Archive for the ‘Workaday World’ Category

The Science of Stimulus


I’m donating my body to science… Weird Science

…but not the anatomical medicine sciences. Instead, I’ve decided to donate my body to the psychological sciences. I’ll not wait for death to be a service to mankind; I’ll start now, while the blood is fresh and synapses are still firing. The experiment? I’ll engage in the art of ennui; I’ll push my mind to the limits of boredom to see how much I can endure before I break.

It won’t be easy. I can’t just lock myself away in solitaire with nothing. That’s deprivation, not boredom. No, I’ll have to hew the fine line of providing plenty of potential stimulation while making sure that none of it actually stimulates me. A room with egg-shell finished beige walls, gray industrial carpeting, and a faint air conditioner / heater humming in the distance. A TV that only plays reruns of Seinfeld and the second-to-last season of Friends, a CD player with Will Smith’s Greatest Hits, and a computer devoid of everything except Free Cell, a demo version of VideoPinball, and Internet Explorer 6 with CyberNanny in its safest possible configuration. Maybe some books like “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” and “Tuesdays with Morrie”, too.

To ensure that I’m truly exploring the doldrums and not confounding the data with simple loneliness, I’ll have to get some acquaintances in the mix — Monochromatic guys who claim a Grand Ethnic Heritage and have “thought a lot about getting a tattoo” (usually of a flag that feature large bars of green, white, red, and orange in various combinations, or maybe the sinograph for ‘peace’, ‘adversity’, or ‘triumph’) — Dishwater blonde & brunette gals with disposable TJ Max purses and Payless shoes. Most of them will be coupled, of course. A lady for each fella, save the two fellas for each other and the one guy who pines for someone already taken (unbeknown to her, of course). And though we’ll never talk about it, I’ll know that their sex lives are filled with quiet moments of fevered missionary positions and BJs on the high holy days (not because they planned it that way, unfortunately).

Les BourgeoisesWhen they return from their non-denominational church on Sundays, rolling up in their mid-2000s model SUV with non-fat vanilla spiced lattes in the cupholder armrests, they’ll holler at me to “jump in the back! We’re going to the park!” where we’ll play golf, or frisbee, or frisbee-golf. That night, we’ll have have our chicken-and-boiled-potatoes dinner and drink a single glass of Merlot while we chat about the awesome graphics of Avatar and how our team is doing in the world of professional sports. We’ll say we should play cards (maybe next time!), but it won’t happen. It won’t ever happen.

On weekdays I’ll go to work, walking down to the 7-Eleven at lunch to buy my sandwich. I’ll leave at five and listen to Bob FM on the drive home. Relax with my can of light beer, pop in a Wes Anderson *flick*, and putter about until I can drift slowly into sleep, promptly at 10:45pm.

It will be a grand experiment, ma cher Psychologie; the most pristine data on being dull you’ll ever find. You should take me up on my offer now, while I’m still young enough to find participating in clinical research exciting… But, I suppose that disqualifies me for this trial. And I was already halfway there, too.

I’m living two lives…

…along parallel lines, with my sense of self slipping back-and-forth between them, like some electrified hair that can decide which balloon to cling to; first this life then that then this then that again, erratically whipped between them, never knowing which life I’ll live when I step out of bed in the morning. Truly, it’s some kind of exhausting.

There’s the First Life (A-Life, Right Life, Top-Life… whatever) which mirrors the life above, the failed experiment in ennui. In this life, I trudge from Monday to Monday, working at an acceptable-but-not-stellar job, earning a decent-but-not-impressive salary, and making the required social forays only — holidays, birthdays, Saturdays. In this life, I wait, quietly stopped for Death, eating my microwaved cherry pie at the bus stop. It’s not a dull-gray world, per se… more of a muted taupe with occasional threads of dry opalescence.

First Life me enjoys too much TV, too little reading, too many cookies and sodas, too much Facebook, and mindlessly absorbs way too much porn.

This me killed his bonsai garden.

*****

Then there’s Second Life (B-Life, Left Life, Bottom Life, etc.) me. In this life, I am King of All I Reach For, a well-combed cock with more gusto and charisma than anyone deserves, a real Player as well as the Only Game In Town.

Or something like that.

This me isn’t boring, at any rate.

This is the life of the me who wrote a novel, published some academic papers, took pretty pictures, crafted luxe images, published a regular webcomic, helped start the next big party, started a magazine, and made frequent and regularly scheduled updates to his always engaging and riposte-pricked blog.  This is the me who went out every Tuesgay, laughed under the illumination of roaring back yard fires, and never said “Yes” if he was already full.

Second Life me went to the gym five times a week, read the greatest novels and monographs, ate raw and vegan, stayed away from gossiptainment, and fervently sought out new and exciting kinds of porn.

This me killed his insecurity.

*****

So which me am I?

Doug Emerges

That’s a nonsense question, anyway… and we all know it.

Welcome to the recap.

Happy end of 2010, everyone!  It’s been one hell of a year.

-ds

Birdshit Coffee Blues.

7:00am, Tuesday, August 10th

Wake up. Where am I? Where’s that damn alarm? Wait. There is no alarm. FUCK! WHAT TIME IS IT? I over­slept, I slept through my alarm again, ohf­uckohfu­ckohfuck. What am I gonna tell the boss?

“Yeah, sry…

  • there was a wreck on the interstate.
  • I got a flat tire.
  • I was up all night with family problems; I’d rather not talk about them.
  • The roof of my house caved in last night.
  • Our furnace exploded.

Yeah, so that’s why I’m late for work today…”

Or I guess I could just—wait. It’s 7:02. Is it nighttime? Did I just wake up from a nap? 7:03 on Thursday, August 5th. What day was it when I went to sleep? Wed­nes­day? Okay, so it was Wed­nes­day and now it’s Thurs­day. Not a nap. It’s morn­ing. Is it morn­ing? Check out­side. Yes, it’s morn­ing. Oh, oh okay. Good. So— Ahh…. I’m not late for work. I woke up on time, with­out my alarm. I am awe­some. I am Clock­work Man. 7:05am—BRRRRRIIII­INNNNNGGGG!!!! BBRRRRIII­IINNNNGGGG!!! Oh shit, where’s my alarm?

7:07am
GAH!!! MY LEG!!!! RUB IT OUT, RUB IT OUT!!! Eff­ing stu­pid leg cramps! Eff­ing stu­pid! Gah! That hurts! Did I twist it weird? Why do I have a leg cramp first thing upon wak­ing up? Oh, crap, this is pun­ish­ment. This is god’s way of tell­ing me he’s so not cool with what I did last night. Aw, hell.

Wait, I total­ly don’t be­lieve in god and even if I did, I don’t be­lieve that god would ex­act pun­ish­ment in the form of a morn­ing leg crap. OWIE! OWIE! OWIE! IT HURTS SO BAD! Oh­em­gee, this is a sign of dis­ease. I’m sick. Oh god, what kind of sick­ness causes mas­sive leg cramps? Toxo­plas­mo­sis? Oh fuck, I have toxo­plas­mo­sis! Wait, isn’t that cat AIDS? Oh god, do I have cat AIDS? No, that’s… no. Cat AIDS is just AIDS that a cat gets, and I don’t even have a cat. So what’s toxo­plas­mo­sis, then? Oh yeah! It’s cat-­scratch fever! Duh. Kitty-­poopoo-­scratch-­dis­ease. I to­tal­ly don’t have that. Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap, it must be leuk­emia, then. I have to quit smok­ing. My insur­ance hasn’t even kick­ed in yet! I’ve given my­self leuk­emia from smok­ing and this leg cramp is the first sign… of… wait. That doesn’t sound right. May­be this is just a leg cramp. What time is it? Not yet 10 past 7, my back up alarm hasn’t even beeped yet. I am Clockwork Man. Ooo! Imma make coffee!

7:13am
I can’t believe we’re out of coffee.
Okay, almost 7:15, need to be at work by 9am, in line for coffee by 8:45, leave the house by 8:20, I should be get­ting dressed by 8:00, in the shower by 7:45. It’s all about timing. Oh, hey, I can just heat up this iced coffee from yester­day. Yester­day? Day be­fore yester­day? What­ever, it’ll be fine. It’s all about timing. Timing, timing, timing… I am Clock­work Man. And now that I’ve found a tiny dash of morn­ing coffee, I have time for morn­ing face­book. 28 minutes of time, in fact…

7:22am
Note to self: heating old iced coffee is not de­lic­ious. Meh.

7:45am
Time to shower.

Ahhh…..

7:58am
Glance at the clock—Oh, heck yea, I’m good. Clock­work Man has struck againnnnnn­nnnrrrrrrrgggggb­blurrblugbha. oh. that was werrrr­ggggllluuu­mmmbbbub­hbubh. oh. shit. bathroom. now.

What the hell did I eat last night? Oh yeah, beer and bu­rritos. Maybe that iced coffee was old­er than I thoughghgh­gtlvlvvwulwul­wulbbulh. oy vey. Well, this was un­scheduled. Regard­less, Clock­work Man will per­sev­ere…

8:42am
Eff me, I should be at the coffee shop by now. Where the hell is that other sock?

8:49am
Clockwork Man, by ds bighamTen min­utes to get to work. And this clock is 3 or 4 min­utes fast, so real­­ly, I’ve got plen­­ty of time. I can swing by the coffee shop, final­­ly get some g-d- coffee, get to work, and be at my desk be­fore the boss makes his morn­­ing round. I’ll tech­­nic­al­­ly be may­be a coup­le min­utes late, but no one will no­tice.
I am Clock­­work Man. I can make this work.

8:50am

Traffic? Are you kid­ding? There’s never traff­ic after 8:30; every­one’s at work. Do I still have time for coffee? Well, real­ly, do I have time for the bitch-head­ache I’ll have if I don’t get my coffee? No, sir. Clockwork Man can make this work.

8:55am
And there’s a red light. Coffee or not? Coffee or not? I mean, at this point I’m go­ing to be late regard­less, so… might as well have a tang­ible rea­son for it.

8:57am
There’s a line? There’s never a line. There’s never a line be­cause I’m never here this late. May­be I should leave.

9:01am
I should have left. This is beyond ridic—”Oh, hi, yes, double ameri­cano with hazel­nut and soy. Yeah, thanks.”

. . .
. . .

. . .

And now you finally have your coffee, it’s 9:05am and you’re un­deni­ably late for work, but you’re on your way and you have your coffee. You’re walk­ing across the mani­cured park­ing lot of the quasi-cor­por­ate coffee shop, smug­ly satis­fied with you­r­self be­cause even though this morn­­ing hasn’t gone as you’d hoped, you know no one will chal­lenge Clock­work Man on being 10 or 15 minutes late to work, and you’re just about to your car when *PLOOOP*… A bird shits in your coffee.

Before you can think you’ve poured off the top third—the con­tamin­ated third—of the liquid and you’re ask­ing your­self if the 5-second rule applies as well to bird­shit in coffee as it does to cookies on the kitchen floor. You know it doesn’t, but still hesi­tate, list­ing all the poss­ible dis­eases you can get from bird­shit in coffee, or at least the dis­eases you’ve con­vinced your­self you can get, the dis­eases you have to con­vince your­self you would get or you might just try to drink it any­way.

Birdshit definitely has cat AIDS.

You are Clockwork Man; you don’t need cat AIDS right now.

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