not bothering to tuck the shirt in, makes you look like a busboy.

#4: “Borrowing” against your anticipated accrued vacation time while on probation, because you’ve used up all your sick leave, is unfortunate.  Doing so in order to make medical appointments halfway across the state, because apparently you’ve lived in this town for at least four years but haven’t found a doctor for your chronic neurological problems, suggests poor planning.  Doing so because of migraines that, in my entirely unprofessional opinion, are most likely induced by your wearing so much cologne you could stun a horse at 30 paces is just plain awful. 

#5: Introducing yourself upon first acquaintance as someone who has, and I quote, “a passion for psychometrics,” is wierd.  And if you don’t think it is, let me suggest to you that I know from wierd — I have a PhD from Harvard — and you’re just going to have to trust me on this. 

#6: Asking to see someone’s CV is totally fine.  It is, in fact, probably a good way to learn how to present oneself professionally, in written form.  It is also somewhat flattering to the person so asked.  However, upon reading a person’s CV, it is neither professional, nor particularly flattering, to shout so loudly that you can be heard by persons working in other units “OH MY GOD! YOU WENT TO HARVARD? YOU MUST BE A FREAKIN’ GENIUS!”

For those of you who have ever wondered what “cultural capital” is, these examples should provide you with some flavor of the concept.  For those of you who have ever wondered why I am often reluctant to trade upon my credentials, #6 should give you some idea.

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I considered trying to find a way to enfable this, but my fabulosity was temporarily disabled when I had to endure an evening that involved:

a.) A fundraiser for the largest gay partisan organization in the country (by its own report, which is of course suspect) that involved absolutely ZERO drag queens. Instead we were treated to an acoustic version of “Anthem” from Chess.

I’m sorry.  If I wanted to relive those tragic moments of early 90’s self-pity when I drove my sorry-ass vehicle up into the Peninsula hills blasting the soundtrack to Chess at full blast, I’d fucking buy a goddamn 1982 Toyota pick-up at current blue-book prices, plus a cassette-tape version of the London soundtrack, plus the gas it takes to drive from Stanford to San Gregorio and back, and still pay less money than what I plunked down to attend your sorry-ass goddamned fundraiser. 

And that’s leaving aside the entirely bizarre semiotics of singing a song about defection at  the main fundraiser for a partisan political group.  Chess, really?  And not even One Night in Bangkok?  Really? 

Here’s a quarter, dude, for the next time the clue bus rolls around.  Maybe you can catch a ride. 

Where was I?  Oh, right, annoyance #2:

b.) listening to an earnest speech by a young man in a bow-tie.  A senior at McClatchy, no less.  In not just skinny pants, but skinny cords. With a glamour shot that involved jumping from a rock into a river (surely the upper American), complete with life-jacket, “On-Golden-Pond” fishing cap, jaunty wave before submersion, and entirely appropriate knee-length swimming trunks.  Not that I was paying attention, mind you.  An oh-god-please-tell-me-I-wasn’t-that-earnest-at-18 speech.  A speech that entailed not one, but two shout-outs to his fag hags. 

Thank you, Christ, that I never thought it appropriate to thank my best female friend publicly for being there when I came out.  There are some things that become clearer with distance.  And one of them, it turns out, is the fundamental ingratitude entailed in saying “thank you” to people you have left behind. 

And no, I am not bitter that bitch stole my bow tie.  I remain unconvinced that he tied it himself.  And no, for the record, I will not, I repeat, not, swear that I can myself tie a bow unaided. 

Fucker.

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I found a way to insert Foucault into the lit review you demanded.  As well as a direct quote from someone saying that your request is literally “irrelevant.”  Not to mention a reference to a document produced by the OECD saying that you are wrong, and I am right.

So there, motherfucker. Bite me.

And yet still: if the baby dies?  I don’t care.  I get paid either way.

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I don’t actually give a rat’s ass.  I get paid either way, after all. 

In a not unrelated note: I find it absolutely hilarious to read “research” written by Jasper McCracker hisself.  It all but starts with the phrase “unfunded Washing mandate” and goes downhill from there.  It is, for the record, far more amusing than the crippingly boring research written by all these earnest Yankees.

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The word we were looking for was “balusters.”

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When you go to the consulate to get a visa for your next vacation, and you are declined.  For two reasons:

a.) There are not enough blank pages left in your passport on which to stamp said visa.

b.) Your destination is so obscure that the consular official (whose job it is, surely, to know their own nation) does not recognize it when named, and cannot find it on a map.

For the record, this did not happen to me. 

It happened to my mother.

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When a guest at your party brings their own private-label wine.

This is the second time this has occured.

For the record?  What they brought was far, far tastier than average. 

Which was actually somewhat difficult to accomplish, given the guest list.  Contributions included Runquist, Sbragia, and Merryvale.

Also: whoever brought the private label wine this time wins totally a totally game-changing number of coolness points.  For the simple reason that they declined to advertise what they had brought.

They were so fuckin’ cool, they didn’t even need to say it.  They simply deposited their bottle of Carvalho Family Tempranillo, and let the quality of their offering stand on its own.  Knowing, perhaps, that their host would later blog about it.

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I will not at this time be taking advantage of your I’m sure generous offer of a $1500 waiver (for those who qualify) for taking your “work and life experience” course/EL-203: Portfolio Development.

Nevertheless, I am quite sure that common courtesy suggests that I should thank you for this offer. 

Which I am sure I will do.  Thank you, I mean.  At some point.

Mind if I ask you a few questions, first?  Just for curiosity’s sake, really.

#1: Do I qualify for this offer?  I don’t have an associate’s degree, unfortunately.  And I see (on the back of your nice letter, in what appears to be 4-point font) that the $1500 waiver only applies to someone who is ” a transfer student having earned an associate’s degree from a regionally or nationally accredited institution other than Kaplan.”   I’m confused, really.  The agricultural extension school that I attended didn’t offer associate’s degrees.  Maybe I should pay you to give me one and then I could get my $1500 back for this portfolio whoosie-whatsit?

#2.)  Speaking of which, I see that you are “an accredited university,” a statement which you helpfully footnote (again, on the back, in 4-point font) by saying “see our Web site for details.”   Is this the webpage you mean? Or maybe this one?  I got both when I googled “Kaplan accreditation”; maybe I’m not googling right? Is this something you teach a course in?  

3.) Oh, and sort of related to that, I went to this other school for awhile — you know, still trying to get my associate’s degree and all.  Funny thing is, they wouldn’t give me an associate’s, but they did give me some other kinda degree (two actually), but the papers they gave me were written all in Latin and shit: magister this and doctoris that.  I mean, seriously, it sounded like Harry Potter was trying to give me a prescription or something.  And since it took 8 years and they still wouldn’t give me my associate’s degree, maybe I did something wrong?  If I don’t have my associate’s degree does that mean my other degrees (magister whatnot, doctoris something or other) aren’t worth the paper they’re written on? 

Which I’m sure yours are.  Worth the paper they’re written on, I mean.

#4) And finally, how did you get my address?

So, anywho, if you could back to me with the answers to those questions, I’ll consider your offer.  Oh, and could you get back to me within the next 7 weeks?  I see that your offer expires at the end of June (again, on the back, in 4-point font), and I’m really excited about that $1500 check you’re talking about (or was it a discount?  I hope it’s not a rebate or anything like that.  Cause you know, cash is kind of short at the moment.). 

Toodle-oo. 

Oh, wait.  I almost forget to thank you, didn’t I?  

Darn. 

I apologize for forgetting. 

Anway, see ya!

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So this weekend our hero attended the first all-company mustering-out of the army for which his father serves in the commanding council of generals.

Thankfully, our hero only twice had to reveal his identity as the only begotten son of the earl.  At all other times, the surname “FitzEarl” apparently served as a sufficient disguise to throw off most casual inquiries. 

Both instances of identity revelation were instructive, however. 

Instance #1 occured during a martial exercise that did not resemble combat so much as it resembled intensive, introspective meditation, paired with an exhibition of martial arts.  The kind of exercise that one might do if, say, one of the commanding generals had an interest in kenpo karate.  

The specific components of the exercise consisted of a a series of defined motions — in other words, a rather elaborate choreography — that also involved study aids, written exercises in reflective contemplation, and simultaneous coaching.  It was during the 12th movement of the series — a movement that, no joke, involved the phrase, “who’s your daddy?” — that the facilitator said “you know who is father is, don’t you?”

Our hero, for the record, had a quite different answer prepared.   It certainly involved a reference to General Fortinbras, the most recently retired Brigadier General of our hero’s particular brigade; it may even have involved refences to Samuel Gompers, John L. Lewis, and Joe Hill.

As an aside, it is perhaps to our hero’s credit that he did not at that point blurt out the first thing that came to his mind, which was a classically, and therefore stupidly Freudian response, to wit, “please, my friend.  Don’t worry about not making the connection.  Go ahead and hit me.  I’m nobody.  Especially not when compared to my father. ”

The exercise, which calls for rather precise concentration and focus, fell apart at that point.  Our hero’s sparring partner hung his head in shame, and very little work was accomplished after that point on movements 13-15.  Now maybe this shame was from chagrin at the unintentional lese majeste, or perhaps it had to do with his hitherto-unexposed ignorance re: having totally misunderstood what FitzEarl actually meant.  An ignorance of which the facilitator, for the record, earlier had had to be disabused, having herself been ignorant as to its signification. 

Whatever the case, our hero was treated to a rambling and somewhat incoherent story as to some perfectly random act of noblesse oblige which his father, the earl, had visited upon the sparring partner.  Said act of noblesse oblige consisted, apparently, in the simple gesture of remembering Mr. sparring partner’s name at some political fundraiser or other.

Let this be a lesson to you all: if you can, remember people’s names.  They appreciate it, even if that’s all you do.  They appreciate it for years afterwards.

Our hero sometimes jokes with people whom he’s recently met, to the effect that he will have to beg their forgiveness if he forgets their name(s).  It’s a defense mechanism, after all: as the child of the earl, he has met so many people in his lifetime (especially as a young child) that he has learned not to learn people’s names unless he is sure to meet them again in the future.

It’s funny, you know.  Said like that, it occurs to our narrator that our hero is perhaps not so smart as he thinks he is.  After all, telling people in very precise and specific language that he (our hero) has no intention of remembering their name is, at the end of the day, quite specifically insulting.  It is, in fact, precisely the opposite of of what Austen would have called “condescension;” the kind of insult that was properly understood in (say) 1790 but which is less well-understood in (say) 2010, and so therefore probably quite a bit less useful, depending on the audience at whom said insult is directed. 

But in any case it is the kind of insult that requires far too much explication to be immediately useful to most people in this particular situation.

Which, lest we have any illusions in this matter, involved the practice of martial arts. 

Things are in some ways much simpler in our day and age, it would appear.  Instead of precisely nailing people to a point in a large rubric of class positions, we face off in choreographed arenas and whale the shit out of each other.

Anywho.

The second lesson occured at another point in the proceedings, when our hero was placed in the same mess-tent as a young soldier, who, upon donning their uniform, revealed a name tag that rang a certain bell in our hero’s memory.

Our hero: “Why, Private W*rd, what an honor to remake your acquaintance.  I believe we first met at the mustering-out of the junior ROTC brigade, yes?”

Private W*rd, “OMG, OMG, OMG, I voted for you!  I voted for you to be vice-captain of our brigade! I swear I did!”

Our hero, “I believe you, Private Ward.  I believe you.  And how has life treated you in the intervening years?  Well, I hope?”

Private W*rd: “I’m good.  Oh, oh, wow.  I can’t believe I’m talking to you!  You know, you were the only person running for office who actually did a meet and greet?  That’s why I voted for you?”

Our hero: ” Thanks!  I hope I did well by that vote.  But I will confess, the only reason why I did the meet-and-greet is because I had dont this kind of thing before, you know?”

Private W*rd: “Really?  What do you mean?”

And here our hero committed a fatal mistake.

Our hero: “Well…I’ve done this before, you know.  My father is the Earl.”

Private W*rd: “Oh.  OH.  Oh wow.  You mean your dad sued the Black Prince in single combat, and won?”

Our hero: [Realizing his mistake] “Uhhhhh, yes.  Yes, that would be him.”

Private W*rd: “My son goes to the school established by the Black Prince.  Oh wait, that isn’t true.  He goes to the other one, the one established to compete with the Black Prince’s school.  You know — that other school.”

Our hero: “Sure [lying like a dog, through his teeth]. Is that the urbane school?

Private W*rd: Yes, that’s exactly it. 

Our hero: “Sounds like he’ll do great.  Good for you for raising such a great kid.”

Private W*rd:” Thank you.  Yes, he’s a great kid, and I know he’ll do well.”

Lesson #2: Always, always, be nice to people.  Even if you don’t think it will come back to haunt you later.  Even if you don’t think it will come back to you haunt you as much as twenty years later, still it’s in your interest to be nice to people.

This is really Lesson #1 in a different form, of course: sometimes being nice to people consists merely in remembering their name.  Twenty years later.  In a forum where you wouldn’t have expected, in any way shape or form, to come across this person.  Sometimes  being nice to people consists in being always, habitually, pleasant — for the simple reason that 20 years later you may meet them again in a forum the nature of which you couldn’t have begun to imagine at 17.

Who, after all, at the tender age 17 imagines that they will, at the advanced age of 36 (Mr. Dark’s monologue in Something Wicked This Way Comes comes to mind here) face the prospect of attending an all-company mustering-out convention at the San Jose Fairmont Hotel?  What kind of child envisions such a future for themselves? 

What kind of an adult, when faced with this prospect, looks at the proffered advantages — both proximal (free coffee, a one-night stay in a room with a 17-story view of the Santa Theresa foothills) and distal (making positive social change, building a better army for his father and his council of generals) — and says “yes, this the present I want.  This is the future I want to build.”?  What kind of adult says that, honestly?

The kind of adult, apparently, who when faced with the challenge of taking up his father’s mantle, ends up drinking Sauvingnon Blanc and eating oyster shooters at the happy hour of  the Fairmont Hotel in San-Ho-Fucking-Zay.

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The basketball jersey beer coozie.

Handed out as a party favor during a bowling tournie.

Speaking of which: anyone interested in subbing (or heading up, for that matter) a team in an established tournament?  It may just be possible to obtain bowling shirts (in limited quantity).  This would be for the fall.  And the bowling would be in fabulous West Sac, nigh on the shores of what was once Lake Washington.

Just sayin’.

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