Rolodex Memories
As my last days at the old job count down, I am finding myself caught between intense busy-ness and quiet opportunities to reflect on the past decade and a half.
For instance, today I shared a tender moment with my rolodex.
My rolodex predates the internet. There is actually a card under "E" for "Email" -- on this card I listed the email addresses of the seven or so friends who had managed to get online. It was exciting.
There are also old phone numbers for all of you, pretty much. You've moved on. You've left me behind. cW, you can have a genius point if you can tell me your old work number at CBS. Joe, same goes for you and your temporary film festival gig in the Hamptons.
I'm going to miss a lot of people, but the truth is so many of my good friends have come and gone that I mostly just feel, Well, it's about fucking time.
I was (technically still am) the most tenured employee in the whole company. I was there before you and I'm still there. You're gone.
Damn Brit came by the office today. It was real nice to see him, he's looking good and was very supportive of my decision to leave. We talked about the old times, the "meetings" in the edit room where he and I and Joe and cW would pull off our high-wire pyrotechnics of flatulence. Incredible. But then they left, back in like '97, '98, '99. Bye bye.
When I walked in that door back in '93, I was less than a year off the Trayline. Bill Clinton was less than a year into his first term. Monica Lewinsky was starting her junior year in college. People were still having Pearl Jam-Nirvana debates. I may have still had an earring.
I came into the office, took a look around and figured, I can probably do this for a month or two.
Or 150.
There are enough stories, big, juicy stories, to fill a book easy, and if I felt confident enough in my memory or my writing ability I might give it a try. But to tell the stories right you have to talk about the freaks, and eventually the freaks would figure out who they are, and the freaks would feel sad. And I think that makes it not worth it.
Approximately 6 co-workers/ex-co-workers have died in my time there. One of the 6 may have wanted to kill me.
12 and a half years.
Besides the big untold stories, 12 and a half years is a lot of little things. It's a lot of stagnation, a lot of looking out the window and accepting my place in the universe. It's a few missed opportunities, some bad decisions, and some lifelong regrets. It's a lot of nickels and dimes. It's John Starks and it's Derek Jeter and it's Rudy Giuliani. It's painting studio floors and cheerfully outlasting hangovers and watching animal porn after hours. It's Babyland and 7B and Jimmy's Neutral Corner. It's crack, whisky, and it's whore. It's a tape dispenser that says "Hans" on one side and "Mrsmal" on the other. It's Larry Grace's accent. It's the infuriating unfairness of the cigarette break. It's shirts to come flying off. It's lunches in Bryant Park and drunken office parties and the same generic work experience as every other cube mule since 1932.
It's eating Blimpie's for eight straight days to try to save money.
It seems like a long time, but not 12 and a half years. Like, what happened to 2004? I don't remember a second of it. Did we bat out of order or something?
Damn Brit and I watched a tape today of BJL licking a huge chunk of raw bacon on one of our shows. He looked like he was 19. A handsome devil, too. 1998.
We used to keep score every day, Us vs. Them. We never won. But we always fought hard, even when we were down 35-0 at the half.
Perhaps there were weeks -- months -- years -- when the job was boring, or unrewarding, or anxiety-laden. But the life outside of it was always bursting with love and friendship, beer, song and Yankee baseball.
And above all, laughs. Fifty a day, easy.
I met all the most important people of my adult life at that job or through it indirectly. I am proud to still know you all.
Goodbye, job, you did right by me for the most part.
As for the rest of you, I will never stop having fun and I hope we can have more of it together.
I'll see you on the outside.
Late.
For instance, today I shared a tender moment with my rolodex.
My rolodex predates the internet. There is actually a card under "E" for "Email" -- on this card I listed the email addresses of the seven or so friends who had managed to get online. It was exciting.
There are also old phone numbers for all of you, pretty much. You've moved on. You've left me behind. cW, you can have a genius point if you can tell me your old work number at CBS. Joe, same goes for you and your temporary film festival gig in the Hamptons.
I'm going to miss a lot of people, but the truth is so many of my good friends have come and gone that I mostly just feel, Well, it's about fucking time.
I was (technically still am) the most tenured employee in the whole company. I was there before you and I'm still there. You're gone.
Damn Brit came by the office today. It was real nice to see him, he's looking good and was very supportive of my decision to leave. We talked about the old times, the "meetings" in the edit room where he and I and Joe and cW would pull off our high-wire pyrotechnics of flatulence. Incredible. But then they left, back in like '97, '98, '99. Bye bye.
When I walked in that door back in '93, I was less than a year off the Trayline. Bill Clinton was less than a year into his first term. Monica Lewinsky was starting her junior year in college. People were still having Pearl Jam-Nirvana debates. I may have still had an earring.
I came into the office, took a look around and figured, I can probably do this for a month or two.
Or 150.
There are enough stories, big, juicy stories, to fill a book easy, and if I felt confident enough in my memory or my writing ability I might give it a try. But to tell the stories right you have to talk about the freaks, and eventually the freaks would figure out who they are, and the freaks would feel sad. And I think that makes it not worth it.
Approximately 6 co-workers/ex-co-workers have died in my time there. One of the 6 may have wanted to kill me.
12 and a half years.
Besides the big untold stories, 12 and a half years is a lot of little things. It's a lot of stagnation, a lot of looking out the window and accepting my place in the universe. It's a few missed opportunities, some bad decisions, and some lifelong regrets. It's a lot of nickels and dimes. It's John Starks and it's Derek Jeter and it's Rudy Giuliani. It's painting studio floors and cheerfully outlasting hangovers and watching animal porn after hours. It's Babyland and 7B and Jimmy's Neutral Corner. It's crack, whisky, and it's whore. It's a tape dispenser that says "Hans" on one side and "Mrsmal" on the other. It's Larry Grace's accent. It's the infuriating unfairness of the cigarette break. It's shirts to come flying off. It's lunches in Bryant Park and drunken office parties and the same generic work experience as every other cube mule since 1932.
It's eating Blimpie's for eight straight days to try to save money.
It seems like a long time, but not 12 and a half years. Like, what happened to 2004? I don't remember a second of it. Did we bat out of order or something?
Damn Brit and I watched a tape today of BJL licking a huge chunk of raw bacon on one of our shows. He looked like he was 19. A handsome devil, too. 1998.
We used to keep score every day, Us vs. Them. We never won. But we always fought hard, even when we were down 35-0 at the half.
Perhaps there were weeks -- months -- years -- when the job was boring, or unrewarding, or anxiety-laden. But the life outside of it was always bursting with love and friendship, beer, song and Yankee baseball.
And above all, laughs. Fifty a day, easy.
I met all the most important people of my adult life at that job or through it indirectly. I am proud to still know you all.
Goodbye, job, you did right by me for the most part.
As for the rest of you, I will never stop having fun and I hope we can have more of it together.
I'll see you on the outside.
Late.
***
In honor of 1993, here is a cW-ineligible genius challenge: when cW and I went out for beers for the very first time, in what bar did we begin the night?
posted by hans q. bungle at 01:28
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