My Interview Today
OR
Guillermo Attempts To Swing A Leg Up Whilst Dangling From The Bottom Rung Of The Corporate Ladder
I had an interview today for a position in a slightly more prestigious area of the company. I wore black, pin-striped pants, a white buttoned shirt and the thin black tie which is the only tie I own. I stole that tie from the United States Army along with a few other items. Well, I didn't steal them so much as simply not return them after Uncle Sam and I parted ways over creative differences.
In all my years of wearing a tie, I haven't ever known how to tie it.
I would simply close my eyes, twist the ends around like I'd seen other people do, and hope for the best. After wasting a great deal of time and effort much like everything else in life I somehow managed to cover my neck.
My gurgy-rigged knot was holding steady as I strolled into work this morning. On a whim, I decided to ask my supervisor, Ron, if he would teach me how a proper knot. Ron is quite a character and by far the best boss I've ever had. He knows a great many things, not all of which I agree with but most that will do in a pinch.
He demonstrated how to tie a Windsor knot, named after the legendary balladeer Johnny Windsor of Lower Umpington. I attempted to imitate the movements and succeeded in fashioning a tangle that looked unnervingly like a noose. I kept practicing, being very careful to avoid hanging myself. Eventually, success was mine. I wore my tie proudly as I awaited my interview at the end of the day.
My interview went moderately well. It was held in a very cold room about the size of a walk-in closet. I arrived early and while I was awaiting my interviewer I pulled a lunch receipt out of my pocket and scribbled,
Check your purpling
rage before it colors
every option
To that same dull throbbing
royal ichor
weeping from your wounds
An almost Oedipal emotion
anger seeks to strike the loins that spawned it
Coursing along a lineage
no holy book has dared to chart
The path when followed
fractures into shards
of silvered glass reflecting
every step that led you here
and none that lead you back
I don't know where all the rest came from but I just liked the sound of "purpling rage." I picture a furious Pillsbury Dough-Boy or something. As I said, my interview went moderately well as far as presenting myself as a potential candidate for whatever the hell I was applying for. I believe the interview went extremely well as far as me realizing that the winds of of change were fluttering my newly fashioned Windsor knot madly about and I was desperate to leave that tiny closet of a room and set sail.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
I formally apologize about the feet. That usually doesn't happen to me.
Unless, as I've long suspected, my feet begin to disappear when I consume alcohol. That would explain all the missing footwear.
My birthday is coming up in May. The twelfth. Another milestone that month will be my one-year anniversary at my corporate job.
I wonder if I can remember my first impression of the place...[text goes shimmery, flashback-style]
This is Hell. An easy-listening, khaki-and-polo Hell.
[text goes shimmery, returning-from-flashback-style]
Foolish young Guillermo. How wrong you were.
Foolish current Guillermo. You really should have listened to foolish young Guillermo.
I don't entirely blame young Guillermo. That was a very interesting week as I recall.
The third milestone will be the one-and-a-half month anniversary of the time I saw the Red Elvises perform at the Rhythm Room. I went with Alan and Matt. The three of of us have been fans since we were sixteen years old and saw Six String Samurai. It was one of the greatest shows I've ever attended. I'm eager to go back. I'm also eager to get to class and see if my Italian teacher has dropped me yet.
Unless, as I've long suspected, my feet begin to disappear when I consume alcohol. That would explain all the missing footwear.
My birthday is coming up in May. The twelfth. Another milestone that month will be my one-year anniversary at my corporate job.
I wonder if I can remember my first impression of the place...[text goes shimmery, flashback-style]
This is Hell. An easy-listening, khaki-and-polo Hell.
[text goes shimmery, returning-from-flashback-style]
Foolish young Guillermo. How wrong you were.
Foolish current Guillermo. You really should have listened to foolish young Guillermo.
I don't entirely blame young Guillermo. That was a very interesting week as I recall.
The third milestone will be the one-and-a-half month anniversary of the time I saw the Red Elvises perform at the Rhythm Room. I went with Alan and Matt. The three of of us have been fans since we were sixteen years old and saw Six String Samurai. It was one of the greatest shows I've ever attended. I'm eager to go back. I'm also eager to get to class and see if my Italian teacher has dropped me yet.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Saturday, April 09, 2005
A idea I've been kicking about in my head...maybe the beginning of
something bigger.
The day before she died, I think my grandmother tried to kill me.
Every night before I went to sleep she would tell me a story. And not
just the same few stories over and over. She would tell me a new
story every night. She would only retell a story if I asked. I
usually did. Her grey eyes would shine whenever I asked to hear one
again. Those eyes would also glint like a cold knife whenever I
became impatient and asked for two new stories in one night. I can't
recall how often she would scold, "How do you expect me to tell you a
new story when you haven't finished hearing the one I told you?" I
think she meant I should think about it for a while in case I was
missing the point.
It isn't unusual for me to come across one of grandmother's stories in
a book I would read or a movie I would see. But it happened much less
than I expected. I think she pulled a lot of those stories right out
of her own head and was trying to put them into mine for safe-keeping.
The last story she ever told me was the only one I think I'd ever
really forgotten.
I was eleven years old. I was sprawled out on the floor at my
grandmother's feet. She was quiet for a long time, rocking slowly and
gazing out the living room window at the snow. "Douglas, I'm going to
tell you about God and the first animals."
"Oh, this one's about God?" I said. A lot of the stories were about
God. Often, God had a cool name like Vishnu, Zeus, Allah, or Ah
Kinchil. But that night it was just God.
She ignored me in the way she would when she knew I didn't need an
answer. She went on "The animals you see all around you today are not
the first animals. They are the second. I will tell you why."
She had my attention.
"God created the first animals gave them intelligence. Unlike the
animals of today, these had the ability to look at their own past to
learn from their mistakes. When they had learned from their past,
they could then better prepare themselves for whatever they might face
in their future." She turned those clear grey eyes on me as if she
expected me to speak. I looked up at her and remained silent. "This
was a great help to them at first. Sadly, there was an unforeseen
consequence. Unlike human beings, they were mere animals and had no
higher purpose. Whenever one of the animals contemplated too deeply
about their own purpose they would realize that they had none. With
the discovery of this knowledge, their hearts would break and they
died of utter despair." She looked down at me. "Imagine how it feels
to find out that, however hard you may try and whatever great deeds
you may accomplish, all amounts to nothing in the end. Not a single
thing.
As time went on, every kind of animal would ask realize this of
themselves. They all met the same fate. Except one.
One animal survived by never looking too far into the past or the
future. One animal avoided stumbling upon the one truth that could
completely destroy it. The animal accomplished this by creating
distraction upon distraction. So clever was this animal that it
invented distractions to distract itself from all the distractions,
lest the truth become too obvious." Grandmother paused to see if I
was confused. I didn't think I was.
"One favorite distraction was to try to look and act like human
beings. They were so very clever, in fact, that they became better at
apearing human the humans themselves." Her voice had been dropping
lower and lower as she said this. She leaned down towards me and
continued. Her voice was little over a whisper. "To this day, the
greater part of the people you see everyday are not God's Chosen.
They are the animals, pretending to be human in order to protect
themselves from the terrible knowledge; still preventing themselves
from questioning too deeply about their own natures."
Grandmother always told me that every story she told me was true. If
I told her I thought it was false she would tell me that I was looking
in the wrong place. Other than in her stories, Grandmother had never
lied to me. Not once. This was not lost on a boy who had been told
contradictory information from almost every other adult he met.
Grandmother was also unique because she would always tell me when she
didn't have an answer. At that moment in the story, I had a very
urgent question.
"Grandmother, how do I know you're not one of those animals pretending
to be human?"
Her eyes flashed again but her voice remained a whisper. "Foolish
child! The question you should be most concerned with is how do you
know that you are not one of these animals?" I stared up at her with
wide eyes. Through the large window behind her snow began to fall.
She held my gaze with her grey eyes that seemed sharp enough to cut
you open and see everything hiding inside you. I'll never forget her
eyes. My own eyes were large and brown and seemed to carry none of her
strength. My lower lip began to quiver and I felt my eyes stinging.
Grandmother smiled. She seemed very tired. "Go, young one. Go find
out. Keep your eyes open and try to see what you really are. Then,
if you die, you will know for certain. But if you live, then you will
understand what a life can truly be." She hugged me and I went
silently to bed.
Grandmother died the next morning just as the sun was coming up. In
my grief I buried all that I knew of her. The years passed and I was
no longer able to see my grandmother in the same delicate features
that my mother and I carry on in our own faces.
Until this morning, I had almost entirely forgotten Grandmother, her
last story, and the childish fear I had felt upon hearing her telling.
I was trying to shave by the dim light of a bare bulb. The mirror
itself hadn't been cleaned in a long time. I was halfway done and had
managed to cut myself only twice when I saw them. My grandmother's
steel grey eyes were staring fiercely at me through the grime on the
silvered glass. I yelped as I nicked myself again and threw the razor
into the sink. I grabbed a towel, scrubbed furiously and looked
again. I was wrong. Those were not my Grandmother's eyes in the
mirror. They were my eyes. Sometime between last call at the bar, my
stumble back to my apartment, and getting up for work this morning, my
brown eyes had become a stormy grey.
Now I'm late for work, Grandmother's final story is echoing in my
head, and I'm as afraid as I was the night before she died.
I finished shaving, got dressed, and jumped into my car. As I turned
the corner out of the narrow-laned parking garage, I ran the stop sign
and was nearly broadsided by a garbage truck. "Easy, Doug," I told
myself over the pounding of my heart, "Pay attention to what you're
doing or you're going to get yourself killed."
something bigger.
The day before she died, I think my grandmother tried to kill me.
Every night before I went to sleep she would tell me a story. And not
just the same few stories over and over. She would tell me a new
story every night. She would only retell a story if I asked. I
usually did. Her grey eyes would shine whenever I asked to hear one
again. Those eyes would also glint like a cold knife whenever I
became impatient and asked for two new stories in one night. I can't
recall how often she would scold, "How do you expect me to tell you a
new story when you haven't finished hearing the one I told you?" I
think she meant I should think about it for a while in case I was
missing the point.
It isn't unusual for me to come across one of grandmother's stories in
a book I would read or a movie I would see. But it happened much less
than I expected. I think she pulled a lot of those stories right out
of her own head and was trying to put them into mine for safe-keeping.
The last story she ever told me was the only one I think I'd ever
really forgotten.
I was eleven years old. I was sprawled out on the floor at my
grandmother's feet. She was quiet for a long time, rocking slowly and
gazing out the living room window at the snow. "Douglas, I'm going to
tell you about God and the first animals."
"Oh, this one's about God?" I said. A lot of the stories were about
God. Often, God had a cool name like Vishnu, Zeus, Allah, or Ah
Kinchil. But that night it was just God.
She ignored me in the way she would when she knew I didn't need an
answer. She went on "The animals you see all around you today are not
the first animals. They are the second. I will tell you why."
She had my attention.
"God created the first animals gave them intelligence. Unlike the
animals of today, these had the ability to look at their own past to
learn from their mistakes. When they had learned from their past,
they could then better prepare themselves for whatever they might face
in their future." She turned those clear grey eyes on me as if she
expected me to speak. I looked up at her and remained silent. "This
was a great help to them at first. Sadly, there was an unforeseen
consequence. Unlike human beings, they were mere animals and had no
higher purpose. Whenever one of the animals contemplated too deeply
about their own purpose they would realize that they had none. With
the discovery of this knowledge, their hearts would break and they
died of utter despair." She looked down at me. "Imagine how it feels
to find out that, however hard you may try and whatever great deeds
you may accomplish, all amounts to nothing in the end. Not a single
thing.
As time went on, every kind of animal would ask realize this of
themselves. They all met the same fate. Except one.
One animal survived by never looking too far into the past or the
future. One animal avoided stumbling upon the one truth that could
completely destroy it. The animal accomplished this by creating
distraction upon distraction. So clever was this animal that it
invented distractions to distract itself from all the distractions,
lest the truth become too obvious." Grandmother paused to see if I
was confused. I didn't think I was.
"One favorite distraction was to try to look and act like human
beings. They were so very clever, in fact, that they became better at
apearing human the humans themselves." Her voice had been dropping
lower and lower as she said this. She leaned down towards me and
continued. Her voice was little over a whisper. "To this day, the
greater part of the people you see everyday are not God's Chosen.
They are the animals, pretending to be human in order to protect
themselves from the terrible knowledge; still preventing themselves
from questioning too deeply about their own natures."
Grandmother always told me that every story she told me was true. If
I told her I thought it was false she would tell me that I was looking
in the wrong place. Other than in her stories, Grandmother had never
lied to me. Not once. This was not lost on a boy who had been told
contradictory information from almost every other adult he met.
Grandmother was also unique because she would always tell me when she
didn't have an answer. At that moment in the story, I had a very
urgent question.
"Grandmother, how do I know you're not one of those animals pretending
to be human?"
Her eyes flashed again but her voice remained a whisper. "Foolish
child! The question you should be most concerned with is how do you
know that you are not one of these animals?" I stared up at her with
wide eyes. Through the large window behind her snow began to fall.
She held my gaze with her grey eyes that seemed sharp enough to cut
you open and see everything hiding inside you. I'll never forget her
eyes. My own eyes were large and brown and seemed to carry none of her
strength. My lower lip began to quiver and I felt my eyes stinging.
Grandmother smiled. She seemed very tired. "Go, young one. Go find
out. Keep your eyes open and try to see what you really are. Then,
if you die, you will know for certain. But if you live, then you will
understand what a life can truly be." She hugged me and I went
silently to bed.
Grandmother died the next morning just as the sun was coming up. In
my grief I buried all that I knew of her. The years passed and I was
no longer able to see my grandmother in the same delicate features
that my mother and I carry on in our own faces.
Until this morning, I had almost entirely forgotten Grandmother, her
last story, and the childish fear I had felt upon hearing her telling.
I was trying to shave by the dim light of a bare bulb. The mirror
itself hadn't been cleaned in a long time. I was halfway done and had
managed to cut myself only twice when I saw them. My grandmother's
steel grey eyes were staring fiercely at me through the grime on the
silvered glass. I yelped as I nicked myself again and threw the razor
into the sink. I grabbed a towel, scrubbed furiously and looked
again. I was wrong. Those were not my Grandmother's eyes in the
mirror. They were my eyes. Sometime between last call at the bar, my
stumble back to my apartment, and getting up for work this morning, my
brown eyes had become a stormy grey.
Now I'm late for work, Grandmother's final story is echoing in my
head, and I'm as afraid as I was the night before she died.
I finished shaving, got dressed, and jumped into my car. As I turned
the corner out of the narrow-laned parking garage, I ran the stop sign
and was nearly broadsided by a garbage truck. "Easy, Doug," I told
myself over the pounding of my heart, "Pay attention to what you're
doing or you're going to get yourself killed."
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Monday, April 04, 2005
I watch very little television. I average less than 20 minutes a day and I'm almost never the one that has turned it on. If it wasn't for National Public Radio, Google News, and Slashdot I probably would have no idea what was going on anywhere...ever.
I donated some money to NPR this week. Two times, actually. Once because they asked so nicely and the second time because the donation was going specifically to the blues programs I listen to on Sunday evenings.
I'm trying to sound cultured here to balance out what I'm about to confess.
I love the Charmin Bears.
The commercial where the animated family of bears dance around in an animated forest with animated Charmin toilet paper and then go behind a tree to do their animated business. I roared with approval the first time I saw it. "Go little bears! Hide your shame!"
The commercial works on so many level. Well, at least three. The bears using a tree as a make-shift toilet paper dispenser? Deliciously ironic.
Hm, I don't think I've ever used the words "deliciously" and "toilet paper" so close together before.
The commercial marks a brave new chapter in animated hygiene commercials. It dares to answer the age-old question: Does a bear shit in the woods? The answer, my friends, is yes. With Charmin toilet paper. As a family.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
My friend Valerie at work is taking a photography class and she asked a few of us to help her out. Thus, one fine day we trudged out to a nearby park and she took a few photos of us. These two pictures are of me and Janelle. She's all-around stellar and has done modeling before. Most of the pictures turned out okay. Someone had joked that I should be a model. I replied that I could't be a model; I don't like people telling me what to do. Although, another model I knew told me I should be a model. She said I had a "universal look."
I want to say that these were the only two times anyone has ever told me I should consider modeling. I don't want to make it seem like everyone who meets me tells me "Darling, you're so beautiful! You absolutely must be a model!" Mostly, people just tell me to stop trying to steal their food and at least try to look like I'm working.
Speaking of work, Janelle and I both really like Napoleon Dynamite. Last week she made a drawing of my face (with gratuitous over-shading) that said "There's more where this comes from if you go to the dance with me. -Janellean Dynamite."
I wrote her a note, summoned my origami skills and folded it elaborately. Inside the note was a picture of a heart with the "No!!!" written inside.
After lunch that day, I'm sitting at my desk when Janelle saunters up, sets down an entire cake and then walks off. I'm sitting there confused as all hell. I look at the cake and written in red frosting is "Janellean (heart)'s Guillermo."
I look up and everyone in my entire unit is staring at me knowingly. "No," I protest weakly, "it's just a joke from the movie." I start blushing furiously. I admit I was confused.
Once the furor died off from that I was determined to respond in kind. I was scheduled to get off early that day and by the time I left the building I knew what I had to do.
I returned to work a short time later. I marched over to Janelle's desk (followed by a small crowd) and presented her with something wrapped in aluminum foil. "I caught you a delicious bass," I said.
She unwrapped it and shrieked "Eww!"
I had purchased an entire 2-pound fish at a nearby deli. Sadly, it wasn't actually a bass but some much cheaper type of fish. But it got the job done.
Janelle admitted that I had gotten her pretty good. Then The Promise by When In Rome began to play and we both went to the respective bathrooms to wash the fish juice off of our hands.
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