I’m a loser baby!

Left work early in order to try out for Jeopardy. And, I failed.

(There were about 72 other people in the room and only about 10 got called on to the next round. And, on the other side of the room was a tall man with a ponytail and a low voice who I know I know from somewhere, but I couldn’t figure out where. It was distracting.)

Apart from the possibility I just got stuff plain old wrong (but I didn’t feel like I did), I essentially choked. I could feel myself waffling. I wrote down the ones that were either on the tip of my tongue but remained out of my grasp or where I waffled stupidly. (The format is 50 straight questions on a videotape like in the show — blue screen with the category above and the question in a form of an answer. There’s eight seconds between each question. Rumor has it (because they won’t tell you when you take the test) you have to get 35+ correct to go to the mock game round.)

Who wrote Madame Bovary? My gut, my first instinct the word that came off the top of my head — Flaubert. But, I thought no, it’s not Flaubert, he wrote that thing about the chick and the bird, think, French author, French author. It’s too obvious, Flaubert wrote everything, Hugo? No. Dumas? the other Dumas? NO, NO. I wrote in fucking Balzac. I actually have read Madame Bovary within this decade. It’s author – Flaubert. That is when my confidence started to slide.

Who wrote “Private Lives?” This one I got write, Noel Coward, but I went home unsure and had to look it up.

Whose only novel was The Picture of Dorian Gray? Easy I think, I know this one, I love that story. But nothing goes on the page, No-Thing. Blank. THINK. My thought process goes something like this, yeah, picture, and it’s not a usual novelist, maybe it’s a poet. Hmm, Pope, yeah Pope. When I got home, I realized why I pulled that wrong answer out of my ass. It has something to do with the weird place in my brain that I store High School English and poetry. We read Browning’s “Last Duchess.” We read Pope’s “Rape of the Lock.” They have become one with some kind of picture of a woman on the wall. Which all has nothing to do with Oscar Wilde, who I have adored, and who wrote Dorian Gray. I even tried to stay at the hotel in Paris a couple of years ago where Oscar used to live and write some of the time.

Where is Flanders? Instantly, I wrote down Belgium. But, no, wait a minute I thought 10 seconds later (after the next question had started), maybe it’s the Netherlands. Yeah, the Netherlands, that’s the ticket. I crossed out Belgium, wrote in the Netherlands. D’OH! The answer is, of course, Belgium. Fucking Benelux countries.

Israel PM slain in 1995? Yitzhak Rabin–OK, I got that one right. But, for an uncomfortable squirming period I was running the names of Jewish leaders through my head. I’m surprised I didn’t write in Golda Meir.

Author of Twice Told Tales and Mosses from the Old Manse? — I took a stab at it, because the category was something like 18th century American Lit. I threw down Hawthorne. Turns out that one was right.

There was something about not being just aliens and the Alien Act and another act passed in July 1798. I couldn’t figure that one out; I wrote unalienable rights, because I’m, like, stupid. I think the correct answer may or may not have been The Act of Sedition, which I have heard of and did happen in 1798.

This next ball of doubt and confusion embarasses me completely. You see for the past year I have kept company with a gentleman friend who hails from this part of the world. The question was what predominantly Muslim country is the island of Bali part of ?… ARGHHH, Southeast Asia, I know this, I know this, argh, think, what would M. say? What is it? He knows, I know, I’ve seen maps, I’ve seen South Pacific. Fuck. I throw down Malaysia, knowing with absolute certainty that is WRONG, but neighbors whatever country, whose name escapes me, it is. Sure enough, Indonesia is the answer, and it is indeed next door to Malaysia.

Those are the ones I wrote on my hand, because they were plaguing me and I had to know the right answer. Most everything else felt pretty right and cool, but we’ve justed established, what the fuck do I know?

I also know I absolutely got wrong: What planet did the comet Shoemaker Levy-9 hit? I wrote Mars; the correct answer is Jupiter.

I probably got wrong the thing about measurement that might have been “joule,” like I wrote, or “erg” or something else entirely. Don’t know.

I’m positive I got Bizet’s last opera, Carmen, right, I’m pretty sure about “fiber optics” and “polar bear market.” I thought I aced with “Frank Zappa,” as the last person alphabetically in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame; he’s not in it, and ZZ Top is the last. There was a poker question, where the answer was probably stud or hold’em (I can’t remember what they described). I floundered in my head for a poker term and came up lamely with “draw.” And, there was something in a Childbirth category about what shoots out of something, I don’t know what the fuck that was, I don’t think there’s any shooting anything. Turns out I’m dumb AND I don’t know where babies come from.

Well, that’s that. The good news is I called M. right after. He’s willing to go out with a dumb girl.

I also was out of work on one of the first real Spring-feeling days, so I walked around Copley and did a little shopping. All in all, not bad for a failure.

I didn’t buy a $500 black leather jacket at Neiman’s or a $10 shiny silver leather skirt at Lord & Taylor’s (but I might have to go back). I only ended up with clearance from the Gap. I think proving I am not just dumb but boring.

Playing hookey in the sun, almost makes being a Jeopardy loser worthwhile.

Almost.

The day started out shitty, what with Peoplecrap and all, but it ended OK.

It started to improve when we interviewed a kid for the administrative staff who didn’t seem like the walking wounded. He was nervous to start, looking young in a suit that looked like the kind of suit someone makes you buy in your early 20s to be more grownup, ready for a sudden wedding, funeral or job interview. (The female interview equivalent of that first suit seems to be those orangey, “nude” pantyhose that also come in taupe or nurse white. The ones my mother made me wear along with a half-slip for some six grade chorus nighttime recital thing. If your crotch feels twisted and your legs have an unnatural sheen and the package label has a flesh tone reference but matches no color known in nature, you’re wearing those stockings. It’s adorable, kind of like when Clarice meets Dr. Lecter for the first time.)

Anyway, this kid came dressed right, prepared, nervous not overconfident (I hate listening to the sheer unadulterated bullshit a lot of people carry with them to job interviews. Yeah, I believe that to that last job you really were the messiah and the apostates let you go) and seems viable.

I also succeeded in the somewhat useful, potentially cruel game I like to play when I’m the interviewer — getting the interviewee to drop his/her guard and talk freely. Sometimes people get a little too comfortable. Once some chick ended up telling us that she was seeking new employment, because her current position was so stressful it was taking a toll on her personal life. She knew that it was time to go, because this time when the cops came to break up the fight with her husband, they said she had to calm down and maybe something about assault charges. Another guy, who appeared stereotypically to be living an alternative lifestyle, started joking around with me and started telling me how he was a lesbian, ha ha, and went into some stuff about his personal life not quite germane to answering phones and scheduling meetings. I like the domestic violence chick the best for story fodder, I didn’t like the chick who said the first thing she would do in her new job was to clean my office.

Turns out today’s contestant is in a metal band around town (he couldn’t have looked less hard core, although he did have a tiny hoop in his ear). I guess you can’t judge a book by the suit his mom helped him buy.

The day ended with my cruising by the Comedy Studio on the way home from a late night in the office. A tough night crowd-wise, the show becomes pretty informal and workshop-ish on Wednesdays with host, Tony V, and usual closer, Kelly MacFarland, so the night can be fun and interesting. I didn’t get to go up tonight, but seeing guest sets from comedy legend, Steven Wright, and comedy writer, Bill Braudis, was a pleasant surprise.

Now, for a change of pace, I’m going to go to bed very soon. I have to rest up for tomorrow. There’s the big Jeopardy try-out tomorrow. If I fail the test again, my mom was right about me — I’m Wheel of Fortune caliber.

My teeth are gritted in impotent rage this afternoon after wasting, and I fucking mean wasting, a morning thanks to DEMONware. (I keep linking to their site in the hopes that someone googling them will come here and realize what a piece of shit product it is and spare their employees some misery. Enterprise system my ass, here’s an enterprise to occupy you, you programmers of DEMONware, fucking cram it.)
{On the advice of an attorney (for reals, yo), I took out the name (changing it to the more accurate DEMONware) and the link to the enterprise sofware system company that rhymes with neeple doft. Luckily, it’s out there on a list of things that suck, courtesy of some like-minded folks at UConn.}

Today’s adventure was to go into the live production system and compare it to the old, phased out finance system’s data. Let’s just say that there are ~15 researchers who have accounts from which they can pay for their research. Then, conservatively, let’s say they have seven account numbers each (That is quite conservative, since a couple have about 20 each). OK, that’s 105 account numbers. The new system has a new interface and a new numbering scheme from the old system, so there is no common logical construct governing the looking up of these numbers. For example what was 9515102 in the old system is now 9500088; there is no correlation, no equivalent values just a brand new random number with the same number of digits and prefix series. For mere mortals, who do not compute number series like, say, a computer, that’s a pretty fucking cruel hoax.

Now, let’s take those 105 account numbers and assume it takes us 30 seconds to look up the old number in one system, and another 1.5 minutes to look up the new number given the steep learning curve of becoming familiar with a new seven-digit number series. That’s two minutes per account number, or 210 minutes or 3.5 hours. There were two of us at a two-hour session, so that’s essential 4.0 hours of commitment. So we are left with a half hour between us to actually compare the data, or 0.3 minutes, or 18 seconds, for each account number to verify (a) we can even access the data and (b) whether the data correlates. My name ain’t Cray, and I ain’t no super computer.

All of that equals a complete sinkhole of time wasted. It would have been better spent allowing someone to thump me in the temples with a ball peen hammer repeatedly until I passed out. And, it would have been more pleasurable.

If you have ever found yourself saying – JIMIMO – please look below.

If not, please move along to another post. Nothing to see here. Keep it moving.

Today is the day I plan to bear down and work at work. Don’t tell my boss(es) lest you destroy the equilibrium within our office.

Here is what I decided last night — The good thing about missing being with someone is at least it makes you feel like you are alive, or possibly capable of emotion. I occasionally prefer to think of myself as a rock, or maybe an island. But maybe I am part of the continent afterall.

I’m taking a little break from my current obsession. It’s more or less complete, and I am more or less pleased. I think I will send out some announcement/feedback request emails today, see what folks I know have to say.

Oh, and here’s the only interesting thing going on at work. The best part is in my head I will be pretending I’m Tony Montana of Scarface.

One of the postdocs here is sending out a survey to 2,000 physicians. (Sending out a large survey is kind of a pain in and of itself. No one seems to ever be able to conceptualize that there may not be 4,000 manila envelopes with the hospital logo (one to send out and one for return) lying around in stock whenever they want.)

I digress, however. The important part is this particular survey will have a crisp two-dollar bill inside each envelope to guilt the recipient into replying. (Surveys show (well not this one) that cash talks and responses go up). The institute accountants are freaked out that we will be handling cash at all, since there is no mechanism for cash transactions beyond $45 petty cash. None. It’s like we invented currency with this request. Add to that edginess the potential of our having $4,000, yup 4Gs, lying around and there is the kind of tension that preceded the Brink’s robbery.

Here’s an excerpt from an email I got about it:

I propose the following for your consideration.
1, That a group of two or more work in a locked office and provide Mark with the room number and dates so that Security can come by to check on you.

A locked room with one or two people stuffing envelopes? How many drug trafficking movies has this guy watched?

I’ve spent a huge chunk of my weekend working on this possible portal or this other possible portal page.

Basically, my idea would be a non-commercial, non-affiliated space for Boston (and/or elsewhere) comedy that is more than a discussion board. Although, obviously, a bulletin board makes sense to have.

The reasons for doing this space are twofold. First and foremost, I’m just fucking around and trying to teach myself some stuff about building a website. But, secondly, even though Boston (well Cambridge) already has The Comedy Studio website, it is owned and operated by the club, so it has a necessary commercial bias. I’m an unaffiliated whore in the market place, so there is no slant here.

Today is for me the most painful day on the calendar. I hate Daylight Savings. It is an abomination that forces me to lose a precious hour of my life.

I woke up feeling robbed. A full hour burgled out from under me. The pain is made worse by M.’s distance. (One of the many things I miss by our 3,000-mile separation is his bringing toast and coffee to me in bed and reading the headline news aloud.) Even worse, I will be spending the day at a birthday party where there will likely be scads of children. I have nothing against folks with families, or what some people might call “breeders,” afterall I came from a family. But, sometimes I’m less than at ease in groups of people where as a lifestyle choice it’s the prominent one, and all others must take the backseat. I should be more open-minded, but I haven’t reproduced, so I’m probably just bitter at my barren field, metaphorically speaking.

So, no sleep, and an afternoon taken.

Of course, the other reason I’m a tad bitchy over this party is birthday parties for adults are always a little weird. Like in this case, it’s for a friend who is turning 40. Everyone in our group is turning 40 this year, so it’s not a unique event. But, no really, I should be happy that her husband thought of her. Maybe I just think this my 40th year should be declared year of me and be left at that.

I suppose I ought to say something about April’s Fool Day, since I used this space to lie.

Well, over here on the Comedy Studio Kvetchboard a group of folks, who have computer administrative privileges for the bulletin board and whatnot, decided to mess with the heads of the everyone else. For weeks, they have been creating characters and angry and controversial dialogues (or actually monologues, since the fake characters were often fighting with their real selves or other fake versions), and fomenting dissent and all. Then, boom fake controversial peak, so the board is shut down because the kids have gone too far…blah blah.

Was it a great prank, or a complete circle jerk? Depends on who you ask. For me the real show was the countretemps around the perpetrators trying to keep their shit together and the prank victims, who began to smell a fake well before the scheduled finale. I’m actually shitty at pranks myself, and I succumb to the dynamic that was beginning to topple the whole deal — the growing hubris as you get away with shit, which makes you do more, which increases the likelihood you’ll trip yourself up. I lie best when I say the fewest words. Turns out, I’m not alone.

So, I decided I needed a little counter-prank of my own. Rather than playing that game on that playing field, I used another field and game. One thing was clear the pranking gang’s paranoia was rising yesterday, as they realized the outside world was getting wise. The number of hits in my stats from all of them was off the charts by the end of Wednesday. Was I going to write what I knew, had figured out, or had talked about with other not really duped folks? Since a couple of them would probably care about me enough as a friend, I used the traffic to lie about my dumped ass via the cruel hand of M. Thankfully, not only a lie, but he laughed a little when I told him what I was doing (although, he is truly understanding that comics are fucking insane).

My plan was then to use the diversion to coordinate a few cloaked troll attacks from willing conspirators. But, when the first foray was dispatched pretty negatively, I lost my interest/desire, so I didn’t bother posting anything. I figured it was much easier to work the emotional angle and be the hurt one with a real life problem in the middle of the circus.

I like the role of Camille. If I learned nothing else from my mom, it was how to convincingly play the sad victim. It worked for a while, and that’s enough for me.

Like most pranks, all of it’s more stupid than funny. I think people like the planning more than the execution, anyway.

The only downsides for me were I did fuck all at work, and it reinforced for me why I don’t really care for a couple of the folks in the comedy world. Some people are always kidding, even if they sound mean spirited, some people say “just kidding” when they are really just mean spirited. Not a profound lesson, but pranks kind of predicate on assholic behavior.