Office Pain

There's a lot of things I could be blogging about today. My sore throat, my new iPod (thanks Bon!) and buying music on the Internet instead of downloading it for free AS GOD INTENDED, the dread of Xmas shopping while contemplating enormous credit card debt, the return of winter… but there's only one thing that's been on my mind all week. The end of The Office.

If you don't know about The Office, I pity you. This is a BBC show, shown here in the ol' US of A on cable channel BBC America (clever name) and it is, I have to say, the funniest thing I've seen from across the pond since Fawlty Towers (a show frequently mentioned on The Office). It only had two seasons, six episodes each, which equal only six full hours -- but six full hours of the best comedy I've ever seen (first season is out on DVD). Not laugh out loud comedy all the time tho -- some of it is just jaw dropping in horror of embarrassment comedy.

This stems from the central character, the boss, David Brent, an egotistical nincompoop played to perfection by an actor and show co-creator Ricky Gervais -- the man's a genius, and not afraid to look the fool. Always a necessity in comedy.

What's more, in the background of Brent's buffoonery, there's a sweet love story going on as two of the office mates pine for each other but can't do anything since one is in a committed relationship.

[SPOILER WARNING: Don't read the rest of this if you want to be surprised by the series finale of The Office]

What happened to these three characters in the season finale has stuck in my head since last Sunday night when I stayed up well past my bed time to watch the show. Brent, fired in the previous episode as his petty jealousies and inability to lead caught up to him, begs for his career -- the work that defines him, sustains him, just as it sucks the life out of others in the office. I almost felt like I could identify with him, having put so much of myself in to jobs in the past. (At least my jobs were all lost because of the company going under and not my own incompetence, tho that was little consolation at the time.).

What's more, the love story of Tim and Dawn comes to a head. Tim breaks up with the girl he's seeing, knowing he was meant for Dawn, even before he finds out she's leaving the office for good, to travel overseas with her fiancée. And he makes his stand, ripping his microphone off to talk with Dawn in some privacy (the conceit of the show being that it's a "reality show" documentary of life in the office), to make his case, because he knows in his heart she feels the same way he does. And what happened was soft and subtle and real and devastating. And I definitely felt Tim's pain. I think there's no worse pain that putting yourself out there, laying yourself bare, and being rejected for your troubles.

Hard to watch. And riveting television. All courtesy of one of the funniest shows ever.

Underwear... heh heh

It occurs to me that a short while ago I called a lyric from Fascinating Rhythm the most dated ever, and, I guess by extension that implies it's one of the worst. So, I wanted to make sure its on record what I consider the BEST song lyric ever, and it's not even one of my favorite songs. Here's the whole section:

On an evening such as this
It's hard to tell if I exist
If I pack the car and leave this town
You'll notice that I'm not around
I could hide out under there
I just made you say "underwear "
I could leave but I'll just stay
All my stuff's here anyway
-- Barenaked Ladies, Pinch Me

Don't Ask, Won't Tell

This weekend was baby weekend.

We made a trip out to Hornell this Saturday to see my friend Bill (hi, Bill!) and his wife and at dinner they brought along two of their six (count 'em! SIX!) kids, the precious, talkative two-year-old Clare and their latest, Will -- incredibly nice, beautiful kids. Clare even let me pick her up and carry her to their van as we left. It's always nice that a kid welcomes someone new like that, but also scary with thoughts that she'd let anyone pick her up. Cynicism is a life saver.

After dinner we stopped over to see my nephew who I've decided to start calling Jed, since it's a mix of John Edward, and because it's likely to piss off my brother and his wife. Jed is just the happiest kid alive. I can't wait until he's old enough to enjoy all the Captain Underpants books I've been buying.

Today, we had to go a birthday part for Bon's grandmother (age 90) and father (he's old enough to be Bon's father!). Most of the attention while there was paid to my other nephew, Christopher, and Bon's cousin's adopted soon, Dane. Dane comes all the way from Russia, where the cousin and his wife (cousin-in-law?) spent a few weeks and a few thousand rubles to get the nine month old. Ever since we heard about them getting him, whenever the topic comes up, I have referred to him by various names: Ivan, Vladimir, etc. This is the kind of comedy that keeps me going, people.

Due to various family "issues" from the last year, Bon and I were apprehensive about the b-day party and seeing a few people, but it's always nice to the see the kids. All seemed to be going fine until the jackets were on and the good-byes were under way and then it happened.

Someone asked The Question.

It's inevitable really. It happens mostly with family, and only occasionally with friends who either doesn't know us well or who just don't get it. When it does happen, it tends to happen all the damn time, until finally we're forced to have a heart-to-heart talk and say "Don't ask again."

The question was from the aforementioned cousin-in-law, who was cradling their precious bundle from the orphanage at St. Petersburg: "So, have you guys decided to have kid yet?"

That's bad enough. She actually tacked on "Or are you just going to get another dog?"

Lord, how we hate this question. I know It's something said out of genuine good nature -- but it's the good nature you find in a Jehovah's Witness so enrapt with their spiritual good time they want to share it with all the world by going door-to-door to talk about it. Parents are sooooo in love, they can't understand why everyone hasn't tried it! Kids: the anti-drug!

There is no appropriate answer to The Question. "We're not interested" would make us appear callous. "We're thinking about it," would lead to inevitable lecture on how great it is despite the lack of sleep and the constant smell of spoiled milk. "Shut up, you git," is, apparently, considered rude.

I know parents end up hanging out a lot with other parents and there's a reason for that -- only other parents can tolerate them.

I simply turned away when the cousin-in-law asked the question. This actually got a laugh from the cousin, who made a comment about my obviously not wanting to talk about it. And he's right, I don't. If I don't want to talk about this topic with my brother who I'm closer to than just about anyone in the world, why would I want to talk about with cousin's I haven't seen in two years? Just because you spent 36 hours on a plane to sign papers in Moscow and bought a mobile for the crib?

In the car on the way home, Bon and I discussed it, how getting The Question constantly is like being the teenager who is constantly told how much you'll like or use something --- it makes you dig in your heels and rebel. Petty, sure, but human nature. We had fun discussing answers to The Question, my favorite being Bon's suggestion of "We did have a kid -- and he was delicious!.

I think that expressing enthusiasm for a book, or a movie is great -- turning people onto some bit of entertainment is always good. I steer you wrong, you're out, what? $8.50 and two hours? But I'm all growed up here. When I want someone's opinion on the big events of life -- having a kid, adopting a dog, picking a religion or a car, or whether to dye gray out of my beard so I can look like I'm 30 all over again -- I will @*%#ing ask for it.

In other words, if you're curious if your kidless friends or family will ever have a child… shut the hell up.

Oh, Yeaaaaaah!

I'm a big fan of the PB&J. And when I say that, I'm talking a sammich™ with jelly, not jam (no seeds for me) and crunchy peanut butter out of a cupboard so it's easy to spread, not creamy out of the refrigerator that's half frozen (this is a constant argument in my house which has forced us to save our marriage in the only way possible: buy two different cans of peanut butter that are stored separately).

That said, I'm having a problem with the PB&J: There's no perfect drink to go with it. Soda (I'm a Diet Sierra Mist guy these days) just doesn't taste... right. OJ definitely doesn't work. Hot beverages won't do. Some will scream that milk is the only way to go, but I associate milk with chocolate to much for that to work.

I'm thinking Kool-Aid... but I haven't had any in about five years.

I miss you, Kool-Aid.

(Damn, I was hoping the guy in the Kool-Aid Man suit was going to bust through my wall just then and poor me a glass of Black Cherry sugar water. No such luck.)

I will continue my search.

Clear disdain and contempt

The wife got a new computer up at work this week, a (hopefully) big improvement over the 1998-vintage dinosaur she'd been using. She even got a flat panel monitor. Everyone on earth will have one of these before me. Sigh.

Anyway, while she got the computer yesterday, the IT nimrods couldn't get her hooked on to their Novell servers until today, and when they did, they hooked her into the wrong IMAP mail account. If you don't know your POP3 from your IMAP, the gist is, with IMAP, all your email is stored on the server, not on your hard drive. So when Bon got hooked into the wrong IMAP account she got access to a few years worth of personal email.

Here's a tip for anyone reading: If you don't know a lot about technology, don't assume that your data is safe. Erase those teary notes to loved ones and the porn and for god's sake don't save it all on company hardware -- you don't even own the computer on your own desk, remember.

But if you do save it, make sure its worth reading during technical SNAFUs or after you've been fired.

Defenseless Education

I sort of forced the wife into taking a defensive driving course with me this weekend. I was planning to take one earlier this summer after I got my last speeding ticket (first one since 1994, so don't give me crap), but I couldn't find a convienent class in town. This past Saturday's six-hour snore-fest was up at the college, featured discounts for alums, and featured an easy form for signing up.

Last time I took a defensive driving course I was still in college here, and had just had my first accident in my own car. I took the course over a couple of nights at the city's BOCES campus and was bored to tears. I think they used some of the same videos I'd seen in Hornell High drivers ed back in 1987. But, such braindead fare made it easy to handle the night classes -- I seldom fall asleep even during the most boring of films. In fact, I was seriously hoping for the same thing with this class -- perhaps a nice 16 year old film about seat belts.

Sadly, over the last decade these classes have gotten more touchie-feelie. Our instructor didn't want to lecture. He wanted "discussion." Blah.

He went around and made us all say our name and something about driving. Bon said, "It's not politically correct now, but I love my SUV." Bless her.

I said, "I'm Eric, and I really hate driving. But it's a necessary evil." I felt stares. Some of them, from the red-neck trio of boys across the room who were forced there by their "ma," filled with revulsion and hostility.

Bon -- who, it should be noted, likes to make me drive everywhere even tho she knows I don't like it (so perhaps my signing her up for this class was not-so-subtle revenge) -- was actually taking notes as the instructor blabbed about "octanes." All I cared about was reducing the points on my license. New York state has a lovely system where you get points for each offense, and once you get 11 in 18 months, they yank your license. This course drops four points off your license, tho it doesn't really mean diddly until you're closer to 11. I've only got three. Thankfully, this cure for insomnia also knocks 10% of my insurance.

I took notes myself during the class, but mostly so I could ridicule it later in the blog here...

For example, we spent 20 minutes on stopping for school buses. Did you know that on a divided highway, if you're going the other direction and are ten lanes away, you are still supposed to stop if a school buss stops.

We were asked if we considered ourselves having average or above average driving skills. Bon threw up her hand like Horshack in Kotter's class room at the 'above' request. I said nothing. But to my overwhelming joy the instructor said "only state troopers are usually 'above.' Most other people are probably self deluded." My smile could have lit a small nation. (And, FYI, if you rack up the total hours I've driven in my life versus her, even with a couple of tickets and accidents under my belt, I'm probably statistically still better. Look, my horn! Toot toot!)

I think courses like this would also be helped if the instructors could hear.

He handed out a kosh ball and said however had it had to eithr list something that upsets them about other drivers or to say what they themselves do to piss off others. Bon volunteered and said she hates people that base unsafely (as to all the people who admire that) and then threw the kosh at me. I'd been preparing an answer: "I like to slwo down for my driveway about a mile from home, until I've slowed almost to a stop by the time I reach the drive to turn in. And no one can pass on the left due to the traffic coming the other way or on the right because there's no shoulder. I like to get them stacked up about 20 cars deep behind me." This is all exaggerated of course, but I got lectured about it anyway.

Bon and I started passing notes to each other on the free Post-It not pad we were given for the course by Liberty Mutual insurance. She called the teacher "cheesy, nevrous giggle guy." After that, his cheesy, nervous giggle was all I could notice.

Finally, we got to the movies, and it was an oldie -- a 1950 Disney short called Motor Mania, starring Goofy (but before he was called Goofy and before he said "Gorsh!") In fact, every character was actually Goofy.

Another note from Bon: "Put black rimmed glasses & different voice on him -- and its Drew Carey." Also true.

Later he asked us what we'd do to improve our driving. I told the class that I was overcome with guilt over my admission of liking to slow down other drivers and that I wouldn't do it anymore. And that I'd smile and wave at people more.

My god. He actually said, "Didn't anyone pick up on the philosophy of the new Star Wars movie? I didn't see it, but someone told me about it, and I like it. It's something like: 'there is no try.' Someone else in the clase said "There is only do and do not." Christ. Mangling the words of the Jedi Master. And if only 1980 were actually that new.

"Speed before you get in the car" he said in an attempt to get people to take their time on the way to work. What happens if I slip in the shower because I rush to get out before the soap drains, tho? Can I sue?

Finally, lunch. We ate at the Campus Center dining hall, the one place on campus I did the least amount of work during my tenure with dining services. Good lunch tho: Pizza and Waffles and Pie!

Back to class. He said all stress is self-induced and launches into a discussion of the serenity prayer as the answer. Bon leans over to me and asks, "What are we, in AA?"

My theory on road rage (perfected while staring at a wall): The only thing that prevents it is that no one wants to hurt their own car. Sometimes when I'm Poed at someone on the road, the only thing prevent me from ramming them over and over and over to prove a point is that I don't like paying for repairs to bumpers.

Second movie up: From the 80's come a documentary featuring race car drivers I've never heard of saying it's not "sissified" to wear seat belts.

After the afternoon break went off on a major tangent, bloviating about some sort of roll over formula (wheelbase divided by two times the height of the center of gravity or T/2H -- the closer the final number is to one, the more likely you are to roll your vehicle) -- an obvious diatribe against my beloved sport utility. Turns out he's bitter about them because his kid has one.

And, he was a sexist -- at one point he said that if a car lost power steering, if the wheel had to be turned, "I could, but a smaller woman might not be able to." I was offended on behalf of all the broads present.

Finally, 3:30 arrived. Done. Thank god. 10% of my insurance and I don't have to put myself through it again until 2006 (when the discount drops off). Here's hoping between now and then instructors of this course go back to letting the bad video tapes do the teaching.