Basement blogging
I'm breaking my rule about never blogging from work, because the copy desk is taking for-fucking-ever to finish my damn page. My rule derives from weird complex and/or phobia that one of my coworkers, of which I have exactly two, will stumble on here via the web history. Why I feared this, I don't know.
...
Well, now I feel like an asshole. As I typed the above, the Texan professional adviser, who has to check all proofs first, came in and apologized in his roundabout, sarcastic way for taking so long: "Gee, you haven't been waiting long. It was crazy out there. Every place I tried to go for dinner was packed. It took me forever just to find somewhere that would get me in and out quick." Then he made fun of SXSW leftovers for taking too long to order barbecue.
Anyways, the page has been corrected, and thus re-begins the waiting. I really love my job down here, but working in a damn basement is like living in a dorm — it's cramped, dirty, and interpersonal relationships are entirely too squished together. Earlier today my copy desk friend Mandy came in to tell me about some spat between the copy and news depts. Typical intra-office stuff, but it happens a lot less than I expected coming in. Of course, the same goes for staff incest, which hasn't worked out in my favor.
From my desk, I can hear Lilly on the phone asking her dad some questions about the law for a story she's writing. I can see, at a distance, Jennifer, the friendly girl from S.A. that I've got a melancholy crush on. Yes, melancholy. It's stupid. It's that juvenile feeling of disappointment in yourself because you don't have the courage or self-confidence or whatever to be all forward with a girl. I'm bashful, basically, and it I chide myself for it. If there's one thing I don't like, after all, it's a bashful girl. I had the same problem in D.C. when I couldn't make myself go offer to buy a cute girl a drink. It's not that big a deal, and moaning about it in my stupid blog seems about the only thing more trivial.
So, yeah, anyways, I'm tired of work obviously, and I'm hacked off because after this I have to rewrite that overdue paper. I skipped class yesterday, which probably wasn't the smartest move in hindsight, then got up at my convenience and finished the paper. It's total crap, probably one of the worst I've ever written. I walked out of my house in a sour mood, not because the paper was bad or because 99% of Islam "resources" were in Arabic, but just because I still had to hassle with the stupid thing. It aggravated me that I had to give it a thought at all, even if it was just to ignore it, while I was in D.C. Then, to top it off, while I was sitting at Spider House on Sunday night, I had something of an epiphany — call it divine inspiration, if you will.
The paper is comparing Muslim and Biblical tradition regarding this one phrase from Corinthians. My research involves reading up on different translations of this Bible verse, then comparing it to different translations of this other Bible verse, then comparing all that to some prophecies in the Quran and the hadith. It's real dumb. But while reading a bunch of shmuck's commentaries on how this verse indicates that it's actually the sons of Ishmael instead of the sons of Isaac who are the righteous inhabitants of Canaan until the Last Day, God smiled upon me and said: Matt, you don't care. And I realized, Goddamn, he's right. I don't care about what some apostle thinks about something Jesus may or may not have said. I don't give two shits about the proper interpretation of what the Holy Prophet (may peace be upon him) told some self-appointed journalist to the gods. I couldn't care less about what Some Guy (pbuh) wandering around Mesopotamia a couple thousand years ago said heaven was like, no matter how much milk and virginity there is lying around up there. And all this means that I really, really don't give a fuck about The Passion of the Christ.
Now, don't think me anti-religious. This is pure and unadulterated apathy. I realized I care as much about the Bible as I do who got kicked off of Survivor last week. Ladies, do you care that Tracy McGrady scored 62 points in a game a couple weeks ago? Of course not, but you don't hate him for it, either. That's me and religion, to the point that I'm not even curious about it anymore. I took this Bible as Literature class in part to better understand a subject I had a lot of critiques for. Instead, I've found this whole religion thing another pointless chapter in the great human compulsion to tell other people what to do. Just another way to make people live like you live. I don't want to study it, I don't want deal with people who take this shit so seriously that they base legislation on it, I just don't care. Praise be to Allah.
Ah, felt good to get that out of me. Because, as I said, I have to rewrite the paper tonight, sort of. When I went to turn it in at my professor's office, I should've just handed it to him and walked out, knowing full well that he would think I was both a slacker and a terrible writer. But no, my ego interferred, and I felt compelled to mutter as I handed it in that it wasn't any good. He handed it right back to me and said, "Turn it in when it's good." So now, who knows. I'll probably revise it a little. Then I'll take the C, if he's generous. Shit, I've got more important stuff to do. Like blogging apparently.
When I get home I'll upload some pictures from Washington. I've got an idea about how to organize my spring break summary better than my non-existent New York one: I'll just write mini-essays on various aspects of the trip, such as "The City" or "The Booze" or "The Hot Policy Wonk Chick." This project also stems from a desire to write essays that are a little more, um, publishable. Basically, I think I write too much about girls and other overly personal stuff (see above). Over the break, I picked up an E.B. White collection that I've neglected since school started. He's got some essays that are very bloggish — think, like a month's worth of related, polished blog entries. Reading one such essay, it took me a few "entries" to get back into the flow of his style. By the time I reached the longer, meatier bits in the middle, though, I was right with him. And White, for his part, although he started out meandering, wound up knocking out two or three very well crafted snippets. If I feel like putting off the paper some more, I'll probably get around to picking up that book and typing up the specific passages.
Check back later for some good pics from D.C.
p.s. Lilly walked in here to visit just a few minutes ago and saw that I was on blogger. "Ooh," she crooned, "you're posting."
"Yeah," I said, "it's kind of a bitchy one."
Her response: "Well, welcome to being a woman."
I'm not sure what to make of that.
I'm breaking my rule about never blogging from work, because the copy desk is taking for-fucking-ever to finish my damn page. My rule derives from weird complex and/or phobia that one of my coworkers, of which I have exactly two, will stumble on here via the web history. Why I feared this, I don't know.
...
Well, now I feel like an asshole. As I typed the above, the Texan professional adviser, who has to check all proofs first, came in and apologized in his roundabout, sarcastic way for taking so long: "Gee, you haven't been waiting long. It was crazy out there. Every place I tried to go for dinner was packed. It took me forever just to find somewhere that would get me in and out quick." Then he made fun of SXSW leftovers for taking too long to order barbecue.
Anyways, the page has been corrected, and thus re-begins the waiting. I really love my job down here, but working in a damn basement is like living in a dorm — it's cramped, dirty, and interpersonal relationships are entirely too squished together. Earlier today my copy desk friend Mandy came in to tell me about some spat between the copy and news depts. Typical intra-office stuff, but it happens a lot less than I expected coming in. Of course, the same goes for staff incest, which hasn't worked out in my favor.
From my desk, I can hear Lilly on the phone asking her dad some questions about the law for a story she's writing. I can see, at a distance, Jennifer, the friendly girl from S.A. that I've got a melancholy crush on. Yes, melancholy. It's stupid. It's that juvenile feeling of disappointment in yourself because you don't have the courage or self-confidence or whatever to be all forward with a girl. I'm bashful, basically, and it I chide myself for it. If there's one thing I don't like, after all, it's a bashful girl. I had the same problem in D.C. when I couldn't make myself go offer to buy a cute girl a drink. It's not that big a deal, and moaning about it in my stupid blog seems about the only thing more trivial.
So, yeah, anyways, I'm tired of work obviously, and I'm hacked off because after this I have to rewrite that overdue paper. I skipped class yesterday, which probably wasn't the smartest move in hindsight, then got up at my convenience and finished the paper. It's total crap, probably one of the worst I've ever written. I walked out of my house in a sour mood, not because the paper was bad or because 99% of Islam "resources" were in Arabic, but just because I still had to hassle with the stupid thing. It aggravated me that I had to give it a thought at all, even if it was just to ignore it, while I was in D.C. Then, to top it off, while I was sitting at Spider House on Sunday night, I had something of an epiphany — call it divine inspiration, if you will.
The paper is comparing Muslim and Biblical tradition regarding this one phrase from Corinthians. My research involves reading up on different translations of this Bible verse, then comparing it to different translations of this other Bible verse, then comparing all that to some prophecies in the Quran and the hadith. It's real dumb. But while reading a bunch of shmuck's commentaries on how this verse indicates that it's actually the sons of Ishmael instead of the sons of Isaac who are the righteous inhabitants of Canaan until the Last Day, God smiled upon me and said: Matt, you don't care. And I realized, Goddamn, he's right. I don't care about what some apostle thinks about something Jesus may or may not have said. I don't give two shits about the proper interpretation of what the Holy Prophet (may peace be upon him) told some self-appointed journalist to the gods. I couldn't care less about what Some Guy (pbuh) wandering around Mesopotamia a couple thousand years ago said heaven was like, no matter how much milk and virginity there is lying around up there. And all this means that I really, really don't give a fuck about The Passion of the Christ.
Now, don't think me anti-religious. This is pure and unadulterated apathy. I realized I care as much about the Bible as I do who got kicked off of Survivor last week. Ladies, do you care that Tracy McGrady scored 62 points in a game a couple weeks ago? Of course not, but you don't hate him for it, either. That's me and religion, to the point that I'm not even curious about it anymore. I took this Bible as Literature class in part to better understand a subject I had a lot of critiques for. Instead, I've found this whole religion thing another pointless chapter in the great human compulsion to tell other people what to do. Just another way to make people live like you live. I don't want to study it, I don't want deal with people who take this shit so seriously that they base legislation on it, I just don't care. Praise be to Allah.
Ah, felt good to get that out of me. Because, as I said, I have to rewrite the paper tonight, sort of. When I went to turn it in at my professor's office, I should've just handed it to him and walked out, knowing full well that he would think I was both a slacker and a terrible writer. But no, my ego interferred, and I felt compelled to mutter as I handed it in that it wasn't any good. He handed it right back to me and said, "Turn it in when it's good." So now, who knows. I'll probably revise it a little. Then I'll take the C, if he's generous. Shit, I've got more important stuff to do. Like blogging apparently.
When I get home I'll upload some pictures from Washington. I've got an idea about how to organize my spring break summary better than my non-existent New York one: I'll just write mini-essays on various aspects of the trip, such as "The City" or "The Booze" or "The Hot Policy Wonk Chick." This project also stems from a desire to write essays that are a little more, um, publishable. Basically, I think I write too much about girls and other overly personal stuff (see above). Over the break, I picked up an E.B. White collection that I've neglected since school started. He's got some essays that are very bloggish — think, like a month's worth of related, polished blog entries. Reading one such essay, it took me a few "entries" to get back into the flow of his style. By the time I reached the longer, meatier bits in the middle, though, I was right with him. And White, for his part, although he started out meandering, wound up knocking out two or three very well crafted snippets. If I feel like putting off the paper some more, I'll probably get around to picking up that book and typing up the specific passages.
Check back later for some good pics from D.C.
p.s. Lilly walked in here to visit just a few minutes ago and saw that I was on blogger. "Ooh," she crooned, "you're posting."
"Yeah," I said, "it's kind of a bitchy one."
Her response: "Well, welcome to being a woman."
I'm not sure what to make of that.
posted by Matt at 6:36 PM
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