I'm a consultant. My company has a lucrative contract with a large Federal agency. We're helping them design a large IT system. We're not actually building the system, mind you. We're just helping them figure out how to pay for it and then build it. The Federal government is awash with many of the most grossly incompetent, unmotivated idiots you'll ever meet, so there are lots of opportunities for companies like mine to help them figure things out. And let me tell you, business is booming.
Most of my coworkers have some specialty. Some are programmers and some are accountants. I, however, have no specialty. I'm a generalist. They hired me by design, I believe. They need someone to talk to the client, and that someone is me. I have people skills, damn it, and I often find myself in the role of shaking hands and making promises and telling Government people that everything is going to be okay if they'll just butt out for a while.
So my job is to make friends with everyone, and I'm pretty good at it.
Today I was on site, getting ready for a status meeting with Joe, one of my favorite Government people. He's a self-proclaimed Maryland redneck. He drives a Mustang, and he recently told me how excited he was to be taking his wife to see Rascal Flats for her birthday. The guy really couldn't be less like me, but I'm actually very fond of him. Joe is one of the few Government people I've met who takes the idea of civil service seriously, and he works his ass off. You see that a lot in the Government- a phenomenon my boss calls work magnets. If 90% of the Federal workforce is a waste of oxygen, the other 10% must be doing all the work. Joe just attracts everyone else's assignments like a magnet, and he does the work of ten bureaucrats. Plus he drops the F bomb a lot and calls Asian people Orientals. That always makes me laugh.
I was standing outside Joe's cube, organizing the materials for the meeting. He walks up and stands next to me and puts his hand on my back, between my shoulder blades. That's a little inappropriate, but I'm willing to overlook it because he's Joe and that's just kinda how he do. He's standing way too close, and I'm easing back ever so slightly, probably imperceptibly. But because Joe is a close talker, he's got a sub-conscious awareness of that kind of thing so he presses more firmly on my back and leans closer to me. He's just making small talk at this point, asking how I'm doing and kidding me around a bit. I realize I'm probably being silly, so I just loosen up and let him violate my personal space. I like Joe, and having Joe like me is integral to not only my personal success but, to a smaller extent, the success of the company. I can take one for the team and let him grope me for a while.
But then it gets much, much worse. He slowly starts to slide his hand down my back, til it comes to rest on my belt. He's got his hand open, so half his fingers are below my belt, dangerously close to my buttcrack. The rest of his hand is on the small of my back. It's exactly where you put your hand when you're slow dancing with your girl. It's also exactly where you touch a 31 year old consultant to make him feel like a whore.
There is nothing I can do at that point. I have to finish the conversation and let him cop his feel. Mercifully he doesn't get any closer to my no no parts, but I'm afraid my lack of action implies complicity. This is bound to happen again, and I probably won't say anything next time, either. My review is coming up in July, and I have a wedding to pay for. The things I'll do for love.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
Everyone Is Talking About The Ban, But They Should Be Talking About Race
Background: Seventeen year old Taleshia Ford was shot and killed at 1919 nightclub (also known as Smarta) early last Saturday in Northwest Washington, DC. The media jumped on the story, wondering what, exactly, was an underage girl doing at a nightclub in the first place? Opportunistic DC Council member Jim Graham of Ward 2, home of the nightclub, pledged to introduce legislation that would ban minors from nightclubs serving alcohol.
On the night Ford was killed we were at a club called DC9, located directly across the street from 1919. On our way there, around 11 or so, we passed a number of groups of young black men who were very intimidating. The minute I noticed I was alarmed I was immediately mad at myself. I felt terrible because I knew that had these kids been white, I probably would have felt differently. But at the same time I knew that the color of their skin probably had little to do with why I felt uncomfortable. These weren't my neighbors, or the people I ride the Green line with every day. These kids were thugs, or were at the very least trying to look like thugs. I forgave myself. If I passed a group of white kids in soccer uniforms at 3am I probably wouldn't worry about it. If I passed a group of skinheads at 3am I'd probably be nervous. It's got nothing to do with the color of their skin, and everything to do with the image people try to project. Later that night, someone from outside the club, perhaps one of the people we passed, would get into a scuffle with a bouncer at 1919 and Ford, an innocent bystander, would be killed when a gun went off by mistake.
People like Jim Graham have every right to wonder what on earth a seventeen year old girl is doing in a nightclub where adults are drinking alcohol. Although there is no evidence to suggest that minors or alcohol had anything to do with the shooting, you can certainly see why concerned citizens would want to stop the potentially volatile mix of adults, alcohol, and underage kids. That makes perfect sense. Ford was there that night to see a go-go band perform, and she was there with older family members and had the blessing of her parents. They knew she was there, she wasn't misbehaving. And now she's dead. So shouldn't we make a law keeping kids out of bars, for Christ's sake?
Just a few days before Ford was killed, a thousand or so kids were at a Fall Out Boy show at the 9:30 club, just around the corner from 1919. I was there, too. Although the crowd was overwhelmingly underage, there were a sizable number of us ordering drinks at the bar. No one was shot. In fact, in the hundreds of all ages shows I've seen at places like the Black Cat or the 9:30, I can't remember a single incident that can possibly compare with what happened at 1919 last weekend. Plenty of fist fights, a fair share of broken bones and bloody noses, but certainly no dead bodies. These shows are safe, these clubs are safe, these kids are safe.
The music community is up in arms about the possible ban. The usual local music luminaries (people I've admired for years for not just their musical ability, but their dedicate to the scene and the politics that affect our community) are speaking out. People are writing letters, signing petitions, calling for sanity. I've even written Jack Evans, my council member. The ban is just bad policy- it's a knee jerk reaction that will do almost nothing to help protect our kids, and it will certainly hurt local businesses if they're forced to kick kids out of their clubs.
But I can't help thinking about race, the elephant in the room in this discussion. One thousand screaming teenage kids from the suburbs hardly presents a security risk for the veteran, trained staff at the 9:30 club. It's their bread and butter. But can the same be said for a club that, say, caters to go-go fans in Southeast? It's taboo to raise that question, it's probably racist to even consider it, but shouldn't we?
Southeast is the capital of go go music in DC, but it's also the murder capital of the city. The music, of course, has nothing to do with it. The violence that plagues that area of the city is the product of dozens of social problems, ranging from lousy schools to inferior policing to an almost complete lack of opportunities for the young people in the poorest neighborhoods. Generations of kids from Southeast have embraced go go music, and they've brought their other problems with them. Go go has long been synonymous with violence, at least in the eyes of the local media, because the biggest fans of the genre are so often mired in the other problems facing kids from Southeast.
I'm conflicted on this issue, and I can't help but see the role of race in the discussion. If you'd been at the Fall Out Boy show at the 9:30 last week, you'd see the obvious errors in the ban. But if you'd been outside 1919 that night, you'd understand why folks might want these kids off the streets and out of bars. I was in both places, and frankly I don't know what to make of it. If a bar opened two blocks from me that featured all ages punk shows and swarms of suburban punk rock kids I'd be thrilled. If a bar opened two blocks in the other direction that featured all ages go go shows and swarms of tough looking kids like the ones outside 1919 last week, I might move. Does that make me a racist? And why aren't we discussing the obvious racial differences here?
On the night Ford was killed we were at a club called DC9, located directly across the street from 1919. On our way there, around 11 or so, we passed a number of groups of young black men who were very intimidating. The minute I noticed I was alarmed I was immediately mad at myself. I felt terrible because I knew that had these kids been white, I probably would have felt differently. But at the same time I knew that the color of their skin probably had little to do with why I felt uncomfortable. These weren't my neighbors, or the people I ride the Green line with every day. These kids were thugs, or were at the very least trying to look like thugs. I forgave myself. If I passed a group of white kids in soccer uniforms at 3am I probably wouldn't worry about it. If I passed a group of skinheads at 3am I'd probably be nervous. It's got nothing to do with the color of their skin, and everything to do with the image people try to project. Later that night, someone from outside the club, perhaps one of the people we passed, would get into a scuffle with a bouncer at 1919 and Ford, an innocent bystander, would be killed when a gun went off by mistake.
People like Jim Graham have every right to wonder what on earth a seventeen year old girl is doing in a nightclub where adults are drinking alcohol. Although there is no evidence to suggest that minors or alcohol had anything to do with the shooting, you can certainly see why concerned citizens would want to stop the potentially volatile mix of adults, alcohol, and underage kids. That makes perfect sense. Ford was there that night to see a go-go band perform, and she was there with older family members and had the blessing of her parents. They knew she was there, she wasn't misbehaving. And now she's dead. So shouldn't we make a law keeping kids out of bars, for Christ's sake?
Just a few days before Ford was killed, a thousand or so kids were at a Fall Out Boy show at the 9:30 club, just around the corner from 1919. I was there, too. Although the crowd was overwhelmingly underage, there were a sizable number of us ordering drinks at the bar. No one was shot. In fact, in the hundreds of all ages shows I've seen at places like the Black Cat or the 9:30, I can't remember a single incident that can possibly compare with what happened at 1919 last weekend. Plenty of fist fights, a fair share of broken bones and bloody noses, but certainly no dead bodies. These shows are safe, these clubs are safe, these kids are safe.
The music community is up in arms about the possible ban. The usual local music luminaries (people I've admired for years for not just their musical ability, but their dedicate to the scene and the politics that affect our community) are speaking out. People are writing letters, signing petitions, calling for sanity. I've even written Jack Evans, my council member. The ban is just bad policy- it's a knee jerk reaction that will do almost nothing to help protect our kids, and it will certainly hurt local businesses if they're forced to kick kids out of their clubs.
But I can't help thinking about race, the elephant in the room in this discussion. One thousand screaming teenage kids from the suburbs hardly presents a security risk for the veteran, trained staff at the 9:30 club. It's their bread and butter. But can the same be said for a club that, say, caters to go-go fans in Southeast? It's taboo to raise that question, it's probably racist to even consider it, but shouldn't we?
Southeast is the capital of go go music in DC, but it's also the murder capital of the city. The music, of course, has nothing to do with it. The violence that plagues that area of the city is the product of dozens of social problems, ranging from lousy schools to inferior policing to an almost complete lack of opportunities for the young people in the poorest neighborhoods. Generations of kids from Southeast have embraced go go music, and they've brought their other problems with them. Go go has long been synonymous with violence, at least in the eyes of the local media, because the biggest fans of the genre are so often mired in the other problems facing kids from Southeast.
I'm conflicted on this issue, and I can't help but see the role of race in the discussion. If you'd been at the Fall Out Boy show at the 9:30 last week, you'd see the obvious errors in the ban. But if you'd been outside 1919 that night, you'd understand why folks might want these kids off the streets and out of bars. I was in both places, and frankly I don't know what to make of it. If a bar opened two blocks from me that featured all ages punk shows and swarms of suburban punk rock kids I'd be thrilled. If a bar opened two blocks in the other direction that featured all ages go go shows and swarms of tough looking kids like the ones outside 1919 last week, I might move. Does that make me a racist? And why aren't we discussing the obvious racial differences here?
Monday, January 22, 2007
Brief Updates: Now With More Fiancé
The people who read this blog who are most likely to care about the details of the weekend were probably there to witness it, so I won't bore anyone with sappy romance. But Baby and I got engaged over the weekend. She was completely surprised and, from what I can tell, very happy. I owe a lot to you guys for helping me out. Thank you all.
To make a long story short, I asked her to marry me just outside our apartment, after running errands on Friday evening. When we opened the door to our place, Baby found her closest girlfriends there to surprise her. It was very sweet.
People have been asking about a date for the wedding, and we haven't set one yet. We're almost positive it will be Fall 2008, but I guess there is an outside possibility it will be Spring 2008. We have to buy an overpriced condo first. I need to remind myself to blog about that search. Hilarity abounds.
We went out to DC9 after our little engagement party on Friday. When we left at 1am everything was still calm, but soon afterward a seventeen-year-old girl was shot and killed in the go-go club across the street. That can't be a good omen. Idiots on the DC Council are considering a ban on underage kids at nightclubs serving alcohol. I'm furious about that, and I'll definitely blog about it soon.
But perhaps my favorite part of the weekend came on Saturday. We were sitting around, working off hangovers. I was reading some internets about the snow, and I turned to Baby and said, "Looks like we're going to get one to two inches in DC."
She deadpans, with perfect timing, "Big deal, I get that all the time in DC."
I love this woman.
To make a long story short, I asked her to marry me just outside our apartment, after running errands on Friday evening. When we opened the door to our place, Baby found her closest girlfriends there to surprise her. It was very sweet.
People have been asking about a date for the wedding, and we haven't set one yet. We're almost positive it will be Fall 2008, but I guess there is an outside possibility it will be Spring 2008. We have to buy an overpriced condo first. I need to remind myself to blog about that search. Hilarity abounds.
We went out to DC9 after our little engagement party on Friday. When we left at 1am everything was still calm, but soon afterward a seventeen-year-old girl was shot and killed in the go-go club across the street. That can't be a good omen. Idiots on the DC Council are considering a ban on underage kids at nightclubs serving alcohol. I'm furious about that, and I'll definitely blog about it soon.
But perhaps my favorite part of the weekend came on Saturday. We were sitting around, working off hangovers. I was reading some internets about the snow, and I turned to Baby and said, "Looks like we're going to get one to two inches in DC."
She deadpans, with perfect timing, "Big deal, I get that all the time in DC."
I love this woman.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Boy Was I Stupid
I was a very curious little kid. I would ask a ton of questions, trying to figure things out. Then once I did, I would store that little fact away until I needed to produce it for Jeopardy or something. Is that the way all kids do it? I don't know. But that's what I did. And although I have since corrected the problem, I have to admit today that there were times when I was a little kid that I was wrong about stuff. Thank god that's over with.
A couple of examples:
I was about seven years old or so when I learned enough cursive to read the name "Seth Thomas" on all the clocks in my elementary school. We had these big, clunky clocks that were always breaking and needing to be fixed. Every time it would happen, my teacher would call the janitor, a guy with the unfortunate name of Mr. Thomas. So I would see Mr. Thomas fixing a clock that said "Seth Thomas" on it, and I just assumed that Mr. Thomas had made the clocks. And I always thought it was pretty cool when I would see a Seth Thomas clock somewhere outside my school, and I'd be happy for our humble janitor. I probably told the story about my Seth Thomas a half dozen times before junior high school, when my English teacher pointed out that unless the fat guy up on the ladder fixing the clock was a hundred and eighty years old, he probably wasn't the Seth Thomas. No worries though, as I wasn't at all concerned about embarrassing myself in front of my classmates when I was thirteen years old.
When I was a kid I was totally gay for The Cat from Outer Space. I can't even remember what the movie is about now (although I assume there are cats and outer space in it), but I'll never forget what my parents told me the night we got home from the movie. Although we didn't live particularly close to the airport, I heard what sounded like a huge airplane flying over our building. So I ran out to the patio outside our apartment to check it out, and I remember seeing a very weird looking thing flying through the sky. Now, of course it was just an airplane, but my parents told me it was the spaceship from the movie. Even though I was only about four years old, this sounded like a load of bullshit to me. Nevertheless, my parents managed to convince me that it wasn't a real spaceship, but rather a special airplane they'd used in the movie. This sounded a little more realistic, so I bought it. For years afterward, we're talking probably into my teens, I would tell the story about the time the special airplane from The Cat from Outer Space flew over my house. I can't remember when I was exposed for being an idiot, as the disappointment was akin to learning that Santa wasn't real and I've blocked it all. To think my parents wondered why I needed therapy when I was a teenager. They systematically destroyed my innocence. And the worst part is that they were probably too fucking stoned to remember doing it.
While we're on the subject of my parents, let me tell you about our dog Brandy. Wait, while I'm on the subject of my dog Brandy let me tell you about my ex-girlfriend's dog Brandy. When I was about twelve we used to have this sorta white cocker spaniel named Brandy, and my girlfriend when I was like sixteen had the exact same dog with the exact same name. One day I was supposed to drive her to school, but I was running late. So she decided to take the bus. She opened the door to leave and her Brandy ran out the door and totally got run over by the school bus, her fucking school bus. Dagger. Worst part is that when I got to school and I heard the news, I said, "You have to admit it is kinda funny." For some reason she didn't think so. I didn't always used to be so awesome with the ladies.
Anyway we had this dog Brandy that never got run over by the school bus. But she did pee on everything. Seriously everything- she peed every time you touched her. No one ever wanted to walk her or anything, and she was basically neglected. At their wits end, my parents decided to give her away and told us she'd gone to live on a farm with one of my dad's co-workers. I can't prove it, and they won't confess to it, but I'm 99% sure that "farm" means "sausage factory."
My favorite stupid kid story doesn't even involve me though, it belongs to Baby.
When she was a kid her grandmother had a ton of paintings in her house. This is a concept that is totally foreign to me, by the way, as my family never thought to actually put anything on our walls when I was growing up. But Baby loved her grandmother's paintings, and the stories behind each one. Her grandmother would tell her that the people in the paintings were members of her family, and the story sounded reasonable to sweet, seven year old Baby, despite the fact that the paintings were obviously prints of famous artwork. Fast forward a couple of decades, and a grown up Baby is on a date and goes back to some guy's apartment. Imagine her surprise when she's checking out his place and she finds a painting of her grandfather! Imagine his surprise when Baby, probably drunk, starts freaking out and screaming, wanting to know just where the fuck he got a picture of her grandfather and what the hell was going on!? How'd you like to be Baby, and have some guy you barely know explain to you that Rembrandt probably didn't paint your grandfather? And to think I get embarrassed when I do something like pee on myself. Poor guy didn't even get laid. That turned out to be okay though, as Baby got to save herself for me.
Man, thank god I don't believe everything people tell me anymore.
A couple of examples:
I was about seven years old or so when I learned enough cursive to read the name "Seth Thomas" on all the clocks in my elementary school. We had these big, clunky clocks that were always breaking and needing to be fixed. Every time it would happen, my teacher would call the janitor, a guy with the unfortunate name of Mr. Thomas. So I would see Mr. Thomas fixing a clock that said "Seth Thomas" on it, and I just assumed that Mr. Thomas had made the clocks. And I always thought it was pretty cool when I would see a Seth Thomas clock somewhere outside my school, and I'd be happy for our humble janitor. I probably told the story about my Seth Thomas a half dozen times before junior high school, when my English teacher pointed out that unless the fat guy up on the ladder fixing the clock was a hundred and eighty years old, he probably wasn't the Seth Thomas. No worries though, as I wasn't at all concerned about embarrassing myself in front of my classmates when I was thirteen years old.
When I was a kid I was totally gay for The Cat from Outer Space. I can't even remember what the movie is about now (although I assume there are cats and outer space in it), but I'll never forget what my parents told me the night we got home from the movie. Although we didn't live particularly close to the airport, I heard what sounded like a huge airplane flying over our building. So I ran out to the patio outside our apartment to check it out, and I remember seeing a very weird looking thing flying through the sky. Now, of course it was just an airplane, but my parents told me it was the spaceship from the movie. Even though I was only about four years old, this sounded like a load of bullshit to me. Nevertheless, my parents managed to convince me that it wasn't a real spaceship, but rather a special airplane they'd used in the movie. This sounded a little more realistic, so I bought it. For years afterward, we're talking probably into my teens, I would tell the story about the time the special airplane from The Cat from Outer Space flew over my house. I can't remember when I was exposed for being an idiot, as the disappointment was akin to learning that Santa wasn't real and I've blocked it all. To think my parents wondered why I needed therapy when I was a teenager. They systematically destroyed my innocence. And the worst part is that they were probably too fucking stoned to remember doing it.
While we're on the subject of my parents, let me tell you about our dog Brandy. Wait, while I'm on the subject of my dog Brandy let me tell you about my ex-girlfriend's dog Brandy. When I was about twelve we used to have this sorta white cocker spaniel named Brandy, and my girlfriend when I was like sixteen had the exact same dog with the exact same name. One day I was supposed to drive her to school, but I was running late. So she decided to take the bus. She opened the door to leave and her Brandy ran out the door and totally got run over by the school bus, her fucking school bus. Dagger. Worst part is that when I got to school and I heard the news, I said, "You have to admit it is kinda funny." For some reason she didn't think so. I didn't always used to be so awesome with the ladies.
Anyway we had this dog Brandy that never got run over by the school bus. But she did pee on everything. Seriously everything- she peed every time you touched her. No one ever wanted to walk her or anything, and she was basically neglected. At their wits end, my parents decided to give her away and told us she'd gone to live on a farm with one of my dad's co-workers. I can't prove it, and they won't confess to it, but I'm 99% sure that "farm" means "sausage factory."
My favorite stupid kid story doesn't even involve me though, it belongs to Baby.
When she was a kid her grandmother had a ton of paintings in her house. This is a concept that is totally foreign to me, by the way, as my family never thought to actually put anything on our walls when I was growing up. But Baby loved her grandmother's paintings, and the stories behind each one. Her grandmother would tell her that the people in the paintings were members of her family, and the story sounded reasonable to sweet, seven year old Baby, despite the fact that the paintings were obviously prints of famous artwork. Fast forward a couple of decades, and a grown up Baby is on a date and goes back to some guy's apartment. Imagine her surprise when she's checking out his place and she finds a painting of her grandfather! Imagine his surprise when Baby, probably drunk, starts freaking out and screaming, wanting to know just where the fuck he got a picture of her grandfather and what the hell was going on!? How'd you like to be Baby, and have some guy you barely know explain to you that Rembrandt probably didn't paint your grandfather? And to think I get embarrassed when I do something like pee on myself. Poor guy didn't even get laid. That turned out to be okay though, as Baby got to save herself for me.
Man, thank god I don't believe everything people tell me anymore.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Puberty, Revisted
I've been sick, on and off, for a few weeks now. Some kind of terrible cold thing that won't quite turn into something that will kill me, but won't go away, either. I woke up yesterday morning to find I had lost my voice. Sweet. So that got me thinking about some funny talking things, for example:
Baby likes to talk, but hates talking to strangers. She's the kind of person who will just let the phone ring and ring and ring if she doesn't recognize the number on the caller ID. So it's usually my job to handle those things. I use the authority of the role to my advantage, and I get to make awesome threats like, "Shut up or I'll make you answer the door when the pizza guy gets here."
At least once a day I find myself disclosing something breathtakingly personal to a complete stranger, and saying to myself, "Why the hell am I telling this person THAT?" I then reconstruct the conversation in my head to figure out how I managed to meander over to this particular anecdote about me failing to perform sexually and/or peeing on myself and I realize that at this point, there is no way I'm going to not look like a crackpot, so I might as well just finish telling it because hell, at least it makes ME laugh.
More than one person has told me that despite my desperate longings to the contrary, I actually have a terrible singing voice. We're talking awful. I can manage at least a comical falsetto, but that's about the extent of my musical ability. When I was a kid and I would lose my voice, I would secretly wish that when it came back, I would emerge from my laryngitis cocoon a golden-throated crooner. Alas, not so much.
Baby likes to talk, but hates talking to strangers. She's the kind of person who will just let the phone ring and ring and ring if she doesn't recognize the number on the caller ID. So it's usually my job to handle those things. I use the authority of the role to my advantage, and I get to make awesome threats like, "Shut up or I'll make you answer the door when the pizza guy gets here."
At least once a day I find myself disclosing something breathtakingly personal to a complete stranger, and saying to myself, "Why the hell am I telling this person THAT?" I then reconstruct the conversation in my head to figure out how I managed to meander over to this particular anecdote about me failing to perform sexually and/or peeing on myself and I realize that at this point, there is no way I'm going to not look like a crackpot, so I might as well just finish telling it because hell, at least it makes ME laugh.
More than one person has told me that despite my desperate longings to the contrary, I actually have a terrible singing voice. We're talking awful. I can manage at least a comical falsetto, but that's about the extent of my musical ability. When I was a kid and I would lose my voice, I would secretly wish that when it came back, I would emerge from my laryngitis cocoon a golden-throated crooner. Alas, not so much.
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