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Posts By Oliver Gray

I put letters into words into sentences into paragraphs that explode into coherent narratives.

Beers

June 2, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

Below is a list of all the beers I’ve appraised to date, in alphabetical order by company:

(Note that some of these are not “reviews” in the traditional sense, but short stories or other beer-inspired writing)

Boulevard Single Wide IPA
Boulevard Double Wide IPA
Brooklyn Brown Ale
Brooklyn East India Pale Ale
Brooklyn Lager
Brooklyn Pennant Ale ’55
Budlight Platinum
Dogfish Head 61
Dogfish Head My Anotina
Dogfish Head Noble Rot
DuClaw Devil’s Milk
Evolution No.3 IPA 
Flying Dog Classic Pale Ale
Flying Dog Lucky SOB Irish Red
Flying Dog Old Scratch Amber Lager
Flying Dog Road Dog Porter
Flying Dog Snake Dog IPA
Flying Dog Tire Bite Golden Ale
Fordham Copperhead
Gordon Biersch Blonde Bock
Gordon Biersch Czech Style Pilsner
Gordon Biersch Marzen
Gordon Biersch Sommerbrau
Harpoon Belgian Pale Ale
Harpoon IPA

Harpoon Munich Style Dark
Harpoon Rye IPA
Harpoon UFO White
Heavy Seas Black Cannon IPA
Heavy Seas Classic Lager

Heavy Seas Gold Ale
Heavy Seas Loose Cannon IPA
Heavy Seas the Great Pumpkin
Kilkenny Irish Cream Ale
Magic Hat #9
Magic Hat Encore Wheat IPA
Magic Hat Heart of Darkness Stout
Magic Hat Wooly ESB
Milwaukee’s Best Premium (April Fools Day 2013)
New Belgium Ranger IPA
Newcastle Founder’s Ale
Newcastle Werewolf
O’Haras Irish Pale Ale
Sam Adams Belgian Session
Sam Adams Blueberry Hill Lager
Sam Adams Cherry Wheat
Sam Adams East West Kolsch
Sam Adams Noble Pils
Sam Adams Summer Ale
Smuttynose IPA
Smuttynose Old Brown Dog
Smuttynose Shoals Pale Ale

Smuttynose Star Island Single
Stoudts Revel Red
Troegs Dream Weaver Wheat
Troegs Hop Back Amber Ale
Troegs Pale Ale
Troegs Sunshine Pils
Yards Brawler Pugilist Style Ale
Yards IPA 
Yards Thomas Jefferson’s Tavern Ale 

Worth a Thousand Words

June 1, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

In homage to the old saying, I present 5  free-thought short descriptions, based entirely on random photos I took with my phone:

1. When Life Gives you Lemons

Since childhood, Edgar had hated lemonade. On the warm summer days when his friends would cool off with a glass of the tart-but-sweet concoction, he would pretend he wasn’t thirsty. He never understood the appeal; it looked like urine, had to be ice-cold to be any good, and the sugar seemed only necessary to mask the taste of the main ingredient. As he grew up, he began to avoid lemons entirely, worried they would taint the pleasant mental connections he had with certain foods. At an Asian friend’s picnic, he had accidentally eaten some lemon chicken and the sourness did not dissipate for many hours. Life was very uncertain for him as a boy, but he was certain that he did not like lemons.

Post-College, Edgar lived the dream. He excelled at everything he did, made the right connections, flirted with the prettiest girls. He landed a job with a prominent corporation, improving internal processes and winning over several affluent clients. His superiors took note, promoting him handsomely in both responsibility and pay. This new level of authority put Edgar in direct contact with the committee that oversaw international business and he was invited to share his ideas about the future of the company. Excitedly, Edgar donned his best suit and appeared in front of the distinguished committee. As he astutely gave his speech, a pitcher sitting on the conference table caught his eye. There, taunting him, wishing him nothing but failure, was a carafe of lemonade. The chairman of the committee noticed that the liquid had gained his attention. He offered a glass to Edgar. Surprised and aghast, Edgar refused. The committee sat slack-jawed by his sudden change in behavior. One older, stubborn gentleman noted that, “everyone likes lemonade!” This comment launched the rest of the group in a cacophony of argument. Accusations that only terrorists disliked lemonade flew wildly. Edgar was at the epicenter of a maelstrom of confusing, but hateful nonsense.

After he was laid off, Edgar  fell from a position of prominence to one of lowly servitude. Needing some kind of income, and not being welcome at many other corporations due to his “Anti-Lemonade thus Anti-American” attitude, he was forced to take a job as a nighttime stock boy for a local grocery store. Depressed, he trudged to work everyday, remembering his once wonderful existence. On one particularly warm May afternoon, his supervisor asked him to update the signs for the fruit area in the produce section. Apprehension forced stomach acid into Edgar’s throat. He knew what vile, yellow skinned monstrosities lurked in the produce section.

Edgar grumbled and angrily stomped his way into the computer room near the back of the store. In a moment of clarity, he suddenly knew how he would earn his revenge against the accursed citrus, as he opened the a new Photoshop file. A wicked smile crept across his previously sullen face, as he watched the green and yellow sign come sliding out of the printer.


2. “Poke” stands for “Pocket”?

Being the spawn of an old, forgotten god and a primal element is not easy. Most people do not understand you, especially when you have a reputation for shocking people to death or burning things down. Having a body made entirely out of electricity also makes things like dating or holding a job rather difficult. Years of torment and nonacceptance had crushed the spirit of an otherwise bright and energetic entity. Sparky, as he had been dubbed by cruel, flesh-based children, was on the verge of ending it all. That was until the day that he heard of a wonderful country named “Japan”.

Sparky knew that there must be a place for him in this kooky land; these were people had embraced a giant fire-breathing lizard, eating raw fish and humor that centered around stealing a lady’s underpants. After doing some research, Sparky was determined to save up his money to buy a plane ticket to Tokyo. Most airlines had a strict, “no beings made of a raw form of nature” policy, so it was some time before Sparky secured his passage to the Land of the Rising Sun. After rejection by US Airways, Air Japan, and United Airways, Sparky received a positive response from Virgin Pacific Airways, who apparently catered to the “unusual” crowd.

Upon arriving, Sparky immediately set out for the Nintendo headquarters. While his exposure to video games was limited, as he tended to melt any device he touched, Sparky was sure he could provide an invaluable service to the company, even if it were just to generate perfectly green energy. While sitting in the waiting room, Sparky noticed a poster for “Pokemon”; an eccentric game that focused on collecting and working collaboratively with various “monsters”. His heart leapt. Perhaps he could be one of these Pokemon!

Soul-crushing grief passed over him as a Nintendo employee informed him that Pokemon was a fictional, video game fantasy. If liquids did not disagree with him so violently, he would have liked a stiff drink. Dejected, he wandered the streets of Tokyo, reminiscent of a rolling black out. He cried tears of pure lightning, lamenting his social plight and cursing his immortal father.

A young Japanese marketing exec found Sparky wallowing on a street corner. He saw in Sparky a young elemental spirit, capable of informative advertising. It was not long before Sparky had landed a contract; his main focus, alerting people of the danger and death associated with being anywhere near him, or his baser parts.


3. The Hazards of Climbing the Corporate Ladder

“The presence of children in a workplace often forces safety into the spotlight. Many claim that children are the future. We all know that robots are the future. Robots are made of metal, don’t need things to protect them and consequently care little for safety. But we do not live in the time of robots yet, so safety for our children, who will eventually be us, is paramount.”

This is the kind of  safety description that until the mid 1990s, was included with many Occupational Safety and Health Administration (O.S.H.A.) approved products. They had little to do with the product itself, and often spiraled into misdirected tangents about nothing relevant or important. Many found the descriptions comical, and wished more government sectors would take the “silly” approach in administering their respective area. Being a particularly dry area, many O.S.H.A. manual writers began to interject their own personality into their work.

Unfortunately for people with a sense of humor, O.S.H.A. eventually decided to locate the root of the problem in an attempt to look more professional. In doing so, they upset a lot of writers who after many years in their positions, had become disenchanted with the daily grind. These writers were harmless on the surface, but held much power over the internal workings of the organization. As several prominent wordsmiths were let go for this silly digressions against the administration, other writers decided to take revenge for their fallen comrades in ink, in the most appropriate way possible.

Using their career long connections, they managed to get the following product information included with all sales of a certain brand of ladder that was known for its instability and inability to achieve O.S.H.A. approval:

“The wonder ladder will save your life. Jobs you thought impossible before, you can now do without even thinking. While the wood on the ladder may look thin and cheap, it is in fact a space-age composite built for strength. It may sway wildly when you stand on it, but that is just the nano-technology of the physics driven stability matrix taking effect. The more beer your drink before you use the ladder, the safer it becomes. The metal parts may seem sharp or rusty, and they are, so don’t cut yourself on them. Only stupid people cut themselves on ladders. Lastly, please use the top rung as a step, as often as possible. You’re not using the ladder to its full potential or theoretical height unless you precariously perch yourself atop this amazing ladder.”


4. One Flew Over the White Fungus Bird’s Nest Drink

This is just totally gross.

I can only imagine what it tastes like, and why in any capacity, someone would pay money to drink it. I once accidentally consumed some Indian beef tea which was arguably the worst experience of my life. I somehow think drinking a can of this stuff would be worse.

My friend Justin and I located this product at an Asian grocery market in Philadelphia, PA. We were waiting for some of our fellow cohorts to arrive to eat a delicious helping of Pho soup-stuff. Obviously, I had to take a picture of this drink as it was odd, even for an Asian market.

I assume the marketing meeting for this went something like:

Marketing Director: “Ok, we have a new product to promote in the US, but we need to translate the Chinese characters for the description of this drink into English, and we gotta do it fast…does anyone know how do to that?”
Group of employees: ::silence::
Marketing Director: No? Ok well, let’s just make something up. Bob! What’s the first word that comes into your head?
Bob: “err…White!”
Marketing Director: “Oh, how Aryan of you Bob, great. ‘White’ it is. Susan, you next!”
Susan: “Fungus?”
Marketing Director: “What? For real? The first thing you think of in a board meeting is ‘fungus’? Ok, whatever, no time, moving on. Kelly, you’re young, hip, what can you add?”
Kelly: “Birds are pretty!”
Marketing Director: “Yes they are Kelly, but we’re selling a drink here…a weird Chinese drink. Help me out!”
Bob: “Birds live in nests!”
Marketing Director: “OK…I can’t argue that. A little weird, but let’s roll with it. Steve, read me back what we’ve got.”
Steve: “White Fungus Bird’s Nest Drink.”
Marketing Director: “…You’re all fired.”

The thing that impresses me the most is that they correctly used the possessive apostrophe.


5. If I only had an Arm

Political correctness has reached an all new high (or low, depending on perspective). You can’t call anyone anything anymore, for fear that they have been branded the next, previously unheard of, protected class. Long gone are the days of little people being “midgets”, mentally challenged people just being “slow” and handicapped people being “freaks”. We have to fall all over ourselves to make sure everyone is happy and never even remotely offended by anything we might begin to consider thinking about possibly saying.

The middle-upper class is most responsible for this role, as they are the first to be labeled “discriminatory” even if they are less guilty than other people around them. They cannot even be politically correct about themselves and must often refer to themselves as imperfect, to make weird looking people feel better. In an attempt to make everything P.C., we have reached a level of correctness that borders on the absurd.

Some modifications make sense. A handicapped ramp for example; a wheelchair is a poor staircase navigator. Others make significantly less sense. Removing the word “brainstorm” in attempt to not offend people with epilepsy is a good example. It would not take long before people with one-in-a-billion mutations would require their own sort of social protection.

Why are all statues carved in the form of the “ideal” human; where are the homages to the classic man-monsters like Centaurus or Enceladus? Because people don’t like to look at ugly things. It seems unfair that creatures of equal importance and influence would fade into historical obscurity, simply for being ugly. But it is the truth, and it is this history that drives our current, inane political correction movement.

Soon we will see door knobs for people of all kinds of varying heights, regardless of how they impede the function of the door. We will have urinals placed on the ceilings of Men’s restrooms, for those random few who can’t seem to urinate downwards. We will see safety and protocol abandoned, just so no one gets their feelings hurt. Hell, some might even argue that one day we will have models, statues and even manikins that reflect all manner of physical deformity, just so we can see how cute that sweater would look on someone with a 4 foot long arm.

The Latent Evil of Fundraising

May 26, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

My fortress of cynical introversion is constantly under siege by coworkers who want me to do “good things”. As a non-Christian, non-conforming, non-proselytizing young man, I am clearly only committing hate crimes in my free time and sewing my seeds of hate at every opportunity. Due to my rampant bad behavior, many of those I work with daily feel I should repent in some form or another, whether I actually want to or not. I am unswayed by mindless spiritual zeal and their persuasive logic is far inferior to mine, so they are forced to fall back on the tried and true way to win someone over: cookies.

Everyone loves cookies, even diabolical people like me.

Enter the fundraiser. We’ve all been witness to these poor attempts at entrepreneurship; whether for a church, a school, a youth sports club or some other sickeningly wholesome, suburban cause. They flout brand-name candy and cookies, overtly labeled with some contact information about the so-called charity you are supporting. The illusion of helping out a “good cause” allows a buyer to ignore the heinous inflation that is imposed onto otherwise cheap goods. People fall all over themselves to buy assorted crap from these cardboard boxes of deceit, in hopes that their indirect, incredibly minor contribution will somehow lead to salvation.

Despite this seemingly benign reasoning, there is a clear hypocrisy in the snack distribution world. If a box of random goods is put out for sale in an office on the honor system, there will be at least a 30% loss of inventory. I know this first hand from stocking the snack box at my office for 6 months. If the exact same box is put out with a fund-raising label, the pilfering all but completely stops. It is not that people want to feel good, it is that they don’t want to feel bad. Stealing from some guy who supplies snacks at no profit is no big deal, but stealing from kids or a church is just flat out wrong. I love double standards, especially where my own money is involved.

Using psychological tricks is not the only underhanded tactic these “good causes” employ to peddle their overpriced junk. They also pull the strings on more innate, primal responses, like hunger and sympathy.

Hunger and greed is the obvious one; have you ever seen a generic fundraiser that sells fresh fruit? Salads? Anything remotely healthy? No. Because people don’t want healthy. They want to justify their disgusting face-stuffing habits by misdirecting their gluttony onto their now inflated sense of charity. It’s OK if I eat this entire sleeve of Oreos™, the money I paid for them is going to help a youth basketball team from the derelict inner city. I’m such a good person, even though I think I can literally hear my heart and circulatory system crying out in tortured anguish. People in this country have horrendous diets anyway, but at least when they buy the overly processed sugar that they don’t need from a fundraiser, they can say they did it to support a good cause.

The one I really loathe, as I cannot personally control it like I can hunger, is sympathy. There is a niche group who has literally cornered their respective market with this tactic: the goddamn Girl Scouts. These little girls don’t even need to try to sell you their product, in fact most can be found twirling mindlessly in circles while their mothers try their hardest to collect the money that people are literally throwing at them. It does help that the cookies are very tasty, but the fundamental truth cannot be denied. Girl Scouts line up in the best of public places, showing off cute little girls whose innocence will be destroyed if you don’t financially fund their futures by purchasing an absurd number of boxes of cookies. The bottom line is it works; a Google result for “girl scouts of the usa” returns 322,000 results, which is impressive until you compare it to a search for “girl scout cookies” which yields a staggering 833,000 results. A well-played, sympathetic cause will have people “awwwing” as they open their wallets faster than you can say “Thin Mints”.

And even with these two powerful emotional strategies, some fundraisers are not satisfied. The main tool, especially of office related fundraisers is the ever present idea of guilt. If you don’t buy some expensive yet disgusting candy from us, the church might go under, and then all of the poor parishioners will have no one to guide their sheepish spirits. If that happens, my kids will grow up in a heathen world, never know god, and eventually writhe in the pits of hellish damnation. Is that what you want? You want my kids to go to hell? What kind of person are you? Never mind the scary irrationality, this is basically the main idea people put forth when presenting you with random goods to buy. It doesn’t matter if you don’t want them, can’t afford them, don’t actually support whatever cause it is, or any combination. You must buy something, otherwise you are just a bad person.

Seriously, buy something. There are kids out there with diseases (deadly diseases) who desperately need the 13 cents profit we will make from you buying this candy bar. The same candy bar that will eventually put you into the hospital with advanced symptoms of diabetes. But rest easy, some one can have a fundraiser to raise the money to pay your medical bills.

BUY ME!

Turning the “P” in “Please” into a little, concerned looking man does not sway me, candy demons.

Quirking Out

May 21, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

Everyone has some odd habits that help define their personality, whether it be a nervous tick or an inability to filter thoughts in a public situation. Most of these things are boiled down to “quirks” of some sort; some endearing, some pitiful, some annoying and some arguably dangerous. I am no exception, and some who have met me may even argue that I have more quirks than the average reclusive, borderline misanthropic nerd.

Most of my eccentricities come from being a creature of habit. My morning routine is almost tragically perfunctory. As I am normally battling The Grump, it is impossible for me to get anything done if I do not stick to a set order of tasks. Upon gaining consciousness, I stumble to the bathroom, find a towel, turn on the shower (hot water first) test the water, find it to be too hot, turn on the cold water, test the temperature again by splashing the water on my legs, turn on the shower, brush my teeth with my eyes closed, shampoo my hair, blow my nose (one nostril at a time), rinse the shampoo out of my hair, condition my hair, turn in circles under the water in an attempt to wake up, rinse the conditioner out of my hair, turn in a few more circles, gargle, and then turn the shower off. I then receive a towel from Tiffany, step out of the shower, pick up my hair brush, brush all my hair back (50s Greaser style), dry myself off with the aforementioned towel, dry my hair halfway with the same towel, brush my hair again, dry it the rest of the way, brush it again, then stagger into the bedroom to find whatever clothes I am going to wear that day.

This happens every weekday, exactly as listed above, without fail. Occasionally, if The Grump is beaten early, I will sing in the shower. A poorly sung rendition of Don McLean’s American Pie is my go-to (I know like, all the lyrics). I have also been known to bust out a soulful recreation of an 80s classic with my own lyrics inserted. On especially groggy mornings, I have conditioned my hair before I shampooed. Short of these few rare anomalies, my mornings define banality.

As the day progresses, my routine slowly loses cohesion. My commute by its very nature is repetitive, but I do find myself playing, “Cut off the School Bus” or “Shout obscenities at Captain Slow and the Slow-mobile” as I zoom along to work. Upon arriving, I drop my keys on the left side of my desk, unpack my laptop, plug in my mouse, plug in my keyboard, plug in my headphones, plug and unplug my Cat-5 cable until I actually get a network connection, attempt to open Microsoft™ Outlook, open Mozilla™ Firefox, visit my favorite web-comics, look back at my work email once Outlook has finally opened, and lastly open Gmail™ to see what I’ve missed during the hours that I, and everyone I know, was asleep. I then use the bathroom, get a cup of coffee or tea and fill my water bottle. From time to time I will chat with a coworker about something completely random and often nonsensical, just because I am not yet awake enough to do any real work.

My day-time hours have little routine, as my job has little specific definition. The card I was given after several months of working here says, “Business Writer” but I do very little actual writing. I jump from assorted IT tasks, to quality control, to file management or web design. It keeps me on my toes, and starts to tear at the fibers of my structured schedule. By lunch time, my meticulous schedule has been completely demolished. Think “Undone” by Weezer, but having nothing to do with a sweater or being naked.

I make up for a lack of structure by doing repetitive little things throughout the day. Every time I walk out of my office to use the bathroom/get lunch/free myself from the soul-killing monotony, I have to jump up and touch the second Exit sign in the little hallway that leads to my office door. I have to touch the sign. If I cannot, for fear of landing on a coworker or looking “unprofessional”, it eats away at me until I can get back to the sign to touch it. On casual friday, when my attire is less constrictive, I will sometimes do a full olympic style run-and-jump to touch the sign. Even when I am completely encumbered with laptop bag, lunch box (I wish) or sometimes a musical instrument, I will try to feebly hop to touch the sign. One of these days I am going to hit it too hard, break it and be very sad. I probably need some kind of mental help, but instead of seeking it, I will just consider touching the sign “good luck”. Here is a good shot of my approach angle:

I also have to keep everything on my desk very organized and if possible, perpendicular. A book or pile of papers slightly askew will keep me from performing any other task throughout the day. I will even start to straighten things on other people’s desks, without their asking. I feel I deserve a “cleanest desk award” since we have a “clean desk policy” but no one seems to listen when I start talking about it.

By the time I make my way home, my formerly obsessive habits have degraded into complete chaos. I struggle to be organized, unless I have some very specific tasks that have a very specific deadline. I am like a ball of string: tightly and perfectly wound in glorious sphere in the morning; thrown all about with random knots as if an imaginary cat has played with me all day by the evening.

My most relevant major quirk has been with me since the latter days of high school. I cannot, in any possible situation, write anything of any substance if the things around me are not very organized and clean. This probably connects with my desire for things to be perpendicular, but I don’t like to draw conclusions too hastily. In college I would spend hours cleaning my apartment before writing anything, as I knew my papers or projects would be complete drivel if there were any dirty dishes in the sink. I do not feel comfortable committing my mind to something I am passionate about if there are things like dust and bacteria to distract me.

As my brain is unraveling and beginning “weekend mode” early, I do not know how to end this post. In a move of desperation, I will refer to one of my other quirks that appears when I want to stop a conversation that has gone on too long: referencing something completely arbitrary that few can relate to in an attempt to kill the dialogue.

This is a picture of a 80s PBS painter and marijuana enthusiast, Bob Ross:
Bizz Rizzle

Rationalizing Irrational Fears

May 20, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

I consider myself a pretty brave dude. I’ve experienced all sorts of physical adversity, emotional doldrums and spiritual crises in my short little life. I’ve confronted nerve-racking challenges, braved strange wildernesses and even, at times, given public speeches in front of tens of people. I am confident I could face Charon and the Styx while showing no signs of fear or apprehension. I stand ready for anything this mortal realm can throw at me, but still two things have plagued my stalwart existence on this blue and green rock, two things that I cannot seem to overcome regardless of exposure or maturity.

Squids:

Squids should not be allowed. I would be the first in line to vote for a President who had an active anti-squid stance. They are horrible, flowing nightmares made of death and malicious suffering. Their “ink” is actually a demonic ichor, capable of rendering a man insane with one squirt. Their soulless, doll-like eyes pierce the thin veil of reality and offer a glimpse into the horrible void that is their watery home. They have no remorse and will eat you and your children (present and future) given the opportunity. We are just fortunate that they prefer the icy abyss, and rarely test our warm beach shores. Everyone thinks that sharks are the real threat in the ocean, but that is only because they have never experienced the horror a multi-tentacle squid-hug. I haven’t either, but the mental scenario I have created is truly awful.

My fear of squids started out as a fear of anything underwater; fish, seaweed, semi-buoyant driftwood, pool cleaning robots, etc. This quickly evolved into a fear of all sea-faring invertebrates, and I remember being quite afraid of sea cucumbers at an early age. While I still find sea worms and other squishy things to be a tad unsettling, they do not invoke my primal fear quite like the image of a squid does. I also seem to have no problem with Octopi, and find them quite fascinating/cute in the right context. Even squids that are dead or drawn in an adorable manner cause uneasiness in my mind.

I cannot decide if my adult fascination with H.P. Lovecraft exacerbated or surpressed my fear. His focus on ancient, evil cephalopods piqued my interest, and made me feel I was not alone in fear of the unknown deep. Lovecraft’s obsession/loathing encompassed the entire ocean, not just squids, so it is impossible to say how he truly felt about them. I’m pretty sure he hated them though.

People (namely Tiffany) like to tease me about this silly fear. Anything even remotely squid-esque will cause me to shift in my seat nervously. Some have even gone out of their way to send me links to stories of giant squids; links that contain pictures. Pictures of GIANT versions of my fear, with insinuations that they can get much, much bigger, or that the pictured specimen is just a baby. If there are squids the size of office buildings somewhere down there, I am never letting water touch my body again.

The irony is that I quite like fried calamari. I guess pieces of a squid don’t bother me, but things (and the latent suggestions about what really exists in the ocean) like the following make me want to run shrieking into the night:

Evil

Clowns:

If there is anything more alien and terrifying than a multi-armed, swimming murder machine, it has to be a circus clown. I am not talking about the intentionally demonized clowns that are the focus of things like “IT” or “Killer Klowns from Outer Space“, but the ordinary, disturbingly exuberant kind one might find at a county fair.

The people who voluntarily dress and act as clowns are the scariest by far. They wear far too much makeup, dance without music and often do and say things that are unnecessarily happy. I am a very energetic, generally optimistic person, but I have never in my entire life considered being or dressing as a clown. It is not normal, and people dressed as clowns should be tested for brain damage.

I have no problem with people being lively and fun, in fact I encourage such behavior on a daily basis. Taking life too seriously is a major issue in the paths I walk, and I am often the first to make light of an overly dramatized situation or inject some silliness into the otherwise cold and corporate. But I do not wear a wig when I do this. I do not wear over sized shoes, nor suspenders. I do not laugh maniacally over nothing, at all times. You can be a clown, without actually being a clown. I wish someone would resurrect The Ringling Brothers, Barnum AND Bailey to tell them this. Not that they were responsible for the origin of clowns, but they definitely had a hand in making them “popular”.

I was always confused by the popularity of clowns. Why have they not faded into historical obscurity by this point? Most other things from the 1900s seem horribly antiquated at this point, but somehow clowns, much unchanged from their original concept, still exist. We live in a world of computers and smart phones, but some guy squirting water out of a fake flower on his lapel still passes as entertainment? Clowns are the lowest possible form of comedian (even below mimes), to the point that they should not be alive anymore. I’m not saying we kill all the clowns, but we should definitely kill the idea of a clown. And if some clowns get killed in the process, so be it. The only clowns that may be ignored are French clowns, as they have a legitimate excuse for being clowns: they are French.

And why kill off clowns? Because they are by their very nature terrifying. Children recoil in disgust and horror when a surreal representation of a person on too much cocaine sticks a balloon in their face. Adults avoid eye contact with these people who have obviously regressed to the point that they think riding a very small bicycle passes as a career. Even other clowns are probably disgusted with clowns. I don’t know, I’m not a clown.

No one can tell me otherwise, this is a universal fear that only some of us have actually come to terms with. Look at the following picture, and tell me why this should be allowed to roam free (and make money?) with the rest of us:

The only thing that could possibly be more scary is some sort of squid-clown hybrid. I started to do a Google image search for “squid clown hybrid”, but then stopped after deciding I would like to sleep tonight.

In Line at Subway™

May 19, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

My office is in the middle of a freeway. This is unfortunate when I forget/don’t make/don’t like my homemade lunch, but cannot afford to take an hour to drive the 100 miles or whatever it is to the nearest shopping center. There are only three options within walking distance: a questionably clean or fresh Asian-run deli, an overpriced, super greasy Asian-run deli, or a Subway™ brand sandwich shop. My choices basically boil down to: food poisoning, afternoon nap in my cube, or cheap, flavorless lumps of bread and stuff.

The choice I am forced to make is sadly obvious.

Somehow (probably due to some karmic, cosmic mischief I don’t understand) I always manage to get stuck in line behind the most disrespectful, tragically inarticulate individuals at Subway™ sandwich facilities. It never happens in a Quiznos™, so it cannot simply be my luck with line-style sandwich shops, and it has never happened while waiting for a table in a sit-down restaurant, leaving me to believe it is isolated to the strange world that is Subway™.

I have a theory that Subway™ suffers from the “Walmart Phenomenon“. Due to advertised low prices and a multitude of locations, these places seem to draw crowds of cheap, ignorant, poorly dressed people. These people are quite possibly the worst kind of people on the entire planet. The kind that take advantage of anything and everything they can, enjoying a standard of living unseen in many other parts of the world but still constantly complaining about their downtrodden plight. They are quite astute at verbally projecting this attitude everywhere they go, however socially inappropriate it might be.

The first time I had an encounter with a disheveled denizen of Subway™ was on Benning Road, in South East Washington DC. For those of you unfamiliar with the area, it is the kind of place a person like me should never be for any reason whatsoever. I was in the employ of a man who did not at all care about his workers, doing IT work for a public charter school. It is very difficult to bring a lunch with you as a roaming IT professional; you cannot keep anything fresh if you have to leave it in your car/parked oven, and very few clients are happy with you squatting like a monkey in a corner of their server room while you eat a chicken salad sandwich. You are pretty much forced to eat on the go, or not eat at all.

One day at this school, I finally got sick of my stomach digesting itself, and decided that the Subway I spied in a strip mall was the safest lunch option available. Upon entering, I noticed that this particular Subway had no tables, chairs, displays or other sundry items that are normally scattered about the room. Instead, it had 6 inch bullet proof glass with tiny holes carved at strategic points, so that customers could literally yell their orders to the Sandwich Technicians™ on the other side.

I got in line behind several other customers, most of who seemed angry with something  even though nothing in their immediate environment was actually a problem. I quietly minded my own business and avoided eye contact with everyone until it was my turn to order. Just as I was about to step up to the “window” and yell my order, a young women stepped directly in  front of me in a very fluid, ninja like fashion, and began to order her sandwich. Given the location, I decided sheathe my contentious side.

The woman was easily the most indecisive person I have ever seen. It took her nearly 2 full minutes to choose a bread style (from 5 possible options), and then she changed her mind from turkey to roast beef, then back to turkey, in 30 seconds flat. She was yelling far louder than necessary, even with the bullet proof glass, making all of the already uncomfortable customers even more uncomfortable. She finally arrived at the vegetable selection window, where she demanded the Sandwich Technician™ add copious amount of “MATERS” to her sub. The employee was clearly confused, so the woman repeated, louder, “MATERS!!! RED, ROUND; MA-TERS.” The employee pointed at the onions. This was a bad idea. The woman exploded into a beserker rage, akin to a viking warrior charging into battle screaming, “TO-MA-TOES!!MATAS! WHAT IS SO #$@^ HARD ABOUT THAT!?” The poor, minimum wage sandwich guy quickly loaded her sandwich up with many tomatoes. In defense of the employee, technically a mater is one half of a set of breeders, not a sandwich topping.

In a huff, she moved to the payment window (which was actually a bulletproof lazy-susan) where she informed the clerk, upon seeing the total price, that she did not have enough money to pay for her sub. The clerk would not relinquish the sub through the bulletproof lazy-susan. Surprisingly against all prior evidence, the woman calmly said, “&#$% you” and walked out.

If this had been my only run-in, I would have chalked it up to an angry lady and some mis-communication caused by counter-to-ceiling bulletproof plexi, but this kind of thing happens all the time. Not a month ago I came across a woman who wanted more banana peppers than humanly reasonable, but did not want to pay the 35 cents for an extra topping. She regressed into a sort of animal rage, snorting all kinds of obscenities and wailing her limbs wildly over this 35 cents. In most cases, a person is only paying 5 dollars for the 12 inch, 900+ calorie sandwich, so an argument over 7% of that seems a tad ridiculous.

I was also witness to a girl who requested to speak to a manager because her chocolate chip cookies were too “old”. This girl had no business eating cookies in the first place (nor the 3 lbs of mayonnaise drenched meat she had ordered before that) but that did not stop her from demanding that the entire place grind to a halt to bake her fresh cookies. If not for my fear of being publicly murdered by a stranger, I might have said something.

I will attempt to chronicle any future, extraordinary Subway™ tales in this blog. To close, and offer a little more insight into mental processes, here is a picture of what I was imagining the entire time I was writing this post:

AOTKT

You’re Welcome – 2.0

May 18, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

One of the papers I wrote in college highlighted the awkward social implications of holding doors for strangers. The full text can be found here. Since writing that paper, the art of the door-hold for me has expanded beyond college campus level and entered the hyper-politically correct realm of Corporate America. Not wanting to cause an HR issue, I will attempt to present the following analysis of Corporate doorholdsmanship in the most unoffensive manner possible:

In college, few doors are locked. In fact, most are so open, you really don’t even have to turn a knob or handle; a slight nudge in the right direction leaves most doors wide open. But in the Corporate life, most doors are locked; with keypads or intercoms or card-swipe things. No longer are mysterious rooms in cafeterias, dormitories, lecture halls, faculty offices and bathrooms left unprotected from my inappropriate and clandestine searches. Nay, now all doors are securely locked, despite how hard I kick the door, or jam a credit card in the narrow light emitting crack on one side of the door. Where I once could unravel any mystery, now lays before me more uncertainty than Frodo faced setting out from the Shire.

Ultimately, this lack of open entries leads to one main problem: holding doors. When a door cannot be opened it is difficult to hold for other people. Chivalry is appreciated (in some cases even expected) in Corporate life, but with no chairs to pull out (as it leads to awkward meeting situations), no umbrellas to hold (as it rarely rains inside your cube) and no maidens to save (I’ll leave this one alone), we’re left with a few unsatisfying ways to be Knightly. I have broken it down into the following:


Holding bathroom doors:

Level of awkward: MEGA AWKWARD
Level of necessity: Minor

There is no hiding the fact that I am male. Men tend to be solitary bathroom goers; I have seen more than one man turned away from a bathroom by “overcrowding” caused by one extra occupant. Many do not even begin to appreciate a door being held for them upon entering a bathroom. It probably reminds them of that fancy strip club they went to that one time their wife was out of town that they really don’t want to remember for obvious reasons. Either that or they feel their privacy is being infringed upon and another man is basically advertising that they are walking into the bathroom with them. As it stands, the Corporate Men’s Bathroom door hold may be the most awkward and difficult to pull off door hold in the entire known universe. The timing must be uncanny; not only do you have to match your walking pace with the other soon to be peer to reach to door at the correct time, you also have to be headed that way anyway without seeming like some creepster who follows dudes into the bathroom. This is incredibly difficult, as you feel like a creep even when the meeting is entirely accidental.

Conclusion:
The only time you can really get away with this one is upon exiting the bathroom. You can tactfully hold a door for someone who has just finished washing their hands, with little worry of social pariah status being projected upon you via questioning glares. It is highly recommended that you simply avoid joint bathroom visits whenever humanly possible; taking 4 flights of stairs to find an unoccupied bathroom to achieve this is completely acceptable. I cannot speak for thefemale side of things; I feel if I stand around waiting to hold the Women’s bathroom door, I’ll have much more to worry about than social awkwardness.


Holding the Front Door to the Office:

Level of awkward: Somewhat Awkward
Level of necessity: Medium/High

Unlike its bathroom based cousin, this door-hold is more common and more expected. It is also completely based upon the time you arrive at work in relation to all your coworkers. If you find yourself to be a sniveling, pathetic shell of a person, get in early or come in late to avoid having to share your entry with any of your coworkers. If you are the bold, daring sort, arrive at the office during peak entrance times to guarantee the maximum number of doors holds possible (my personal record is 6 at once!)

Even though this door hold is easy to plan, it is very important to get right. As covered in my above essay, timing is key with all correct door holds. Since most Corporate office doors are on the heavy side, you might consider holding the door far ahead of time, to prevent the all too common, “Oops, the door was heavier than anticipated, so I dropped it and it may have smacked you in an undesirable body part” problem. Every time you let a door slam into someone’s torso/leg/arm/child, you run the risk of that person claiming you are “incompetent” or “dangerously clumsy”. This must be avoided at all costs.  Be sure to hold the door completely, with both hands, while simultaneously moving your body out of the way of incoming traffic. This may be painful, but trust me, it’s worth it. That next bonus you get will have nothing to do with your performance, it will really be because everyone admires how deftly you handle the front door every morning.

Conclusion:

Don’t suck! This is the easy door hold in Corporate. You can screw up every other hold all day everyday, but still be redeemed if you get this one right. The only thing that may make it difficult is a secured entry (keypad or card swipey doo-dad), so be sure to arrive at the door in time to swipe, swing and stay. The three S’s. I just made that up, but it seems to make sense I think.


Holding the Door to the Building:

Level of awkward: Not Awkward to MEGA AWKWARD
Level of necessity: Low to  OMG DO IT

This one is a no-brainer. Hold the door for anyone; coworker, security guard, UPS guy, random vagrant, murderous looking guy wearing camouflage or maintenance person. You cannot discriminate here, if someone is coming in or going out with you, you have to hold the door, otherwise your principles could be called into question by a complete stranger. As long as you don’t let random people into your specific office, you’re golden. You will be completely absolved of all possible guilt in any subsequent situation if you follow the above advice.

If you decide to get picky, and not hold for some people, you may run into the classic, “I let the door limply swing shut so you had to reopen it, even though you are the CEO of a company 40 times the size of my own” syndrome. This is why you must never make an assumption about an entering individual, despite his attire or demeanor. Remember, everyone looks some kind of homeless on casual Friday.

Conclusion:

The outside door to the building is unlocked all day anyway, so it’s not really your problem if some crazy maniac gets into the building. Open all doors at all times without even thinking about the consequences. Just claim you’re, “thinking outside the box” and I promise you won’t get in trouble.

There is no Office, only Zool

May 17, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

Food does not last long in my office. Not because it spoils; there are more potent forces at work here than wussy mold and puny bacteria. It is consumed by the office en-mass; the cubes a black hole, the kitchen its event horizon. Anything edible, left in a remotely public area, disappears before most people even knew it was there. I am not saying this in disgust of my coworkers, but instead out of sheer amazement and obscure admiration. It takes a force of will (and stomach of iron) that I am not blessed with to pull off this voracious feat.

During the 2009 holiday season, one of our graphic designers brought in a fruitcake, as a joke. This “cake” was truly an abomination upon baking and there was little about it that even seemed edible, never mind palatable. The batter was some strange hybrid of pumpkin, spices and Devil’s Food Cake, while the haphazardly drizzled icing was of the burned cream cheese variety. I’m pretty sure she said she got it from Ross. This thing had green candied cherries. Green cherries. Even Sam I Am wouldn’t have touched this thing.

I have a rule that I will try almost anything once, so I managed to force down a very tiny sliver of this cake, much to the chagrin of my onlooking coworkers. The next hour could only be described as a fruitcake delirium, with my poor brain and stomach playing host to the nightmare. After recovering, I decided to place the cake as far from me as possible, which happened to be in our public kitchen. I left it there in hopes that someone would destroy it (if it even could be destroyed by conventional means) and went on my way.

I came back not an hour later to get some water (having been severely dehydrated from eating the cake) and noticed that the cake had not been destroyed, instead someone had actually eaten a slice. A slice much, much bigger than the one that ruined my morning. I couldn’t help but shudder at the idea of someone actually enjoying this monstrosity. I went back to the designer who had brought the cake and informed her of the development. She was amazed and said she felt a bit guilty, as she never expected anyone to actually eat it.

2 hours later, the cake was gone. Completely. Not thrown in the trash, not forcibly stuffed down the garbage disposal, not melted to oblivion in the microwave; just gone. It had been eaten. By my Office. I cannot pinpoint which individuals ate it, so I assume the shadowy entity that is the Office simply engulfed the cake in a Poltergeist style manner. I did not notice anyone convulsing in their cubicle, or otherwise acting as if they’d ingested something their body would reject, so it is impossible to discern the ultimate fate of the cake. It has given the Office sustenance, that is all I know.

This morning, around 9:30 AM, someone left a container of “Chocolate Cheesecake Fudge” in the kitchen. A small section of this (about the size of my fingernail) damn near put me into a diabetic coma. As of this post, the fudge is gone. While I have no empirical proof, I believe it has gone the way of the fruitcake.

Update:

Becca has informed me that “4 boxes of yellow creme filled, fudge covered, nasty cookies” disappeared from her office in a record 22 minutes. Perhaps this beast is larger than I initially guessed.

In an attempt to understand/study my workplace, I have created a flow-chart of how to handle food in and around the Office:

Food!


I’ll never defeat The Grump

May 14, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

This entire week, I have been tired. Not the normal “my job is not challenging so my brain is devolving into a primordial mush” tired, but legitimately and totally fatigued. It could stem from my poor sleep as of late; generally I sleep like a proverbial rock but recently the smallest noise or flux in temperature leaves me staring blankly at the ceiling at 3:00 AM.

This morning, my project manager made a point of stopping by my cube to announce with no remorse, “Oliver, you look bad.” Most normal people might be insulted by this, but the language barrier in our office forces one to not take things said at face value. It is a fun but frustrating game to try to discern the true message from an odd selection of seemingly random vocabulary. My assumption this time was that she meant, “tired” but substituted the blanket adjective, “bad” for simplicity’s sake. I suppose it is also entirely possible that I do in fact look “bad” as my dressing and grooming habits have not changed much since I was 12 years old. Let’s just hope the person in charge of paying me is not actually that blatantly mean.

The problem is that this tiredness is not a new thing. I have been battling the grog of morning since my earliest memories of childhood. I hated waking up to go to the airport, even if the ultimate goal was an awesome vacation. I was loathe to drag myself out of bed to go to school, not because I disliked education, but because of my bed-loving, dawn-hating, alternate personality. This is not just a strong aversion to mornings, this is full sleep deprivation inspired schizophrenia. Today, I have finally decided to name my dissociated persona, The Grump.

The Grump (not to be mistaken for the Grinch) is like a crotchety, dim-witted old man who lives in my subconscious, and only has any power over me for a few fleeting minutes right when I wake up. Even if I have had an undisturbed and otherwise restful night, The Grump makes an appearance,  trudging around being angry with any/all of the following:

-Cold drafts
-Sunlight
-Laughter
-Conversations
-Tile floors
-Laundry hampers
-Orange juice

There are many more things that could be added to that list, as the Grump does not discriminate in his morning hate. I have learned to control and even at times forcefully remove the Grump, but there are some mornings when still he catches me unaware.

The Grump is not invincible however, and can be stopped or slowed by using any/all of the following:

-Hot water
-Coffee
-Music (above 130 BPM)
–Pandora

If none of these things are available, the only other option is to wait The Grump out. He normally dissipates after 30 minutes or so, and is best avoided during this period.

There are only 2 mortals who truly know The Grump: Mummy and my Tiffany (Clearly Pandora has also seen him, but apparently there is something in feline DNA that makes them immune to The Grump). These two have faced the beast head-on, and from what I can gather when I regain cognitive composure, actually defeated his rampant pessimism. Normal, non-Grump Oliver would like to apologize to all of those who ever received rude gestures and savage grunts during the hours of 5:30 AM to 8:00 AM.

As of the writing of this post, The Grump has disappeared for the day. My project manager had a close brush with him this morning, but fortunately he had retreated to the depths of my brain before she made her interesting observation. I fear he may resurface soon, but fortunately tomorrow is Saturday, and The Grump has a tendency to sleep in.

Update:
Tiffany has pointed out that some cats are in fact vulnerable to The Grump, as seen below:

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