The Weekend

Now that I’ve written that tirade, I can get on with talking about my weekend.

Note: this is going to start out negative, but it will turn positive.

Friday afternoon

I was relieved to reach the end of the week. Friday was the last day of our orientation in Trenton. The afternoon session sucked. For an hour and a half we had to sit and listen to Computer Guy tell us all about the Internet usage policy and take us step by step through our department’s intranet. He took us through it page by page. The whole thing. It was all stuff we could have discovered on our own, and therefore, it was a huge waste of time, especially at 3:00 on a Friday afternoon.

But what really pissed me off was the Internet usage policy. Basically, we’re not allowed to use the Web for anything that’s not work-related. Our Web use is monitored — they keep a log of every website we visit. If it’s discovered that we’re doing too much non-work-related Web surfing, we can get disciplined. After all, Internet access is a privilege.

Are you telling me you’re going to place this device on our desks that gives us access to the entire world, and you’re going to expect us to resist the temptation to use it? I’m an Web addict. A question will pop into my mind and I’ll go online to try to find the answer. I want to check the news. I want to look for apartments. I want to check the weather. I want to access my Yahoo! e-mail account. I want to get directions to the restaurant I’m going to tonight. I want to know how old Bob Hope is. Whatever. You really expect me not to take advantage of any of this? You expect me to resist that temptation? Are you crazy? It’s like leaving a kid alone in a chocolate factory.

And anyway, get real! Do you think monitoring my Web usage is going to prevent me from slacking off? If I’m unable to concentrate on my work, I’m unable to concentrate on my work, and that’s that. It doesn’t matter whether I have Internet access or not. If I can’t surf the Web, I’ll wind up staring off into space. Monitoring my Web access isn’t going to affect my productivity too much. On top of that, it makes me feel like a child.

And even worse, the policy is hypocritical. Our intranet site has links to several non-work-related things. Information about current events, for instance. And a message board, if you want to sell extra tickets to something, for example. And so on. So basically, you’re telling me I can’t go online for non-work-related things unless they happen to be on our intranet? That makes no sense.

I was sitting there listening to all this and I panicked. I can’t get through the day without Internet access. I need to follow the news. I need to be in touch with people. Without Internet access I feel closed off, isolated. It makes me really uncomfortable to be without it.

And I wish I’d known my Web access was monitored before spending several hours online in the last couple of weeks. Great. I wonder if I’ll receive a disciplinary notice or something. I especially wish I’d known about this before clicking on this very website a few times. Now “www.tinmanic.com” is going to show up in the logs, and some person’s going to click on it and read all about how much I dislike my job. Terrific.

And those are just my frustrations with the Internet policy.

It’s also hitting me what a big bureaucracy I’ve joined. We get evaluated once a year. And if you do something unprofessional, you can get disciplined. And if you need to get blah blah blah set up, you have to talk to Jane Doe in Blah Blah Blah, while if you want to get blah blah blah set up, you have to talk to John Doe in Blah Blah Blah Blah.

I hate bureaucracy. I fucking hate it. I feel like I’ve walked into a Dilbert nightmare.

Maybe it would be redeeming if I enjoyed the work at all. But I don’t. I find it completely meaningless and valueless and life-draining.

What… was… I… thinking?

So I sat there listening to this computer lecture on Friday. And I started to develop visible signs of frustration on my face. I grimaced. And then I started squirming in my seat like a restless ten-year-old kid. I tapped my fingers on the tabletop. I started bouncing my leg up and down. I looked around the room. I exhaled my breath in frustration. Anger was coursing through me. I didn’t even care if people saw me acting this way. In fact, I wanted people to see me acting this way. I wanted everyone else to act this way, too. I wanted everyone to protest, to start lecturing the Computer Guy about how absurd this all was, instead of just sitting there like polite helpless sheep afraid of being disciplined. It really pissed me off.

I guess this means I don’t belong in a bureaucracy.

I’m not very good at hiding my feelings, am I.

It all reminded me of the time I stormed out of my Civil Procedure class during my first semester of law school because I was so angry and frustrated and didn’t want to be there.

Anyway…

Friday night

On Friday night I decided to go Shabbat services at Congregation Beth Simchat Torah, New York’s gay and lesbian synagogue. I had been there only once, back in January, and for some reason I felt like going back on Friday. Maybe I wanted to feel connected to people in light of everything that’s been going on in the city lately. So I went on Friday night.

It was okay, not great. I don’t think it’s for me. Their services are a bit too folky and touchy-feely. There’s a piano. And I don’t know many of the tunes. And I don’t know many of the people. And in the back of my mind, I kept thinking that I was in a perfect venue for a terrorist attack. I’m in Manhattan, at a service with a big group of people who are both Jewish and gay. Yeah, the Islamic fundamentalists are gonna love this!

Afterwards, I had planned to go out with someone, but he cancelled. So I went to Barracuda in Chelsea, stood against a wall for a while and drank a beer, and then came home.

Saturday

Yesterday was really nice. See? I told you I can be positive here.

In the afternoon I met up with the guy from Barrage. It was actually our second date — we went out to dinner together on Thursday night and also hung out at his place for a while afterwards. He has a great apartment in Hell’s Kitchen — spacious and modern with a funky layout. He owns the apartment. And he has a piano. Very very nice.

So we hung out again yesterday. He had an extra ticket for a movie at the New York Film Festival. We saw a 14-minute French film followed by the main feature, an Italian movie, the name of which I can’t remember. We held hands during the movie. It was sweet.

I’d never been to a film festival before. It was at Alice Tully Hall in Lincoln Center, which is much larger than a movie theater. And the print of the film was of excellent quality, which makes sense, since it hadn’t been shown over and over and over again. And at the end of each film, the audience applauded. It was quite nice. I think I’d like to attend another screening at a film festival. There was something very New Yorkish about the whole thing.

The movie was relevant to my current job dreams. The main character was a psychotherapist. I got to watch him go about his job — he’d sit there, listening to patient after patient, for the most part unable to express what he truly felt about them. It made me realize that perhaps there’s a downside to the job. Perhaps I wouldn’t like being a therapist as much as I think I would. Or it could just be that everything in life has a downside, and as long as you basically enjoy what you’re doing and you feel that you’re fulfilling your mission in life, you can tolerate the downs. I don’t know. I need to continue thinking about this, gather more information, while also beginning to take steps along the path toward the goal of switching careers.

As for my date — and what do I call the guy? I need a nickname for him. Anyway, I had a really nice time with him. After the movie, we went to Starbucks and bought some sandwiches, and then we walked back to Lincoln Center and ate them while sitting on a bench together. He was going to attend two more screenings that day, but there were no more extra tickets.

I’m definitely feeling some potential with him. We really seem to click with each other. He’s intelligent, and he’s sweet, and he’s cultured yet unpretentious, and he’s slightly neurotic, and he’s cute. He plays the piano, and he sings, and he likes theater and movies. There’s a Woody Allenish quality about his personality. I feel so comfortable around him. I feel like I don’t have to change who I am — I feel like I can be myself with him.

And he feels potential, too. It’s definitely promising.

And on a second look, there’s barely any gray in his sideburns after all.

Unfortunately, he left for a vacation today. He flew to London, where he’s spending the next two weeks. But we exchanged e-mail addresses, so we can keep in touch while he’s away. He was a bit worried about flying on an airplane between the two nations that are leading the fight against the Taliban, but I told him there was most likely nothing to worry about. By now, he has arrived safely in London, and there’s been nothing on the news about plane hijackings or explosions.

I haven’t done much for the rest of the weekend. I went out with a couple of people last night for a rather low-key evening. Today I’ve done nothing at all but read the Sunday New York Times as I count the days until I move. One of my friends from last night, Arch, doesn’t understand why I decided to stay in Jersey City instead of moving to Manhattan. And my friend Nick, with whom I talked on the phone today, said it’s too bad I decided to stay here instead of moving to Brooklyn, where he lives. Meanwhile, back when I was talking about moving to Manhattan, my friend Tall Red-Haired Guy, who lives here in Jersey City, wondered why I wanted to move to Manhattan instead of staying in Jersey City. Jeez, sometimes it seems that I can’t please anyone.

I’m not sure what I’ll do for the rest of the day. Maybe I’ll go into the city and see a movie. Maybe I’ll veg out and do the crossword. Maybe I’ll take a nap. Maybe I’ll continue to read Wishcraft and plot my career change. I don’t know. At any rate, it’s nice to be able to relax.

Gratitude vs. Dissatisfaction

I was going to write about my weekend, but then I read TB’s comments, and I thought I’d respond.

First of all — as often happens in journalism — my quote in the AP article wasn’t placed in its proper context. My “attempt to bring some rationality to a completely irrational series of events” was actually in reference to September 11, not a statement about my blog in general. During the week following the attacks, I wrote incessantly about what I was thinking and feeling. I also provided a few links, as well as excerpts of e-mails and newspaper articles. This was my way of reminding myself — or perhaps of convincing myself — that I was still a sane human being. Unfortunately, I was quoted out of context.

Anyway, TB’s comments really have nothing to do with the quote, but they do touch on some things I’ve thought about before.

What’s the proper balance between gratitude and dissatisfaction? When should you be satisfied with what you have, and when should you strive for something better?

I don’t know. Philosophers have debated this question for years, no doubt.

Certainly, gratitude is necessary in order to survive and to gain some perspective on life. After all, I could be an Afghan refugee fleeing the Taliban. I could be starving or dying of AIDS in Africa. I could be homeless on the streets of Manhattan. I could be paralyzed like Christopher Reeve. Gratitude can make me feel better about things. After all, I have enough food to eat. I have heat in winter. I have a family. I even have a laptop computer.

Yes, gratitude is necessary. I do complain a lot here, but it’s good to remember to be grateful. Thanks, TB, for reminding me that.

And yet — I’m not just going to sit on my hands and say, “well, I guess things could be worse.” I’m not going to settle for something. You know why? Because I don’t have to. People used to think they were locked into their roles in life. You know the Elizabethan Chain of Being? Everyone had his or her place in life, and here’s what you were, and here’s what you were supposed to do, and that was that. No complaining. God Save the Queen.

But things are different today. We have more choices today — or, more accurately, certain choices are more socially acceptable today than they used to be. It used to be that you were supposed to pick a company and stay with it for your whole life. Nobody expects people to do that anymore. Thank goodness, because it’s human nature to seek out better things for ourselves.

TB, you want my job? You want my degree? Take ’em. Also take my frustration and my boredom at work. Take my suits and my ties, which the Director wants us to wear, even though it’s 2001. Take the piles of paper that are going to multiply in my office like rabbits. Actually, take my entire windowless office, and its fluorescent lighting, too. Take the monitoring of my Web usage. Take the judges who are going to berate me for not knowing what I’m doing. Take the clients. And take my inherent sense of nonconformity, since it doesn’t seem to jibe with the vast government bureaucracy I’ve joined. Oh, and while you’re at it, don’t forget to repay my law school loans. Thanks so much; it’s very kind of you to take on my burdens for me.

I’m not going to squelch my dreams just because I should be darn grateful that I’m not starving. I’m not going to settle for “not starving.”

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

– Nelson Mandela

You know what? Based on my talents and desires and abilities — based on the particular qualities of the light that shines within me — I think I could do much more good in this world as a therapist than as a lawyer.

My suffering doesn’t help anyone at all.

(That’s something I’m still learning.)

By the way, I strongly dispute the notion that I’m unwilling to find joy or happiness in anything. That’s quite a generalization — one that doesn’t hold up if you read through my blog.

TB, who appointed you my critic? Perhaps you meant well, but your comments were really obnoxious. Do you even understand the purpose of an online journal? It’s a medium of self-expression. I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for me. You don’t want to read it, don’t read it. You want to be critical, send me an e-mail, don’t flog me publicly. I’m an adult human being, for goodness’ sake. I’m not your child or your pet.

What you think of me is none of my business.

The Article

Okay, I don’t know what I was so worried about. Here it is. Enjoy.