Unwrinkled Socks

If I think about anything long enough, it seems weird to
me, as if it is inconsistent with what I think I know. Eventually, everything becomes weird, which makes weird the norm. Yet, I am still able to iron my socks without burning my feet.

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Telecommutating

I have been working from home for almost six months. Or do you say, telecommuting? If you do, why would you say telecommuting in place of saying six months? What? Let’s start over.

I have been working from home for almost six months. When I worked at the office, I didn’t work with anybody in my actual office because, other than being a horrible team player who does not play well with others, I worked with people who were in far away lands, like New York, California and Bangalore, India. Every time I talked to my India co-workers I felt like I was calling Dell or AT&T customer support. Even though we were working on creating new web site services, I constantly asked them questions like why my computer kept freezing up or how I can save more money on long distance. The funny thing was, they knew the answers. And they kept thanking me for calling, and they said my name every other sentence. I think one of them got me free cable.

Since my presence was not needed in the office, management decided to send me home to work. In addition to freeing up my cube to be used as a pot luck lunch center for the other employees, my company also realized savings by not giving me a raise, claiming the money I’d save in gas, not having to drive to and from work, would be more than any raise they’d ever consider giving me. They were correct, only because George W. and Dick are asswipes.

At first, it was strange working from home. I had to create a routine separate from my normal “at home” routine, which consisted of feeding the dogs, going to the bar, coming home and passing out. Other than “feeding the dogs”, none of that was listed on my job description, so I needed to make some adjustments. After a few weeks of thorough concentration (otherwise known as napping), I began to find my work groove at home.

I actually get more work done now than I did when I was in the office. Over the years, like many of us office workers, I had learned thousands of techniques to feign working, like faxing large documents to myself back and forth between the two fax machines across the office from each other, or calling vendors, screaming at them for rate reductions, even if it was not my responsibility and they had no idea who I was. When you are there and you look like you are working, management tends not to notice the lack of production. It’s just like how lauryl sulfate binds water molecules to dirt molecules when you wash your hair, which is something I don’t do so much anymore (more on that later). But, when you are out of sight, all they can monitor is your production. Luckily, my bar was set pretty low, so since I have produced slightly more working at home, management thinks they made a genius move, and I may be up for the Sunshine Award. Ultimately, since I no longer have the pressure of coming up with new and exciting ways to look like I’m working, I’ve grown bored and use work as a monotony breaker throughout the day.

But, enough about my fabulous career. There are more important matters at hand, such as the side effects of working at home. I have grown accustomed to not leaving the house and not dealing directly with the outside world. Look how negative that sounds (Are you looking at a sound?) – there are two “not”s in that sentence. I was averaging one “not” per paragraph up until then. Oh, how the negative vibe has turned. These side effects are not as bad as they sound, which you are looking at, but they are evidence that I am changing and soon could resemble something that does not resemble me, like a banister made out of Brillo pads. I’ve also made a number of discoveries about domestic daily employment. I’m not sure what it all means. I will let you judge for yourself. Here are my discoveries and symptoms of metamorphosis.



I used to be uncomfortable being out in public if I had not showered that day. People go out of their way to avoid walking next to me now.

My shirt starts to smell by Wednesday, but the stench goes away by Friday.

Why do I own a washer and a dryer?

Hold my calls, I’m going out to wait for the mailman.

Masturbating during conference calls isn’t as fun as I thought it would be. At least not after the first 8 times. That was a fun couple of days.

Wearing of underwear has become a nostalgic experience.

The giant orange ball in the sky pierces me with unseen particles when I go outside. Even when I stay inside. You can't hide from its powers.

People’s lips move around when they talk. It is enchanting.

Where is the voice at the other end of the phone coming from?

Doesn’t xe have email?

Spaghettios are so bland that I never get sick of eating them.

You can build a cool fort out of Spaghettios cans.

Boo Radley.

I have to break out my best duds for Casual Friday.

My dogs are spies.

I don’t spend as much time hiding in the bathroom as I did when I worked at the office. Some time, but not as much.

My broom and mop co-workers think I’m fun to work with.

I’m kidding, I don’t own a mop.

My kitchen floor is sticky.

No, I do not conduct conference calls in my kitchen.

The delivery man comes from the void to bring me presents.

Rush hour traffic was the best social life I never knew I had.

Let’s go to the front window to see what the people are doing.



That’s the strange part. I mean, there weren’t any reports on my desk yesterday, and they still aren’t there, but I don’t know where they were or how they’ll get here. What do you want me to do with them when I don’t get them? Send me an email. I only respond to emails. No. Sure. Yes, instant messaging is good, too. That’s almost like email, but it makes a different beeping sound. One is a beep, the other is more of a blurp. I can't remember which is which. I have my computer speakers turned down. I want to go home now, except I’m already there. I tried going out and coming back in, but it’s not the same. I know it’s not the same because the dogs don’t get all excited to see me when I do that. They’re watching me, you know. What IS that smell?

What In the World Is Going On?

What in the world is going on? Have you ever considered that question? I mean, really considered it? Most people ask it as a cliché when they are wondering why a given occurrence has happened in their window of perception. They hope for a specific answer pertaining to why there is house paint in the bread maker while soggy Alpha-Bits sludge down the wall spelling out the word “moribund” and there is a slight persistent flame coating the kitchen table. If you were to answer, “somebody in Mongolia just fell off a dromedary and landed on a yurt”, you may have correctly answered the question, but it wouldn’t be the answer the wonderer was looking for. Then xe scorns you for being a smart ass, even though it was xe’s fault for asking such a broad question without intending to accept all possible answers. But if you were to tell xe the truth, “you weren’t here so we decided to fuck some shit up”, xe’d be just as angry. When you flippantly ask that question, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment no matter what answer you get. You need to ask it seriously and expect all possible answers, which is what I do.

The fact is, at any moment, there are trillions of things going on in the world, most of which we don’t know about and will never know about. There may be even more going on than that, especially if you consider events on the microscopic level. And why wouldn’t you? What are you, some kind of scopist?

A mosquito just flew up a boar’s ass somewhere. Did you know that? If you did, consider yourself lucky. Most of us didn’t. Wait a minute, a Taco Bell employee in Encino just loogied into the refried beans – and we missed it. When I consider the breadth of the question, “what in the world is going on?”, my mind quakes, and the bellboy in Alesund, Norway who just received a hundred krone tip from a guest who had those krones in his mouth prior to tipping knows nothing about it. Nor does he know he will soon have mononucleosis.

Nobody knows what is really going on. There is too much to comprehend and not enough people there to record it. Even if we tried to record it, it would take all of us to do so. Then all that would be going on would be billions of people sitting around recording other people recording stuff. That’s not much of a life for anybody, probably even worse than the life that is ahead for Anna Nicole’s bastard baby. Of course, I’m referring to Anna Nicole Jansen, who resorted to the “crapshoot” jar of semen at the Fulton County Sperm Bank because they would not accept her out-of-date “Free Upgrade To Known Donors” coupon she found stuck to a wayward nail on a park bench while she was crawling around looking for unchewed, discarded sunflower seeds. We can only hope that all worldly events are being recorded in the fabric of space-time, waiting for Ron Popeil to invent the pocket space-time fabric viewer. Until then, we must remain ignorant to most happenings.

Sure, we have news agencies that tell us stuff. Some of it may even be interesting. Some of it may even be true. But none of it comes close to representing all that is going on. I guess those news agencies choose the “important” events to tell us about so we don’t need to be concerned with the girl in Honduras who is crying herself to sleep because she thinks the boy she likes doesn’t like her because he ignored her chicken today. It is more important that we know that Drew Barrymore has been chosen People magazine’s most beautiful person. That is the kind of information we can use. It is in this manner information that is significant to all of us can be shared and…just a second here…is that really true? Drew Barrymore? Really? The MOST beautiful? I don’t buy it. I mean, she’s cute and all, but there are plenty of more beautiful people out there. What about that one chick who compulsively scratches her nails on the pew at St. James American Episcopal Church, Via B. Rucellai 9 in Florence, Italy each Sunday? She’s pretty hot. Much hotter than Drew. I wonder if the People editors even considered her. She must not have a movie coming out that needs publicity. That’s why I finished only 3,698,400,324th on their 100 Most Beautiful list. That damn Al Gore just had to cut my carbon dioxide quelling performance art segment (where I dress up as a fallen tree and mime my inability to convert carbon dioxide into fresh oxygen while playing The Way We Were on one of those giant keyboard things they used in the movie Big) from his next global warming documentary, Is It Getting Hot In Here Or Am I Extinct? Stupid Al Gore.

Take some time to consider the full brunt of the question “what in the world is going on?” Don’t limit this thought exercise to what is important to you. Luckily, we always know what Oprah is up to. But what about the lonely glow worm in the Glow Worm caves of New Zealand who loses a leg that gets stuck in a tiny crag? The lonely glow worm chooses to sacrifice its leg in order to catch an elusive passing mayfly so it can grow to become a pupa at the top of the cave where it will glow intermittently until it becomes an adult only to find that it is unable to feed and starves to death. How do we live with a clear mind without knowing about this? And what about that rock at the floor of Death Valley that just sits there waiting for something to happen to it, but nothing ever does, except for the occasional slight breeze of scorching hot air that reminds it nothing is happening to it, just like aspiring hopefuls in our society that don’t know that you have to make your own happenings, so they sit there and watch Oprah and dream of what will never be because we are all rocks on the floor of Death Valley until we do something to make us not be that. This is the kind of fun shit you will realize when fully considering this amazing question. Soon, you will realize how much life you are missing and demand more out of it. Our world, with everything going on in it, will be a better place. Who knew that ice cream bar, slapped out of a young boy's hand by his mom because he flicked a crusty dragon at her, melting on a sewer grate in downtown London would make such a difference? I did, that’s who.

Bloated Portrayal of Surrender

When I committed the aberration, I thought nothing of it. Although I sensed it was immoral, from some perspectives, I felt it fair as I was only affecting myself. The transparency of my window did not give mandatory license to observe. Eventually, the hearsay disseminated, and, of course, I abnegated it entirely. Not one person believed me. The authorities were persistent with their efforts to ensure I pay for what I had done. After an exhausting fight on my behalf, I finally acquiesced.

They subjected me to some anomalous punishment involving a rake, a few straws and some eraser shavings. Hoping that they would force me to beseech, the tormentors increased the severity of the flogging at a constant rate. I did not fall prey to their cajoling. When it was evident their will was inferior to mine, they suspended their castigation.

I formulated and presented a cogent argument for my release, assuring to them that I was not a contagion to society. I convinced them that I would not defile their community. Subsequently, I was allowed to return home where I immediately penned a letter of diatribe to my congressman expressing to him my dismay to the way I was processed. I explained the impact of my dissoluteness was felt only by me. Surely, he could respect my right to individualism within my own home.

After I had mailed the letter, I sat and pondered. Had this experience enervated me? No! In reality, it had made me much stronger. So strong, in my mind, I exonerated my persecutors. Little did they know their admonishment had only reinforced my fecund nature. I looked for novel and arresting ways to secure my role as a heretic.

The actual course of my commitment to nonconformity was indeterminate. However, I did infuse a wide variety of over-the-counter drugs into my diet. The interfusion of these pharmaceuticals and my usual libations did nothing more than grieve my depths, but I continued ingesting the combination nonetheless. I sat for weeks enduring my internal jeremiads while contemplating strategies to express my raison d’etre.

Fatefully, I received a phone call from the office of my congressman. The emissary informed me that the call was in response to my written correspondence to his reverence. I proclaimed my joy to have actually received a response from a government proxy. Luckily, before I extended too many laudations, the other man denounced my actions and chided my licentious existence. My ligneous expression revealed the shock I had felt (although he could not see me because we were conversing by phone). I began to offer my defense, but futility repressed me. The correspondent was not in the least malleable. His opinion of me remained the same. He expanded his criticism of me by informing me that what I had done was no mere peccadillo. Overcome by indifference, I hung up the phone.

Had the government abandoned me and those like me (if any)? Had I lost one of the most pragmatic securities of living in an organized, free state? Was I a man without a country, like Kurt Vonnegut? Confidence in myself waned, but not for long. I came to the conclusion that my realm was my own being and nothing more. I was not a protraction of any other entity, and no opposition could compel me to recant. Not caring if my actions were salubrious, I bought a firearm and headed into the city.

After a fortnight of roaming the streets searching for a subject upon which to relinquish my aggression, I realized I had neglected to obtain appropriate ammunition for my pistol. I explored the ground for discarded bullets, but I found a scanty supply (none, actually). I was determined not to be subsumed into the existing structure of order. Since no traveling munitions merchant came to my succor, I decided to return to my fortress to regroup.

Within the ramparts of my sanctuary, I questioned the sanity of my mission and my being. Unsuccessfully probing the inner nooks of my mind for an amelioration, I screamed the wanting words of a supplicant and received no answer. My turbid state of mind forced me to only one recourse. Though I did not desire this outcome, the rigid nature of circumstances had destroyed my usual unflappable demeanor. I accepted it. All aspirations for veneration had expired inside of me. I chose to vilify myself. Slowly, apprehensively, I closed the drapes and returned to my trousers.

The Floor and the Dog

There is a dog. There is a floor. Through no choice of the floor, the dog is on it. The floor is under the dog. The floor sustains the dog. The dog burdens the floor. The floor suffers the dog. This is their relationship. It is not the fault of the dog. It is merely following orders.

The floor pushes back, as it also follows orders. The floor hates the dog. The dog does not realize the floor is there. The dog does not consider the option of non-support. The floor considers all other options, but is helpless to choose.

The floor is covered by carpet. The dog is covered by hair. The fibers mingle. There is no contention between the inorganic threads of the carpet and the organic strands of hair. They are happy to congregate. They make room for each other. In the event of separation, some hair will remain guests of the carpet, and some carpet will travel with the hair.

The dog bestows gifts from within to the floor. The floor accepts these gifts with dissent. The dog is relieved. The floor is burdened further. Parts of the gifts meld with the parts of the floor. The floor is slightly weakened. The dog begins to feel a void, unable to fill it until opportunity rings. The floor shares the anticipation of the dog’s portending contingency as it represents a relief for the floor. The dog yawns. The floor sighs.

The gifts of the dog interrupt the camaraderie between the community of carpet and hair. The gifts incite some of the carpet threads to retreat and compact. Most, however, continue to socialize. Those directly affected by the gifts are unable to convince the others to support their cause. A wall has been built that only time can destroy. The hair does not notice the absence of the missing fibers. It makes no attempt to penetrate the separation. The influenced portion of the carpet is drawn closer to the floor and adopts its resentment towards the dog. Together they will fester until the effects of the dog’s gifts have evaporated.

There is an overweight boy wearing muddy baseball cleats and carrying a pitchfork, a box of matches and a tap dance instructional manual. The floor is having a bad day, but realizes that the dog isn’t so bad.