Bulletin Board of Bad Behavior

People often ask me what exactly it is that I do (when I am actually doing something, that is). I find it hard to explain because I do all sorts of things and they are often quite strange. It's easier for me to just tell a story.

Here then, is a recent episode from my business life, which I hope you will like. By golly, I have even gone so far as to watch my spelling, and to use large caps sometimes.

And it is a true story, more or less.

Sorry it's so long!

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Paris, Fly by Night


"Well Mr Yamamuchi, how nice of you to call. Yes, well I guess I am doing all right, as good as could be expected under the circumstances. Paris?, sure! ... I see, yes sure, I'll wait for your email memo. Yes, the usual price. Well thanks for thinking of me, always glad to be of service... so long, Yamanuchi-san."

A call in the morn, a welcome bit of work after a long stretch of doing nothing in particular and making very little money whatsoever. I am a competitive intelligence specialist, which is a fancy way of saying that I investigate things. My field of competence is information technology, in particular telecommunications, but these are depressed industries at the moment. The 1990s are over for sure and I am glad to get a piece of the stuff I used to do in the 80s, namely some automotive-industry work.

I call my best drinking buddy Markus who for some reason is known by the name Orbiwan Kenorbi. He is what people call a character. Mid-30, permanently in debt, owns a small used-book shop, reads two books a week, and goes out just about every night. A great drug user but seldom an abuser. Has had relations with some of the best-looking women in town. Looks permanently hung over, dark rings around his eyes, pale skin; always has a kind word on his lips and a hilarious story to tell.

"Kenorbi this is M. Got a bit of business I might need some help with. Means going to Paris for a day. Involves talking to people, taking pix, observation and analysis. You'll do backup for me, for the most part, actually."

"Any money in it?"

"You bet. Same as last time when you worked with me."

"When are we leaving?"

I pick him up that night at 4 AM. Damn, this is not my time of day. I had slept a fitful four hours and managed to get my head somewhat clear with a scalding hot and ice-cold shower, a shave, a pitcher of fruit juice and two cups of espresso with hot milk.

Kenorbi's apartment is a nightmare: two rooms with all walls hidden behind double-stacked bookshelves packed right up to the 12-foot ceiling. There is dust everywhere. In his bed there is a girl I have never seem before: very pretty but certainly not his girlfriend.

"Mona you really got to go, sorry about this."

Kenoribi looks like he hasn't slept and neither has Mona but at least she doesn't have a four day beard. Kenorbi is putting on a blue shirt I see him fish from a hamper. He slips on a pre-tied necktie, and puts on a dark suit.

"Man Kenorbi, you look like shit."

"Yeah well don't knock it M, you know I work hard to achieve this effect... Come on Mona, please."

Mona yawns, gets out of bed and smiles at me as she puts her slip on. I try not to bat my eyes and also try not to look at her breasts or at her bush. Not sure whether I am successful.

A few minutes later and we are off to Paris. The streets are empty and so are the autobahns, save some trucks. I had recorded Frank Black, Housemartins, Coldplay and Wayland Jennings for the MD player to which we listen when we don't talk. We speed through to the Saar, cross the border and continue our treck through Alsace and Lorraine. Kenorbi smokes like a furnace, eats egg-on-bread sandwiches, swallows homeopathic globules against a cold-induced cough and drinks water while I push my Citroen for what it's worth, which is unfortunately no more than 110 mph. Kenorbi lost his license in an alcohol-related incident a year ago so it will be my job to drive the 400 miles each way.

We have a cup of coffee in the Champagne, Kenorbi pops some speed in the Picardie, and we reach the Boulevard Peripherique, the Paris ring road, by 9 AM. We are in the midst of rush-hour chaos, with motorcycles vrooming between lanes and drivers cutting in front of each other.

We head for the exposition grounds at Porte Versailles where the big international auto show takes place every two years. Our job is to evaluate the opinion of various experts about certain components of some new auto models. The parking garage is full so we park on the Boulevard opposite the fair grounds, get our press accreditation (don't ask), and enter the halls.

By the time we are there, it is busy -- the morning of the first day of one of the biggest industry events of the world, with teams of journalists from all the world, auto maker employees, supplier staff, and mixed service personnel. The nicest part, of course, are the hostesses: gorgeous young things who know nothing and care nothing of the auto industry but work at the information stands, passing out information and answering simple questions. Kenorbi gets big greedy eyes so that I must constantly remind him that business has to be attended to.

The business part is easy, actually; what Yamanuchi asked me to do is a piece of cake. We take pictures, nose around, ask a lot of questions, gather information material, and spend much time simply observing things and making notes. It is quite fun for me because I like some of the cars I am looking at, like the MCC Smart Roadster Coupe: a spartan, lightweight rear-engined two seater. A car that does not give you a false, SUV-like feeling of security -- you don't drive like an idiot, because you know that you will suffer the consequences of a driving mistake.

Later I call Kenorbi on his mobile.

"How's it going my friend?"
"Pretty good; I'm progressing fairly well."
"So am I. Where are you right now?"
"At Bentley."
"Bentley? What the fuck are you doing at Bentley? We have no business with Bentley."
"Man, these cars are the shit. I gotta show you this."

I go over to the Bentley stand. Kenorbi is sitting in the back of a $410,000 Bentley coupe; a hostess is sitting next to him, explaining the functions of the DVD system. I stand for a while watching him check out the hydraulic seats, the carpeting, the sound controls... After a few minutes the girl, a busty mid-20 redhead dressed in a black low-cut suit, exits the car with the words "well thank you for your interest, and don't hesitate to let me know if there is anything I can do", with a perfect smile.

I climb into the back seat next to Kenorbi.

"What is it you are doing here."

"Isn't this some fine shit? Look at this car, M. Wow this is good".

"Damn, to me it's just two dead trees and four dead cows wrapped up with an overweight hunk of metal."

"Hell that's because you do not appreciate the aesthetics. You are just too primitive. You only see the ingredients. Take it from me, I look at it like a DJ: it's all in the mix, baby! I suppose when you go to a three-star restaurant and they serve you a meal you say hey, this is just some tomatoes, butter and dead fish."

"Yeah well never mind what I see, apart from the fact that I see that while you are wasting your time appreciating the aesthetics, I have been breaking my ass to get some work done. Come on, let's get moving Kenorbi."

"Well look at mister straight-laced family man, telling his friends what to do. You being the boss, the big man here?"

I ponder the situation for a moment and seriously consider smacking Kenorbi, or at least giving him a quick poke in the guts. A very attractive idea, even though I am normally a gentle person. Teach him manners and some efficient working habits. Help him get on in life, compliments of the boss.

Kenorbi gives me a meek smile, a glint of an eye.

"Sorry to get personal M., I guess the speed is getting the best of me. And the heat and the luxury and the ladies."

"OK. I think we might be hungry too, let's get some food."

We enter the Mercedes-Benz area and wander to the press department, into a back room where the temperature is high but the smell of gourmet food is enticing. A cook who looks like a young Yves Montand serves us a vegetarian souffle and crab salad, with champage to wash it down. Next course is paté and something made of fennel. We decide to stay light, especially in view of work to do and the heat in the dining area, so we finish with exceptional cheeses accompanied by Bordeaux. And some coffee afterwards with our cigarettes. If it weren't so hot we'd stay much longer and eat much more, but after a half hour we are finished and very sated, albeit sweaty.

Wandering out, we see that within the Mercedes complex is Maybach, which is the new superluxury brand of Daimler-Benz, with prices starting at $330,000. The Maybach cars are two-tone battleships that once again prove that Germans have a keen understanding of all things fatso. Kenorbi smiles at a hostess who looks like she has blue blood.

"Hey how are things moving madam"

"Quite well actually, we just released a press briefing explaining how a major order came in from a desert country, for 1,000 vehicles at an average price of $413,000."

"Well bully to you. Good work"

"Why thank you. Sir, may I show you some of the unique and innovative features of the Maybach 620. If you will notice the electronic rear seats which automatically adjust seat belts and airbags to protect a passenger even when he is travelling in a reclining position"

"Ha ha would've come in handy for Lady Diana"

"Ha ha you bet, sir."

I hate to interrupt the good humor but I nudge Kenorbi, saying we should move on. Kenorbi concurs and says to the hostess:

"Sorry but we have to leave. By the way, do you have any pins?"

I cringe: souvenir pins are typical collectibles of 14 year boys. Kenorbi however probably has some quick Ebay profits in mind.

"Er yes, well we don't have pins quite yet. But they will be made available at the Maybach party tonite, at the Plaza Hotel."

"Well that sounds like good fun. Will we be on the guest list?"

The hostess with the aristocratic features gives us a good look. Me, old red-eyes, tieless in street clothes. Kenorbi with his four-day beard, sweaty face, rumpled suit and worn shoes. Obviously had a few, too.

"All right, it can be done. Just leave your cards with me, please."

We move on, work for another two hours and are then finished. We leave the exposition grounds and go to my car on the street. However, it has changed its color. And its shape and brand. Wrong: it becomes apparent that my car is no longer there. It was in a no parking zone but not in a towaway area, though.

I make some phone calls and hear that the police has towed it away to a commissariat a few blocks away. It seems they like to do that to foreigners who as a rule don't pay parking tickets. Meanwhile, Kenorbi had wandered away but comes back after a minute, with a beer can in his hand, steaming.

"Fuck this shit, fuck it, fuck the fucking french and the fucking cops, stupid fucking fascists. This is gonna be expensive and cost us. Why didn't you have the sense to park the car in the fucking parking garage?"
"Because it was more convenient this way. And you didn't say i should."
"Yeah then I'm fucking stupid too. I hate this shit."
"Now settle down Kenorbi, it's a normal occurance when you drive a car, remember?"

He shrugs and lights a cig. I cross the street in the assumed direction of the police station. Kenorbi soon follows me, jaywalking over, through honking cars, to a traffic police woman on a traffic isle. He asks her for directions while I hide behind a van, embarrassed. She looks at this wild-eyed man, beer can in one hand, cigarette in the other, in ignorance of traffic rules, and she smiles. Looks inside her leather-bound booklet with maps and tells Kenorbi where to go. He gives her a smile and nod of thanks and then crosses the street, again on a red light, again forcing cars to swerve and honk.

Three blocks though the gorgeous sun and we can't help loving Paris again. We reach the police station which is actually an underground, glass-enclosed, camera-protected area. The lady in charge, a young black lady with a sweet smile, banters with us and explains, very patiently, where we can find the car after paying the $95 fee. Before we take an elevator down three stories, she tells us to have a nice stay in Paris, and to try not to break any more traffic laws.

In a sooty, dark and dank area we find the car and get in to drive away, but at that moment two Mad-Max-type tow-trucklets stop ahead of us, blocking our path. The drivers, young african guys with surley expressions on their faces, get out, greet each other and light cigarettes, and start to have a chat.

This goes on a few minutes, and we get impatient. I start my car's engine and rev it a few times, but the black guys continue to ignore us. I put on the headlights, but no reaction: this is their territory and they are glad to let us wait. Not knowing what else to do, I look in the corners of the car for some suitably bad music and find an old Radiohead MD: OK Computer, a record I played about 60 times in 1996 but now find unlistenable. I crank up the volume; the guys give us a slightly pained look and get in their trucks and we are free to leave.

"Kenorbi, what about dinner before we drive home."

"Why, let's go to the Plaza, of course. Maybach is waiting for us."

"Are you kidding? The Plaza is the best hotel in Paris. We're not dressed right. We look like bums."

"But M, think about it. Food and drinks. Nice ladies. Adventure. All free of charge. The worst thing that could happen is that they don't let us in."

I think about it. He does have a point.

So we drive to the Champs Elysee, take a left on Montaigne and there we are, the Plaza Athénée Paris. A smallish hotel that was the favorite place for the Roosevelts, for Mata Hari, the Kennedys, and countless other luminaries. Our plan to hit the restrooms and freshen up is obviously flawed because by the way we look, we might not even get into the lobby. We pass by numerous bodyguards and foreign-looking guys dressed Knesset-style, with shirt collars over suit jackets, whispering into mobile phones. A quick look around the small lobby, but there is no sign of a Maybach party. There are, however, two maitre d's in front of the entrance to the three-michelin-star restaurant where an evening menu meal costs around $300, drinks not included. Most people here look like they could buy and sell me in a morning's bout of easy business. And I am wearing the brown synthetic Stussy jacket in which McCutcheon slept one night in Seattle. My clothes are quite pricey actually, but they sure don't look it.

I approach a young lady in a beige suit who is standing around aimlessly, looking official.

"Excuse me, would you happen to know where the Maybach party is taking place tonite."

"Ah yes welcome, please follow me"

We go through long soft-lighted halls where beautiful young things sit on sofas, looking bored. At the entrance to a bar stand three managerial-type ladies dressed in expensive black. We say good evening and are asked for our invitation cards; there is no list of invitees.

"Sorry, we don't have cards but the young lady at the Maybach stand invited us."

"And may I ask who this young lady was?"

"Oh sorry, I forgot her name."

"Hm."

Kenorbi, nervous, blurts out:

"Well actually I just asked her for pins and she said to come to the party to get them".

I give him a wide-eyed stare at this blunder. He is obviously shocked at his own unthinking words. Full of pity, I go into autopilot and ignite my most charming smile.

"Really really sorry, there seems to be a misunderstanding. We were under the impression that this was a regular press party and upon being invited came here without proper preparation. If it is a black-tie event we will be glad to return later in appropriate garb."

The hostess gives me a smile and a long inquisitive look. And scans Kenorbi who looks really grungy.

"Oh never mind, I think it is quite in order. Please come in and just enjoy yourself."

We enter and a waiter dressed in Comme des Garcons leads us to a lounge table. We are served champagne (1988 Vueve Cliquot Royale which we take instead of one of the wines being offered, for example a 1990 Louis Latour Beaune, Premier Cru), and a selection from the first round of amuses bouches -- small foodlets to tickle the palate:

Osetra caviar from the Caspian Sea
Pata Negra Bellota ham with gribiche sauce
Baby lobster and shellfish, clear lobster broth with herbs
Red Atlantic tuna sashimi with white truffles, mango, coriander and truffles in a salad
...

We eat and drink with a feeling of relief.

"Man M, that was close. You saved my ass."

"Think nothing of it Kenorbi. Just do me one favor."

"Anything you say."

"Whatever you do, don't be stuffing your pockets with the foodstuffs or with the ashtrays here, okay?"

"You asshole. You think I am some kinda cheap bum, don't you."

"Ha ha just joking. Listen Kenorbi, it's great to be here in Paris, isn't it."

"You bet M, this town has class."

We drink some more, eat some more, drink some more... you get the picture. After five glasses of Champs I don't mind the feeling of being out of place. I feel happy and fully of energy and slightly disreputable even though the folks in the Maybach bar are, quite simply, boring. The guys are either old, or young and dour, and the women either look like the wives of Mercedes managers from Stuttgart, or like ex-whore trophy wives.

"This place sucks actually. I thought it was supposed to be fun to be super-rich. I mean look, the Champagne probably costs $200 a bottle but they were too cheap to hire a DJ."

"I know exactly what you mean M but let's enjoy it for what it's worth. Let's see, Hennessy, Maybach cigars, hmm."

Kenorbi orders cigarettes to accompany the brandy which the waitor duly brings. The waitor waits with a stiff smile on his face while Kenorbi lights up. After a short while he says,

"Monsieur five Euros please."

"Come again?"

"Five (pause) Euros".

"Oh, of course."

Obviously Kenorbi thought he would gets the cigs for free. With a dazed look he pulls out his unbelievably threadbare wallet, probably realizing he is broke. I am once again embarrassed and imagine people all around observing us. Suddenly Kenorbi's mobile phone rings and he is saved by the bell. I give the waiter a ten.

We drink and eat and smoke some more. It is getting late and I suggest to drive home. We both have to be in our offices the following day.

"Ah well I can understand you and indeed, we have seen all of what this place has to offer us. Obviously no more adventure to be had here. But instead of going home I have a better idea."

"Kenorbi are you fucking with me once again."

"No really listen to me. Just please take it into serious consideration. I know you are tired enough and you have to drive a lot tonight. But I just had a vision how nice it would be to visit the Rivoli again."

I press my fingers to my temples. The Rivoli, the royal squatters palace. Where with luck a pleasurable few hours are guaranteed. But I am tired as hell.

"Please M. You know, I don't get to Paris so often. It is important to me."

The house at 59, rue Rivoli is covered with a giant spider's web made of polyester. Giant plastic sunflowers and blue replica fish are fixed to the web. It is in a noble area of Paris, with boutiques and perfume shops next door. We ring the bell, the door opens, we go up the stairs to a large room filled with paintings and people.

"Hi, is Gaspard around?"

If the Rivoli is the squatters' palace, then Gaspard is the resident king. He is small, dark and wears a brown pork pie hat and a wide smile on his face.

"Well look at this, are my tired old eyes playing tricks on me or do I see two crazy Germans? Markus, Martino, welcome, welcome! You can only stay for a short while? Impossible!... well, c'est pas grave, I am glad to see you, above all. Come for drinks and smokes and say hello to my friends."

It has been years but some things don't change. A group of artists who at one point decided to squat and were cheeky enough to do it in an expensive part of town. Smart people, they turned their house into a local art area with free exhibitions and courses for local children and gained much popular recognition. Nevertheless, it is what they call the nervous season because, according to French law, nobody can be evicted from a house from November to March and since this is late September, some last-minute evictions are to be feared.

I talk with a few friends of Gaspard and enjoy the warm emotions, and feel at home. A squeal of joy, loud giggling: two girls recognize Kenorbi, he hugs and kisses them on the mouth.

"Sylvie!, Mathilde! What a joy to see you two beautiful women".

After a while, over the talk and music, I notice Kenorbi disappearing with his lady friends. I am slightly worried but actually just envious and decide to let it pass. After all the work and champagne and wine and food and driving I wish I had access to a few of Kenorbi's grams of amphetamines because I am getting drowsy and a guy says,

"my friend you look knackered, why not relax for a moment on the sofa here,"

which I do, and pretty soon I pass out.

Some time later a noise of a door slamming wakes me and I see it is 3:30 am. Most people have gone to bed and someone has been so kind as to put a blanket over me. I fish my mobile out of my jacket and dial Kenorbi.

"Hey man. I hate to do this, but I think you best finish what ever you are doing and come over to the main room, we have got to go, I have to be home in a few hours."

"Well. It is difficult but OK, I promised we could leave whenever you asked. Just give me five minutes."

He arrives alone, with a weary but happy look on his face.

"Kenorbi, I know what you are thinking. More importantly, I know what you are feeling. You feel you belong here, in this town. I understand that."

"Ah M, you may be right, but what the hell. You in any case have your beautiful family waiting for you at home. And your business too."

"That's right."

"I also have work to do in Frankfurt. And my girlfriend is waiting for me".

"Not to forget Mona."

Kenorbi gives me a puzzled look.

"Who is Mona?"


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all rights reserved 2002 m balsamico

completely enjoyable, would you mind if i added it as a submission to fullofnothing.org?

i'd feel honored, rabbit.

glad you like it!

rock on, here a link for your reading pleasure
Paris, Fly By Night

I like the first sentence. I haven't had time to read it yet but if it's as good as the last one I can't wait. Two nights ago after reading sarah's stroy I had a dream that we published a pax acidus book with all our writting, that would be cool. dreams.

why do we have to dream? lets do it. with my publisher skills, im sure we can whip up a book. just send what you want in and ill put it together. you can ask h. about my skills as she has seen the zine i made. i really need to get a big project going again. plus, i do have pretty good grammar so i can even do some proofing.

you know how the song goes there's a big dark town, it's a place I've found, there's a world going on underground, they're alive, they're awake. . .

I think of paxacidus when I hear it.

Martino,
Kenorbi is very likable,
so is the story

I say go for it. anyone interested should submit to you and I think that you and I should have the final control of what goes in. it can be anything they want to put in. I want to stick to the thrue pax acidus people though. no one can submit who hasn't written on the PA bb before todays date.

I'm thinking off the top of my head:
h.
Mark
Martino
Sarah
Jack Chiefton
Spikedrabbit
Sloth
Brett
McCutcheon
& Bozo (Just kidding)

hell yeah. my email is ekiel@fullofnothing.org you can mail pretty much anything there. ill start working on it. ill install a forum @ fullofnothing that way we can communicate a bit better. there will be a link here later.

Hey Mccutcheon, 1 month out of Seattle and you frgot about me...ok, you probably figured I don't write anything Paxacidian enough to qualify for you proposed collection, so here is a little story I wrote for everyone's consideration. Let me know what you all think.
_________________________________________________
I am a child of the digital age. I can't really imagine a world in which microchips don't control everything. For a while, I even fooled myself into thinking I understood how computers work, how the sophisticated electronics inside them send controlled bursts of electricity to other sophisticated bits of electronics that could modify that burst of electricity based on the conditions it had been programmed to recognize, blah blah blah. I gave up my arrogant fantasy of understanding when I realized that I still had absolutely no idea how these things happened. This revelation is what drove many of my generation to become Computer Engineers, so they could find out for once and for all what in hell computers actually DO. By my mid to late teens, I no longer cared. I just accepted the technology, and played video games like everyone else.

Now, computers are a major part of my waking life. (My dreams sometimes include something reminiscent of a computer, but that's a story for another time.) I am not, as many in my generation are, involved in the technology industry. I do not create programs, debug programs, provide Customer Support, or specialize in Information Technology, but I do use a computer every day. At one time, I planned to be a filmmaker and make films that would change the face of entertainment forever. Maybe I still will, there's time yet.

After college I decided I needed to get some experience in life so that my films would touch people of all types in some poignant way. I had no real skills, but wanted a job where I could meet those many different types of people and learn about them and their lives. I got a job teaching young children, children who had never lived in a world without cell phones, how to use computers. This was another time in my life when I fancied myself a savant, one who could introduce the uneducated masses to the wonders of Digital Progress…I soon realized that my ‘expertise' was more like that of an uncredentialed, underpaid After-School Program babysitter, and that the people I met were all one type: Southern California Money. The real young ones played games with names like “Bailey's Book House�, or “Millie's Math House�, learning things I had learned from books, with my Mom. The computer was simply a flashy presentation tool-not some great advanced mystical object that would make these children so much brighter and more advanced than any other children in history.

The older ones played games that were meant to teach logical thinking and strategy. They were designed by teachers who had also studied computers to be what they called ‘Edutainment', playing on the fact that in our current world, no one learns anything simply for the pleasure of knowing it, they must be tricked into it, through hiding the information in a pleasurable experience. The kids were quite smart though, they always recognized the ‘Edu-‘ part of the ‘-tainment', and hated it most. As a reward for completing certain parts of the educational games, we, the “Teachers�, would allow the students to play games that were just games for a while. These games had names like “Doom�, and “Duke Nukem.� They taught something too, and these lessons the kids swallowed up and asked for more. “Just let me get to level fifteen. I know where the zombie is now, and I have the God Code, so it can't kill me, and I have every weapon.� For those of you who don't know, a “God Code� is something that those aforementioned Programmers put in to video games to supposedly make them more fun. What they are is a way to cheat. If you know the code, which is “Top Secret�, but often leaked via gamer magazines, the internet, and kids' play groups, you type it in at a certain part of the game, and your character becomes invincible. There are several types of codes, in case you only want to cheat a little bit. Different codes might only last for a certain amount of time, or give you a specific weapon, and in most popular games, there are dozens. The kids knew all of these, and could plan their strategies of when to use what code quite well. Much better than they did on the Logical Thinking games.

I quickly became disillusioned with this form of “teaching�. I didn't feel like I was doing what I should be-introducing more of the world to the wonders of the Digital Age, and planning for my ground-breaking entry into the Film World. (I hadn't yet realized that the Digital Age could introduce itself all on it's own, and that the film world was not much interested in me.) I went to the owner of the place I worked and expressed my displeasure. “Could I teach something more educational? Maybe some of the older kids would like to learn how computers are used in making movies…special effects, editing, writing scripts…� “Will it sell software?� he asked. That was what it came down to. This was a business after all, and the ‘Computer School' existed so that kids would be introduced to programs that they just had to have at home, so they could ‘play and learn' whenever they wanted. Parents loved it. Their children were asking for educational programs, these programs kept them quiet and out of their hair at home, and we, the ubiquitous ‘Computer Guys' were the heroes who started it all.

In the end, it was determined that the ‘How Computers are used in making Movies' idea wouldn't fly, because it wouldn't sell software. We didn't sell those types of programs, the scriptwriting, editing, special effects programs. Besides, they all cost hundreds of dollars. Not something even Beverly Hills parents would pay for a program that their kid would forget about in a few weeks, as they forgot about all of the programs they bought. To make me feel better, my boss said we could start some new, more challenging classes. Recently, a parent had come in and inquired about HTML classes for his son. That's Hypertext Markup Language, I learned that from the book my boss bought me so I could teach the class. See, I had no Idea how to program, let alone teach HTML, but I had 4 days, and I used to be pretty good at BASIC programming language when I was 15, so how hard could it be?

The first day of class the student showed up very excited, but turned almost immediately skeptical. It was as if he could tell I was a faker before I opened my mouth. Maybe he saw the book sitting next to me-I hadn't read enough of it to be comfortable with putting it away for an hour lesson. I started much as the book had, by defining what HTML stood for. He already knew that. I moved on to chapter one, simple commands. We breezed through the design of a simple web page-making the screen purple and writing “Jeremy's Web Page� in white lettering centered at the top. This took all of 5 minutes. We moved on to inserting a picture onto the page, which didn't work. I consulted the book, ignoring Jeremy's glare, to make sure I had remembered the command properly. I had. We tried again. Still didn't work. I interrupted a real computer guy who worked there to see if he knew why it wasn't working. He looked up from his workbench, littered with various computer parts whose function I could only guess at and said, with the attitude stereotypically ascribed to ‘techies': “You're the teacher. How the hell should I know.� Of course, Jeremy heard it all. We spent the remaining 50 minutes of class trying different pictures, variations on the command, and even copying text from someone else's page on the internet. It never worked.

Jeremy's father called the next day and had a long talk with my boss, which I didn't find out until the week later, at the time I was expecting to teach Lesson 2: Frames. My boss very gently told me that he had refunded Jeremy's dad's money, and that there would be no more HTML classes, at least not with me at the helm. It seemed the only thing that I had taught Jeremy the week before that he hadn't known was how to steal the pre-written code from other people's sites. I should have felt bad about this, but I was most angry that my boss hadn't told me earlier, and I had read two whole chapters in the HTML book, and had prepared a lesson for the day's class. That was when I decided that from then on, computers could introduce themselves and their workings to the world without my help.

Now I still work with a computer every day, but I don't really use it for what it was designed for. Well, I guess I do, but it seems like the equivalent of shooting a mosquito with an elephant gun. Let me explain. I work for a large, no, enormous, multinational company. It is a company involved with films, but not in the way you would expect, given my stated ambitions, but we'll get to that. The company has a lot of money, and though it is not directly in the trade of producing technology, the powers that be have decided that we should present a certain “image� to the world. That we should show our wealth by providing every employee with a state of the art computer. This was designed to be a morale boost for the staff, and it worked for the most part. Actually, it worked on everyone but me. I got depressed the day the IT guy brought in the clean white boxes and set up my new desktop pc. It brought me back to my days at the computer store. Oh, I forgot to mention, after the HTML teaching debacle, I became a ‘mobile computer tech', delivering and installing new computers to customers, most of them over 75 years old.

This was not as much a promotion as a necessity. The store, in order to compete with large chain stores, had instituted a motto of “Excellent Customer Relationships�, and included delivery, installation, and introductory lesson for those who wanted it with each computer purchase. At first, the real ‘techie' guys were sent to do this. That failed quickly and miserably, because in addition to almost non-existent personal hygiene, most of them had extremely bad attitudes, and no social skills. This did not go over well with the Mrs. Schoenbergs (hereafter, the name “Mrs. Schoenberg� will be used to describe any number of elderly, wealthy, opinionated, self-important, computer-illiterate Beverly Hills Dwellers who regularly used our services) of the area who expected, no, demanded deference to their superior wisdom and antiquated ideas of How Young People Should Act Towards Their Elders. The complaints rained in, and my boss, a nice man who just wanted to make money and have things run smoothly, decided that I should be the one to deliver the computers. I presented well, I could put sentences together in a grammatical fashion, and I knew how to say things like “How are you today, Mrs. Schoenberg?�, and respond to challenges such as “Why haven't you shaved this morning?� with any phrase but “None of your Goddamn business.�

The problem was, for transportation, I rode around on a Honda Scooter, not a wussy little one, but one that was 250cc's, freeway legal, baby. Despite it's relative size in the scooter world, it still did not haul computers efficiently, so I had to borrow Boss's car. This meant that I would ride the scooter to the store, load up Boss's Jeep Cherokee, then head off to the Mrs. Schoenberg of the day. It worked pretty well for a while, the store got many positive calls about what a “Nice Smart Boy� set up the computers. It even brought in more lessons for the store, as the Mrs. Schoenbergs seemed, for whatever reason, to feel that they were comfortable with me, and not as intimidated as they usually were by young people who knew more about computers than they did. I liked to think at the time that it was because of my superior ability to sense what would make people comfortable, and adapt my teaching style to each one, but now I realize that it was just that I really didn't know that much more about computers than they did, and that's why they weren't intimidated.

Anyway, this went on for a little while, and I began to enjoy it. I got out of the store, got to drive a real vehicle, and believed I was doing a Community Service, by enriching the lives of the elderly. I tried to ignore the fact that while the store was receiving those phone calls of praise from the Mrs. Schoenbergs about me, it was receiving additional, unnecessary visits from various Mrs. Robinsons (named as such for obvious reasons) so that they could oogle the other “Teacher�. He was about my age, and looked a bit like a more intelligent, Latino, Fabio (You know, “I can't believe it's not butter, spray.�) We had become friends, and even talked about starting our own film company someday, but I still got a bit jealous when I was known as the “Nice Boy�, and he was the “Hot One.� Someone actually came in the store once and asked for “The Hot Teacher�. I knew they didn't mean me, because it was me they asked.

Sometimes, if I wasn't delivering a computer but simply going to someone's house to teach a lesson, I'd take the Scooter. I would teach all kinds of things for those rich enough to pay the store $80.00 an hour for me to make a house call (of which I received $10.00). This wasn't so bad, except when pulling up to a celebrity's house to teach their son typing (already, not a very cool scene) and seeing the student and his friend out in front of their immense mansion, playing basketball on their own paved court. They would look over, and openly laugh at this grown man riding what, in their estimation, was unworthy of even a 15 year old. They seemed to expect that as soon as they reached driving age, they would receive a brand new BMW or something, and they probably did. I dealt with the implied ridicule, and even told myself that it made me stronger. I was proud of my ability to eschew the values of the society in which I lived (even though I secretly wished for that BMW.) I rode the scooter, and tried to make it part of my “Amusingly Eccentric� image. I didn't let myself mind too much until it became necessary for me to carry a Turkey baster around in my backpack, which I would use every half-mile or so to suck the pieces of gunk out of the gas tank that would get stuck in the fuel line, and cause the Scooter to sputter to a halt, often when going up a hill deep in Bel Air. I knew this had to stop when the truckloads of gardeners traveling up the hill to their clients homes would point and laugh, yelling unintelligible things in Spanish, and possibly for the only point in their day, feeling superior.

I decided to move on. I was 25 years old, and if I was ever going to be the equal of those Hill Dwellers, I would have to start now. Riding a falling apart vehicle that no matter how much I tried to justify it by saying it was 250cc's, would never be a motorcycle, pretending to know stuff about computers just so I could earn 1/8th of the fee paid for my “expertise�, and dreaming about starting a film company someday was wearing thin. I would take action. I was in Los Angeles, the Land of Opportunity. I would get a job working for a film company (there are plenty of them here), learn how it all runs, make connections, then start my own, perhaps with Latino Fabio, if he could keep up with me and my newfound ambition. This did not all turn out like I pictured it.

I did get a job with a film company, well, a film distribution company, which sounded even more important when I got the job. I mean, that's how films make money, right, they get distributed. Cool! If I learned how that worked, and got connections here, then when I made a film, I could get it distributed. Brilliant! My life was finally on track! I was assigned to the Accounting department, although I had no background in accounting. The years at the computer store had helped me be quite familiar with Microsoft Excel, a spreadsheet program, and since I knew how to use that, they set me up in a little office and told me I'd be tracking revenue and residuals from foreign distribution of their films. That sounded important, and I figured they must have sensed my innate Intelligence if they were going to let me deal with money, even though, as I stated, I had no background in accounting.

I soon realized that it was not a vote of confidence that they gave me this job, but simply that no one else wanted it. “Tracking revenue and residuals� meant opening up envelopes that came from the foreign companies who sold the films, and entering the amount of residual payments made into the ever-useful Excel spreadsheet for the corresponding months. That was all. Oh, wait, I forgot to mention my one interaction with anyone else at the company: If a certain envelope didn't come within the specified time frame, I would call the real accountants, and report a Delinquent Residual Payment. At first, I thought this was at least some sort of important function. I mean, if it weren't for me, the company would never know if they were getting stiffed on their residuals, and eventually they'd lose so much money that they'd go out of business. Then I found out that there was another office, the one who actually received the checks, who really kept track of the amounts received and owed, and had Collections Capability. I was a backup.

This brings me to the part of the story in which the IT guy brought in the shiny white boxes. I had been working here for about two years, and Mrs. Schoenfeld and the varied characters of the computer store had faded into ancient history. I hadn't talked to Latino Fabio in a year, since our first and only attempt to make a film together failed miserably. I no longer rode the Scooter. My salary at the film distribution company had allowed me to buy a slightly used Honda Civic, with a sunroof. Not exactly a BMW, but at least I no longer needed to carry around a turkey baster. I was colossally sick of opening envelopes and entering numbers that didn't matter, but I believed that if I kept it up and did a good job, someone would notice and promote me to a position in which I could use my leadership skills more. I had heard that there was a job open in Marketing, a field that everyone in my generation with a college degree seems to ultimately end up in (if they're not in “IT�), and though I had once said that I would never consider marketing as a career, I did feel that that was the place where I could meet those people who would someday buy my films. (Never mind the fact that I was not making films, attempting to make films, or even studying how to make films. I just knew that someday I would need to know someone who would be in a position to buy my films.)

I would wait daily for the call to go meet with the head of the marketing department. (Lets call him “Bill�, because guys who are in charge of the Marketing Department are always named “Bill�.) Actually, we don't need to name him at all, because as it turns out, he didn't even know my name. I wasn't even considered for the job, not because I'm not smart, or “Upwardly Mobile�, but because “Bill� didn't know I existed. When I started here, I felt important that I had an office to myself, since most of the others were in those accursed cubicles that I hate more than Liver. It seems though, that those people actually get noticed by one another, and do things socially, as well as being considered for promotions. Far from meeting people to distribute my nonexistent films, I hadn't even really met most of the others who slaved away at jobs only marginally more rewarding than my own. And now they were the ones who might get to meet the people that could distribute their films. Damn.

I found out that the job had been filled with no consideration paid to my qualifications by the Demonic “IT� guy who delivered my new computer. He was one of the few people I already knew around here, only because once a week he would come charging into my office and throw a flyer for the “Belly Slappers� at me. The Belly Slappers are a group of guys from the office who get together on Friday nights and go to a different cheap restaurant each week, order at least three entrees apiece, and videotape each other gorging themselves and periodically (no joke) puking it back up. Who knows, maybe these films will win some sort of weird award. At least they're making something…

I had never joined them in this pursuit, and felt quite righteous about it. These were obviously not the guys who would ever be in a position to further my filmmaking career, except for the fact that now one of them got the job in marketing. As the Bellyslapper installed and setup my new computer on the server, he told me all about how “Bill� from marketing had joined them one Friday night at The Old Spaghetti Factory, and had consumed two of “Homer's Favorite� combo plates, and seven gelato desserts, which they had had to coerce a dubious waitress to give them. There was even a video, which Belly offered to show me, if I wanted to see how “Hilarious� it had been. I politely declined, which he didn't hear as he kept telling me about how “Bill� and “Chris� (guys who get along with Bill in Marketing are always named Chris, it's a scientific fact) had really hit it off, and now “Chris� had been offered the coveted Marketing position.

As I listened to this, I resisted the urge to have those Ally McBeal type thoughts, you know where your imagination makes the despised person look like a troll, or whatever. I tried to be big about it and vowed to find a better way than the Belly Slappers to get noticed around here. I would start a group of my own, maybe a film lovers group. We could get together and rent videos of famous films, then discuss them. I would invite all of the Higher Ups, people whose names were on my phone extension list, but I had never met, and who probably had not noticed that my name was on their phone extension list too. This would be an excellent way to segue into my ambitions toward filmmaking, and perhaps some of them could offer some advice to get started. Maybe they even knew some people, people who could get me started. I got very excited about this, and knew that even if the Film Lovers group didn't get me a movie deal, it might at least give me better chances at getting the next good position that opened up. Soon, I'd be getting a new office, not just a token new computer…

That was three years ago. I've now been here five years and I'm 30. I still haven't made a film, but I did start the Film Lovers Group. I sent out a mass inter-company email, and got a few responses, mostly from members of the Belly Slappers who secretly wanted something better to do. None of the Higher Ups expressed an interest, so one day I just started dialing the extensions listed on my phone. Invariably I got secretaries, who promised to “Relay the Message�, but I never heard from them. Me and the errant Bellyslappers did get together a few times, but the experience was much less fulfilling than I had hoped. First, we could never agree on what movies to see (I wanted Citizen Kane and Chinatown, because someone told me they were movies that would provoke discussion) and they wanted Porky's and Barbarella. We settled on Ishtar and Blazing Saddles, for I have no idea why. It was so much not fun that when the evening ended, and we all separated, planning to “do it again�, none of them meant it. Each of the three subsequent times I organized Movie Night, different people came, never more than once. Perhaps my leadership skills were less obvious than I thought. It doesn't really matter though, because in the last three years, no desirable position has opened up. The one in IT doesn't count.

I gave up on meeting someone at work to further my career, if I ever get one, and have turned almost exclusively to the internet. I rush home from work and sign on, going immediately to the film chat rooms. They are mostly filled with teenagers discussing when Britney Spears' new movie will come out, and will she show any skin, but every once in a while someone actually comes in who seems to know about film, and has opinions. I always fantasize that it's actually Ridley Scott (the much embattled Director of Bladerunner and G.I.Jane), or Stanley Kubrick (so what if he's dead, it's a fantasy), and he will recognize my innate talent, and offer me a job on his new film. Of course, this hasn't happened, but it has provided me an outlet for my desire to talk about the film industry as if I'm a part of it, and I don't really mind too much when someone calls me a pretentious know-nothing wannabee, because they're in the same chat room I am, not at Cannes. Every once in a while I take a break from film talk to chat with one of those charming women who appear in a little box and take their clothes off for $2.99 a minute, not because I'm a loser who didn't have the luck, or the guts, to truly achieve his dreams, but because I am a child of the Digital Age.
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beautiful. i dont see why you arent included in the list.

the child of the digital age, I consider it to be a truly fine paxacidus post.

i think it's terriffic, too

Fuck yeah I knew I would forget someone. shit and yes, you are on too. Also I owe you big time for all the copy editing on Burnt.

ha ha world travel and inebriation, story of my life...

what i wanted to ask you though, mav: is it really the case that a guy can't drive a scooter without getting disrespected? holy shit, is life in LA really that bad?

back to my story, i should mention that i was thinking of mccutcheon and sloth when i wrote it. kind of like a brotherhood of people who love paris, miss paris, but know they can't live there -- at least under present circumstances -- and suffer for it.

anyway, if one of you two guys got around to reading it and told me what you think, i'd appreciate it very much. feel free to say it's bullshit too.

off to aachen and brussels for a few days, have a fun weekend y'all