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It could snow

January 26, 2011 · by Oliver Gray

I heard that it might snow.

The man on the radio said it might snow. All of my coworkers told me we are getting anywhere from 2 inches to 7 feet. They saw it on TV, so I’m sure it’s accurate. There is even some slush on the ground, which means it tried to snow, which means it will probably really snow, which means we will have snow on top of the slush (which will be snow by the time it snows).

I understand the obsession with snow, because it only snows maybe 4-5 times a winter in this area. Such an amazing, rare event should definitely be covered very thoroughly by every possible media outlet. If I hadn’t been reminded by my radio, TV, friends, coworkers, cell phone, car, and various websites, I might have missed the news and crashed my car into other cars because of the surprise snow.

My advice to everyone is to leave work at least 5 hours early (to avoid the snow and other people driving in said snow) and beeline for the nearest grocery store. Be sure to buy plenty of soda, chips, raw meat, frozen pizzas and other disaster essentials (always assume the power won’t go out). Make sure to buy at least 3 weeks worth of food (don’t worry how silly it looks in your cart), in case it stays really cold for a while and the snow doesn’t melt quickly enough for you to escape the wintry tomb that was once your house.

When clearing off your paths/driveways/snow-covered-flat-things, be sure to shovel as quickly as possible, taking very few breaks. Lift large shovel-loads of snow using your back for extra leverage. If you feel faint, it means you’re doing it right. Drink plenty of alcohol while shoveling, as it will help keep you warm in the frigid climate.

Also be sure to remind everyone that you see that it might snow. Use clever and never-before-heard terms like, “snOMG” and “Snopocalypse”. These are witty and people will appreciate that you are both smart AND helpful. It is important we get the message out to as many as people as possible, so that they can get to a liquor store before the storm gets too intense.

I recommend making your Gmail, Facebook, and Twitter status somehow related to the snow. Try to make sure your phrases are topical and specific, like, “9-18 inches in Moco, holla atcha sleddas!”, “Alpha Omega Phi snow-ball fight in the quad at 2:00 am!”, “Snowed in on my half-birthday, so lame nature!” Exclamation points are key. Status updates let people know that you know, so that they don’t need to tell you.

Finally, be sure to comment on posts from anyone in the North East or Midwest who says, “Pfft, 2 inches is lame, we get 900 feet every week!” Be sure to remind them that we don’t get that much snow and people here “can’t drive lol”, plus the Metro sucks and stuff. Don’t worry if it seems irrelevant or lacks factual support, your irrational geographical pride is all you need to emphasize.

If we don’t get any snow, be sure to blame the weathermen, NOAA, FEMA, DHS, or anyone else who had no possible control over a massive meteorological event. Call your boss and try to pretend like you actually did get a ton of snow and you still can’t make it into the office.

When it snows in (your area) wild beardogwolves camp outside pizza shops, hoping to catch someone trying to 'rassle up some emergency pepperoni extra cheese pies. You have been warned.

NOTE: If you hear thunder while it is snowing, it means the four horsemen are riding down upon us to smite us for various/sundry/myriad sins. Make sure to update your status accordingly.

Excuses are like Elbows…

January 20, 2011 · by Oliver Gray

…everyone has a couple that they bend and flex to reach for what they want or push away what they don’t. I seem to be surrounded by people making excuses and bending their elbows, spending more time coming up with reasons as to why they can’t or didn’t do something than actually doing whatever it is they need to do.

Television is bogged down with shows about people making excuses as to why they’re fat, why they’re angry, why they’re damaged, or why they’re stupid. Every corner I turn has someone new making an excuse about why they did a crappy job, let someone down, or diffused responsibility inappropriately. I overhear coworkers blaming their personal deficiencies on others and proverbially throwing people under the bus, so that they don’t have to face any semblance of reality. It is actually so common an occurrence that I am taken aback when someone displays maturity and takes responsibility for their actions.

My weekly visits with the wizards are like huge excusefests, where every single person is either complaining that something involves a slight amount of work or outright refusing to do something because it is too hard. Most people go to physical therapy to fix some kind of problem, so avoiding doing the work to fix said problem seems counterintuitive. It is almost infuriating to hear these people prattle on about how unfair it is that they haven’t made any progress, when they just stand around half-assing all of the exercises that the trained medical professional with decades of experience tell them will help their recovery.

On top of becoming more accepting of laziness, rudeness, and idiocy, our society has also become far too tolerant of people making excuses. Most of the excuses aren’t even clever or original, they are just whiny generalities spewed forth whenever someone doesn’t want to try something. Married your spouse in a rush knowing nothing about them and now regret it deeply? Just get a divorce, why waste the time and energy to fix the relationship. Got fat from a lack of discipline, exercise, and an understanding of nutrition? Screw eating right and fitness, slap a lap-band on that stomach and get to losing that front-butt. Perhaps the root cause is the decline of the virtue of patience, but a culture that glorifies instant gratification also promotes giving up instead of practice and perseverance.

Some of us either don’t have the option or the lack of pride to simply give up when something becomes challenging. Some of us have broken excuses and elbows. I am not comfortable actively dodging my responsibilities and certainly believe that hard work is necessary for success in many cases. In the past 6 weeks, I have gained 20 degrees of movement in my busted-ass elbow (1o in each direction), with an almost 45 degree increase overall. This doesn’t sound like much, but when you consider that I only had 5 degrees of movement total when I got my cast off a few months ago, it is quite an achievement.

It fills me with a sense of satisfaction. I can honestly say that, regardless or anything else going on in my life, I have worked towards something meaningful. Progress is admittedly slower than I expected, but at the end of the day, even a 1 degree increase is something to celebrate. I truly enjoy working hard, whether with the wizards, in the loathsome office, or at my cheery little home; I can fall asleep at night, exhausted by a sense of satisfaction.

I wonder what sense of accomplishment excuses-makers have. While immediate, easy gratification or validation is nice at times, it hardly leaves a lasting sense of value. Do they know the exciting energy of finally nailing every note in a song that you have been practicing for months? Do they get the warm-fuzzies when someone genuinely thanks them for all the help they have selflessly put forth? Do they even acknowledge that hard work can lead to an overwhelming sense of self worth?

I worry that the children of my generation may not know the awesome feeling of real achievement, and will only loosely associate the word with meaningless victories and participation trophies. It will be a sad day for them when they realize that despite all of their parent’s/teacher’s/coach’s/tutor’s/piano instructor’s/therapist’s reassurance that everyone is a winner, there are in fact losers. Participation doesn’t count for shit if you don’t finish the game.

Everyone is a winner or alive enough to be handed a trophy!

I feel like Gulliver, but in Part 2 of his Travels

January 18, 2011 · by Oliver Gray

I’m pretty sure that Jonathan Swift could have beaten the hell out of Jack Black. I mean, he supported eating babies, if only in satire.

Most who haven’t studied British literature do not know that Gulliver’s Travels consisted of 4 parts – each with different themes and allegorical commentary on the British government and culture – and even fewer know that it has never been out of print since 1726. Each part describes some wacky land that Gulliver visits, which lend themselves well to children’s entertainment. The well known first part, in which Gulliver finds himself a giant in Lilliput, is a mirror image of the second part. Instead, Gulliver is blown off course and arrives in “Brobdingnag”; a land where he is a tiny man in a land of giants.

As a teenager, everything seemed right. I never noticed any glaring disproportion around me, perhaps because teenagers by their very nature are oblivious to anything but their immediate surroundings. Lack of world wisdom aside, I can remember only 10 years ago when many things seemed moderate and there were no surge fads of indulgence or gluttony. I remember eating normal things in normal amounts, driving on normally sized roads in normally sized cars, and remember a public that was of normal size, with normally sized attitudes.

Now, I find myself a contemporary reflection of Swift’s main-man; a small lad in a land of giant things. I am by no means large, topping off at 5’7 and weighing in a 145 lbs. I drive a small car, play small instruments, date a small (but very pretty) lady, and generally prefer things to be not very huge. I dislike massive cities, oversized chairs, and people who are condescendingly tall. While I may have a propensity towards small, I definitely have an aversion to ginormous.

A marked change in size snuck up on me, and only in the last few years have I really noticed the shift. I understand that America is a “go big or go home” country, but I fear things are getting out of hand. Starbucks recent announcement is just one of many in a trend of making things ridiculously large. In the past few years, I have seen cupcakes, sandwiches, and beverages all rise to incredible sizes, with no real explanation as to why. Bigger is not always better, especially when considering the impact on health and finances that these enlarged lifestyles will ultimately have.

A few years ago, while still in college, I spoke candidly to a representative from RedBull, about their new, 16.9 oz cans. I was once an advocate of energy drinks (mainly because I had to write many papers in short periods of time) and was curious as to why they would release such a huge can, when their original 8 oz can contained more than enough oomph. His answer was shockingly blunt. He told me that based on clinical trials, “larger Americans” were no longer satisfied with the original size, and needed something bigger/stronger. Caffeine is mitigated by fat, in a similar fashion to alcohol, meaning that obese people are less sensitive to the “wing-inducing” effect and need more precious nectar to get legally stimulated.

So as the people grow, the products grow. This seems to be the new-age cycle of consumption; if we require more of a substance to be sated, the demand goes up, and the size increases, regardless of the ramifications. I remember when a foot-long sub was a shit load of food, now it seems to be common fair for a “light” lunch. Cupcakes are no longer little joyful treats, but have become caloric monsters that dwarf and shame their humble ancestors. Even soft drinks (which were, during the time of Soda-shops, a once-in-a-while treat) surround us at every turn, and are readily available in strange places like craft stores and banks.

But this size escalation does not stop at food. As the population grows, so do the amenities. 8 passenger cars clog the road-ways, driven by a single adult who has never even used the back row of seats. King sized hotel room beds have become expected, and not for the luxury of more space. Clothes shopping has become a drawn out ordeal if you are a normal size; when I was 16 I could find a pair of size 30 jeans without much problem, now I get to pick through a half dozen pairs under size 40 and hope that my completely cinched up belt will make up the difference.

It seems the only thing that isn’t growing is me. I try my best not to be swayed by a culture that screams, “consume!” I am fighting what is becoming the norm, mainly because I disagree with the direction it is moving.

Gulliver, when taken to visit the Queen of Brobdingnag, tells her of the wonders of England. He attempts to regale the King and Queen with stories of English technology and social advancements, but to his surprise, everyone laughs at him. They find his technology quaint and unnecessary and his bravado contrived. He becomes little more than source of entertainment, whose wisdom is silly and whose notions are antiquated.

In a world of encouraged overindulgence, I understand how Gulliver felt. I trust that many people ignore or mock my advice about nutrition or fitness or sensible spending, because they refuse to acknowledge that their habits might be unhealthy for themselves and the planet. I may not be a source of entertainment, but I certainly feel alienated. Somehow in the midst of product placement and fast-food chains less than a mile apart, the norm has changed. Being healthy is somehow less acceptable, and the insult of calling someone skinny is slowly replacing that of calling someone fat. It may sound strange, but as our culture literally grows, our expectations of image are reversed, and those who were normal before suddenly get shafted for doing nothing more than holding onto tradition. The normal of my childhood is no longer normal.

Perhaps one day, when there is enough tangible proof that this gigantification of the entire American life-style is wholly self-destructive, the perception of normality will shift again. It is impossible to guess; only science fiction dares dabble in the weird worlds of tomorrow. What will remain true is the allegory set forth by our man J-Swizzle; there will always be people outside of the norm who will think their norm is correct. Whether they are wrong or not is a matter of perception and as soon as you travel somewhere else, those perceptions are thrown out the window. Those who exist in the middle world of no extremes will always have the challenge of conforming or dealing with the issues that come with nonconformity.

So what will it be? Shall I remain a Gulliver in Brobdingnag, or will a feverish fitness trend create a world of amazingly fit people, making me more like a Gulliver in Liliput? Maybe we’ll all evolve into Horse people or Wizards, negating any concern over changes in the norm, as everything will be totally crazy. Crazy and awesome.

What's all this then?

Rock the Corporate

January 14, 2011 · by Oliver Gray

Today I wore a mohawk to work. I got out of the shower and my hair was already half-hawked, so I decided to just run with it. It’s not the most massive plume to ever wave atop someone’s skull, but I’m pretty proud of it. I may be taking too many liberties with the concept of “casual friday”, but if women in the office can wear hats that make them look like train conductors, I didn’t think a little spike would be too offensive.

While a simple adjustment of the hair might seem tame to those who are aggressively independent and edgy, the office I slave away in is particularly sensitive to youthful frivolity. We play host to a rather…international…cast, many of who are obviously not quite settled with the idea of free-thought and non-traditionalism. They often complain when people wear sneakers but simultaneously dress themselves like extras from the original 1984 Miami Vice.

The reaction I got was hilariously expected. Upper management obviously did not love the look, and offered nervous glances; maybe this outward show of stereotypical rebellion made them worry that I might throw a chair through a window or incite a riot at any minute. I’m not exactly known as a bad boy in this office; my typical jab at the dress code is not shaving for 3-4 days at a time. For kicks, I also wore my leather jacket, an olive green union jack t-shirt, a trendy scarf, paint-stained jeans, and to top off the look, my mirrored aviators.

There is something liberating and satisfying about a mohawk. It’s like wearing an out stretched middle finger on your head, all day, that you can point at anyone to subtly say, “Hey, yea, I don’t give a shit.” I don’t actively hide the fact that I dislike the atmosphere and people in this office (here, here, and here), so it is a nice feeling to somehow get away with being a dick, without people knowing I’m being a dick, without actually being a dick. I don’t really want to be mean spirited, but it is rather vindicating to intentionally make people uncomfortable after they have made the hours of my life from 8:30 AM -5:30 PM so miserable for so long.

I think I actually scared our program director; she can’t seem to make direct eye contact with me today. I never realized a palm full of product could make me into such an imposing, 5 foot 7 inch, bad ass. Maybe if I put on some Sex Pistols and do air guitar while standing on my desk, people will leave me alone for the day. A boy can dream.

Anarchy in the UK, and such.

...And people say I don't have any style.

The Luddite Dilemma

January 12, 2011 · by Oliver Gray

For those of you unfamiliar with the etymology of the term, the Luddites were a group 19th century British textile workers who physically and politically opposed the Industrial Revolution. It was their belief that the mechanization of production would eliminate jobs, encourage shoddy workmanship, and ultimately cause the downfall of the entire industry. The term has evolved since and now is used to reference anyone who is opposed to, or incapable with, modern technology.

Many people use the term in self-deprecation; suggesting that they, in their misunderstanding and incompetence, somehow represent the Luddites in their quest against progress. While I appreciate and admire the use of an archaic term, this comical application doesn’t quite encompass my definition of the word. To be a Luddite, one must be vehemently opposed to (even if only subconsciously) technology, automation, and most importantly, progress.

Those who know me might say that I am in some ways a Luddite, as I have voiced concerns over the necessity of things like smart phones and 3-D televisions; but I never argued that these things should not exist. I recognize the impact that smart phones have had on our culture, and do not oppose the idea, I simply oppose the reliance on a singular gadget by so many for so many things. I worry that a generation raised with all the world’s knowledge in their pocket will never know the joys of reading a book and having to go find a dictionary to look up a word; hell, they may never even need to read a book, which I find quite depressing. It is a different matter to understand and be able to functionally use a piece of technology and oppose it for educated reasons, than it is to disdain and denounce something because its strange magicks are like voodoo to your voluntarily primitive mind. The latter describes my kind of Luddite, and unfortunately, their breed is just as prevalent today as it was at the turn of the century.

At a point in the late 90s, it was sort of cute to be a technological dunce. People made jokes that they didn’t know which button turned their computer on, that their CD-ROM drive was really a cup holder, and the internet consisted solely of animated GIFs of fire and men digging figurative HTML holes. We, as a culture, accepted this attitude, especially from an older generation of people who had never needed a computer and had little to no experience operating one. It was like a 16 year old learning to drive a car; we laughed lightly at their attempts to parallel park but knew someday they would master at least some of the subtleties of driving.

The analogy between computers and driving stops there. While it is a given that most people will eventually figure out enough about driving to not crash into something every time they turn the wheel, the same cannot be said about people who fire-up their computers. The mindless majority often don’t realize that they are driving around a controlled explosion, nor do they really understand how their vehicle works, but at least they understand how to use it (ie. push the pedals and turn the wheel) and what not to do to it (crash into things). No such assumption can be made about someone with a computer; owning and using a computer does not guarantee the development of an appropriate skill set. Somehow in the cosmic chaos, education on computing was left as an optional check box, which most people left blank.

My experience as a desktop support monkey has provided me with years of anecdotal proof of this strange phenomenon, and my current position as a young professional in a sea of old-schoolers has seen daily frustration at the hands of those with an aversion to technology. It seems strange that a tool which promotes efficiency and convenience would be so widely misused and under appreciated, but too many people, a lot of them who can’t even claim age as an excuse, seem to be willfully ignorant when it comes to anything that has to do with a computer. The sad fact is that this aversion is no longer OK; computers are no longer a cutting-edge, fringe concept that can be ignored, they are integral to functioning normally in this new age. Being old-school only works if you are actually old.

A computer is, despite its complexities, a tool. If your life required you to constantly adjust screws, after a while, you would figure out how to skillfully use a screw driver. It would take a very special mind to struggle with the concept of a piece of metal that you rotate in your hand. While a computer is a much more sophisticated tool, the basic principle remains the same. After months (sometimes years) of daily use, a user should learn what their computer does, and why it does it. They should also learn what it cannot do, and what happens when you do the wrong things. Ultimately, they should develop an understanding, without any formal training, of how their tool functions and in what capacities. To not garner any insight after years and years of using a tool either suggests that the person is incapable of learning at all, or for some reason actively refuses to learn anything about computing.

The latter has to be the truth, otherwise we have to surmise that we live in a society where there are millions of people somehow surviving with debilitating learning disabilities. Since that is obviously not the case (ignoring Jersey Shore fans and the entire {and future} cast of 16 and Pregnant for the moment) there has to be a deeper reason as to why the normal, heuristic method of learning does not apply to computers. My only guess is that somehow, the complicated roots of very early computing still vex everyday users, who simply refuse to acknowledge that using a computer is now easy. I truly think the majority of people manifest their own destiny with the presumption that using a computer is beyond them, as only highly skilled nerds who dedicate their lives to the mystical intricacies of coding and software development can possibly use such a dense piece of machinery.

This overarching concept is what companies like Apple built their entire marketing platform on. When I see an Apple product, all I can think is, “Who cares how it works? It’s pretty and it just does.” Apple removes the fear of using a computer by taking away any challenge or risk and they have fallen all over themselves to prove this to their target audience. Don’t want to deal with the terrifying (but easily avoidable) world of VIRUSES?!?! Get an Apple, we don’t get scary viruses, so you’ll be fine. People love this concept; the imaginary complications are taken away, and suddenly, they are masters of their technology.

Unfortunately, with safety comes limitation. Apple tends to “lock people in”, telling them what software they can and can’t use, forcing them to purchase everything related to their computer through them, and ultimately taking away any freedom of computing. Their clever guise of accessibility and safety obviously works, but it does nothing to solve the original problem of people fearing their computers. The irony is that the same feeling of safety can be achieved using any operating system on any computer from any manufacturer.

Awareness is key. The majority of problems people experience comes from them not knowing what they’re doing, but more specifically not caring that they don’t know what they’re doing. I use a Windows based PC, spend a lot of time on the internet, don’t run any virus protection software, and yet – gasp – I never get any viruses. How then, do people with Norton, McAffee, Avast, Kepersky or any of the other hundred Anti-virus protection suites manage to get dozens of malicious objects every month? I do have a passion for computing, but I am hardly more intelligent or dedicated than your average user. The difference is that over time, I have learned not to download attachments from people I don’t know, I’ve learned what websites are sketchy simply from a glance, and I’ve learned that the person using the computer makes all of the decisions, not the other way around.

I am sick to death of people claiming they “did nothing” to their computers. I hate to tell you, but if you just plugged your computer in and turned it on, it would do absolutely nothing until a piece of hardware died. That could take years. When your computer “acts up” or “has a mind of its own”, it’s because of something you (or someone who used the computer) did, not because there is a goblin living inside of it who is hell bent on ruining your day. There a relatively few problems that are caused solely by a piece of software going ballistic, and these only usually manifest themselves after the user has thoroughly abused their machine. It is not only time to embrace computer education, but also time to stop diffusing the responsibility of computer problems by claiming some invisible, malevolent force screwed it up without your knowledge. There is nothing magical about a computer; it works just like your toaster – bread in, toast out. If you pour Gatorade into your toaster because you don’t know better…don’t expect toast.

If a person is lagging behind the norm in 2011, chances are they will be behind until they die. It is almost too late to try and play catch up now; if you were too slow to fully grasp file formats, basics of websites, word processing, and the difference between CC and BCC, by the time you do, there will be a hundred other things you have to learn. I am not saying that a person shouldn’t try to educate themselves, nor do I expect everyone to be able to solve any problem that ever arises related to technology. I do wish people would embrace, instead of eschew, what is undoubtedly the future of American society. Sooner than later it won’t be “regrettably endearing” that you can’t function around a computer, it will be unacceptable and ultimately make you look stupid.

So to all those Luddites out there actively or subconsciously trying to avoid learning something new, I say wake up. The digital age is no longer dawning. It has long since dawned, it is about 1:42 PM, and the midday sun is shining on your still-sleeping face.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

December 1, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

Despite popular belief that has been perpetuated by popular TV, you do not need to be a barfly, womanizer, or functional alcoholic to maintain a healthy circle of friends; you need only injury yourself and find the nearest physical therapy office. After only a few sessions, the reception staff, therapists, trainers, interns and other patients know you and many details about your life quite well. Perhaps it is the caring nature of those who choose rehabilitation as a career or the innate empathy that is offered to injured people that creates and atmosphere of acceptance and serenity.

The typical Physical Therapy office is a magical, mystical place filled with colored putties and odd machines, the purpose of which you can only loosely surmise. There are kindly wizards who will zap your injuries with lightning and other benevolent assistants clad in identical vestments, presumably undergoing some sort of neophytic wizarding ritual. Aside from those who provide the care, the office is normally filled with the everyday citizens of all the neighboring kingdoms; trolls, goblins, gremlins, kobolds, gnolls, creeping oozlings, ogres, bandits, brigands, nameless horrors and even a unicorn or two.

Combining a bunch of strangers experiencing varying amounts of pain in one small location seems like a bad idea. I can imagine a scenario where someone would go ballistic from acute pains causing more pain to themselves and nearby pain sufferers. The person going berserk might topple some heavy equipment and scare the older patients. The cataclysmic cascade of pain would create a veritable chaos unseen since the dark ages. Fortunately, despite mentally debilitating pain and discomfort, the patients in a PT office are generally benign. Whether it be the the overtly friendly staff, bright lighting, or subtle background music, something keeps the place surprisingly upbeat. I tend to stay optimistic as I know that wallowing in a mire of sadness and self-pity won’t make my arm any more flexible; maybe this is the prevailing mentality for all patients. Maybe the wizards cast a happy spell every morning; I don’t know, I’ve never caught them in their robes.

The exercises you are given are tedious and irritating, mostly because you feel so awkward doing them. Normally, bicep curls would not bother me, but when you are grimacing and awkwardly jerking around a bar that weighs a paltry 3 pounds, you feel quite silly. You are also provided a little timer that beeps when you are supposed to stop/switch an exercise. This is your inanimate guide to a PT session, chirping loudly when you are to move along. The therapists actually do very little during the first 80% of each session and spend most of their time floating about like factory foreman, pointing out flaws in technique or suggesting you, “slow down”. I think some of the wizards underestimate my magical aptitude.

During this time, you are often doing a repetitive motion that requires almost no cognitive processing power, leaving your mind to wander and think about the mysteries of the universe. My metaphysical pondering is often interrupted by a nearby goblin asking me how I got injured and then launching into an unsolicited 22 minute rant about how they got injured. I am usually bored/tired enough to play along, commiserating and saying, “aww” when appropriate. This seems to be the M.O. for the unchaperoned portion of a PT session. Patients ramble quietly too each other, reminiscing about pre-injury days until their beeper goes off/runs out of batteries. The wizards do not like it when the beeper is not silenced immediately which is understandable, as it is pretty damn annoying.

This week, I met a man who has been in therapy for 8 months because, and I quote, “someone tried to kill him but didn’t”. His story is quite compelling; he was mugged at a gas station for the $8 in his wallet and left bloodied for 2 hours until another customer found him. He had trauma to his neck, back, left forearm, and right leg. He is a fan of Real Madrid and told me he lost $500 to his nephew in a holiday-time bet that they would beat local rivals Barcelona. He is a pretty nice dude and I don’t know why someone would want to kill him. I hope the wizards fix him quickly.

Another woman, who seems to have a schedule identical to mine, is recovering from back surgery. She slipped a disk in her back at work (she is a registered nurse and probably has the worst bedside manner on the east coast) and now claims to have horrible burning sensations in both her legs. She moves quite well despite this claim, but does a fine job of whining non-stop throughout her entire appointment. When asked why she wasn’t taking her pain medication, she told them to, “stop trying to make her an addict” and said hydrocodone (Vicodin) would let the doctors, “control her brain.” The wizards clearly dislike her.

I also met the local commander of law; he had injured himself in a high speed horse chase or something. He had already had one knee replaced and was planning to have the other replaced as soon as he recovered from the first. His son plays hockey which, according to this man, was superior to soccer in every possible way. I did not argue with him, because he had a gun and handcuffs. The wizards seemed dismayed that he only came to appointments when he felt like it (which apparently was not very often).

After the social time is over, one of the therapists comes over to you to cast some healing spells and zap you with lightning. The lightning is not too painful, but the other things they do are very, very painful. They will apply heat and then bend your injured extremity at extreme angles. They will make you resist their attempts to bend your joint all about to “test strength”. They will even squeeze, rub, and otherwise man-handle your poor, sore appendage to stimulate nerve activity and blood flow. This goes on for about 25-30 minutes. When they are finally finished with their work, you kind of don’t like wizards for a while, but that feeling wears off when you realize they were actually hurting you for your benefit…somehow.

Twice a week you visit the wizard and meet your new, odd friends in the clean-smelling office. Twice a week you are told the same stories or get minor updates on how many degrees a person can bend something or other. Twice a week you spend money to let someone physically hurt you. It’s a very weird phenomenon, but given my progress thus far, a very necessary one.

The wizards gave me some magical clay to help speed my recovery. It is hard to sculpt, but I tried anyway (since that is probably good therapy). I have included some pictures of its awesomeness below:

I meticulously shaped it into a tofu cube.

Then I made it into a cobra, which in retrospect looks a little like a poo.

The poo-snake transformed into a sea turtle with a dented shell.

And then the turtle changed into the goddamn Batman.

Fiction from Fact

November 16, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

I wrote this a few months ago, but never did anything with it. Instead of just letting it rot in my Google Docs, I thought I’d just dump it here. In case the title didn’t make it clear, the following is fictional and should be digested accordingly.

A long bow seemed ideal. You read about their historical military prowess, their unmatched ability to rain death upon hundreds of enemy soldiers, but in practice they are awkward and inaccurate. Even more so in the close confines of a corporate office. I wish someone had told me this yesterday; I probably would have opted for the more traditional bullet and gunpowder combination. Now I’m stuck here with a quiver of razor sharp arrows and a 6 foot tall bow that barely clears the ceiling of this hell hole. This is the last time I let a video game influence my method of genocide.

I sighed deeply as I drifted back into reality, silently chastising myself for chastising myself in a day dream. A long bow would be an excellent weapon with which to stealthily murder my coworkers, if I worked on a farm. Two nineteen. What time did I get here this morning? Does it even matter? I checked my email, the usual stream of malformed sentences was noticeably slow today. A few more hours and I could upgrade from bored to frustrated as I sit through mile after mile of purposeless traffic. My life is sweet.

In America, the constant driving idea from birth to pre-college is that we are special. We are unique. We are glorious aberrations of the norm, capable of curing world hunger after we score the game winning touchdown. But we are not. We are for the most part completely average piles of wet cells, only made slightly identifiable by whatever act we manage to put on daily. The only thing that distinguishes one from the bunch, is the acknowledgment and acceptance of this idea. Where they go from there, no one really knows.

I always wanted to be a dragon. They did say we could be whatever we wanted; no exceptions. They also failed to mention the fact that this idea is complete bunk, and we are relegated to a select number of roles in life, heavily influenced by our socio-economic standing and emotional stability. Isn’t it odd that no one ever dreams of being a technical writer as a kid, yet there are tens of thousands of them trudging into their poorly lit cubicles daily? And what of the poor garbage men, who aspired to be pirates and lion-tamers? All the childhood lies; no wonder everyone in this country is so self-destructive.

Three twenty eight. I opened an attachment, pretending I had something interesting to do. A shadow passed behind me, likely a coworker stomping noisily to a meeting. I returned to my casual web browsing, occasionally bringing up a random word document if I felt someone coming to spy on me. Three fifty six. I sent an email to my supervisor, explaining for the 12th time the situation with our web server; it was still down, as was to be expected with no one trying to fix it. I had previously offered to repair it myself, but felt the swift hand of politically driven bureaucracy slap me for having an independent thought. God forbid anyone use any applicable skills in this office.

Four forty eight; close enough. I shut my computer down hurriedly, wanting nothing more than to avoid the almost inevitable confrontation with one or more of my coworkers. The sign out pen was missing, again.

I entered my normal commuting trance; something that flirts with both danger and necessity. Forty minutes had passed before I was startled back into full cognition by steadily approaching brake lights. After gathering myself, I realized I was still a solid thirty minutes from home. In what properly functioning world does it take roughly 110 minutes to travel 30 miles by car? My mood began to sour, and with it my opinion of every other driver on the road. I took to another ritual, creating correlations between car types or accessories, and their subsequent driving skills. A rear mounted Jesus fish normally meant oblivious and erratic, where as a cardboard spoiler and giant muffler normally meant aggressive and arrogant. After a few minutes all of my stereotypical assumptions were confirmed and I sat once again mindlessly bored in a sea of red lights.

I remembered I had one pale ale left in my fridge. My mood lightened significantly. I managed to clumsily locate an audio book I had stashed for just such traffic emergencies, and fumbled to insert it into the CD player while shifting into 2nd gear. I zoned back out as Doug Bradley began a whimsically archaic reading of HP Lovecraft’s “The Tomb”. Before Jervas Dudley had even began his true descent into prophesied madness, I was pulling into my driveway. Another day, another dollar.

Sixty twenty. The same ritual every morning; get up and turn off the alarm so that I can argue with myself for another 40 minutes if I am going to work that day. The sleep deprived, real me, argues a brief respite; the pragmatic, robotic me, argues necessity and duty. The robot normally wins. I shake back to life in an overly hot shower, hoping nonsensically that a stream of water will somehow wash away my perpetual apathy. I neglect shaving for the 5th day in a row; I often take for granted that I am blessed with generally non offensive facial hair, and can get away with a trendy “scruff”. A button on my shirt is missing. My pants are wrinkled. I don’t care.

Another 50 minutes of concentrated hell, predominantly filled with brakes and honks and caffeine crazed maniacs. The behemoths of the road bellow their polluting roars, deafening those unfortunate enough to be alongside them. Ribbons of black smoke drift into the sky, and I can’t help but lament the futility of my yearly emissions check. I noticed a woman who was actually asleep while driving about 40 miles an hour; I didn’t know whether to be terrified or impressed. I honked out of sheer curiosity. Her head flung forward as to say, “Yes! I am here!”, as she looked around confusedly. She seemed shocked to be in a car, never mind driving said car. She looked my way; I smiled. She frowned.

I took my usual parking spot, close enough to the entrance that I could avoid a chance meeting the little angry woman who runs the deli in our building. I had stopped frequenting the store after I discovered a packet of ranch dressing predating 9/11, and she had actively noticed my absence. It all came to culmination when she cornered me near the elevators, berating me with malformed interrogations like, “Why no you come no mo?”, and “We need customa; how we make money with no customa?”. I tend to just avoid eye-contact with her now.

Back to my cube. I must confess that I am one of the aforementioned tens of thousands of technical writers who trudge into their poorly lit cubes each day. The irony is that I do not technically write, in terms of the workload and the pun. I get assorted odd tasks that sometimes border on something I’m actually qualified to do, but mostly fill my day with menial tasks that I could have done at 13 years old. I find myself trying to draw parallels to my work throughout the day, comparing levels of difficulty to other things I do in life. Burning CDs because no one else seems to know how is about as difficult as making pasta. Updating the website rates near Left4Dead on Normal difficulty. The cognitive attention needed to complete these tasks is probably a better comparison, but the absurd analyst inside me loves to create ridiculous mental associations.

The drudgery and florescent lighting make me drift off from time to time, mainly to realms of reminiscence and fantasy. Day dreams of the latter are normally uninspired recreations of movie scenes or video game levels where I have somehow become the protagonist. The prior is much more interesting, as I find myself reliving what I dub “The Salad Days” of my youth. My “youth” seems like a silly term as I am barely a quarter century old, but I do long for the time of loose responsibility and emotional freedom. My spreadsheets blur into memories of bad but fun decisions and first beers. I look fondly upon my days of reckless abandon, when I relished every second of life. Sixteen year old me would kick my ass if he saw me sitting here, wasting away, taking orders from cretins in power suits and ties.

My supervisor came to my cube. Nine thirty two. He was interested in the web server. I explained to him, for the 13th time now, that the server was down, and would not come back up until someone restarted the IIS service. He nodded. I assumed he had no idea what I was talking about. I had to bite my tongue to withhold a passive-aggressive remark. He told me to submit at IT ticket, as if I hadn’t thought of that myself. I let him think he had the situation under control; I had already requested the IP address for the server, and was going to fix it as soon as the IT overlords granted me access to their precious out of date hardware. To hell with “proper procedure”. Nine thirty nine; another worthless 7 minutes.

Surreptitiously fixing the server proved harder than envisioned. It took me a solid hour to locate the root issue, but once I did, all was well in the kingdom. I reported to my supervisor that the IT team must have finally fixed the issue, and closed my outstanding ticket. Selfless fixes seemed to be my modus operanus, so I shrugged off another accomplishment that someone else would now get credit for. The IT team could use the good news, either way. I went back to my duties, sloshing through HTML and thrown together documents, doing what I could to edit them into something better than, “crap”.

How do people do this for 40+ years?

I’m Overcoming Adversity!

November 3, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

Now that I have been released from my fiberglass prison, I am ready to undertake the seemingly arduous adventure of joint recovery. Everyone, from doctors to random acquaintances, claim it will be a difficult and painful journey. They suggest I may mature and grow spiritually from the experience. But most of all, they emphasize the fact that my near future will be indescribably hard.

I think not.

I have heard people loosely throw around the phrase captured in the title of this post, in regards to myriad life complications including injuries, disabilities, diseases, and social intolerance. It is used in a praising context, suggesting that a person is strong and brave in their triumph over adversity. My angle on the entire phenomenon is very different, and I feel that the people who cower and fail in the face of adversity are just quitters.

I realize that cancer and other wholly debilitating diseases make my broken arm (and other historical injuries) look like a frivolous walk in the park. Regardless of that, my injury was about as catastrophic as a physical bone-related injury can get. I stand by the fact that I would embrace this philosophy in the face of ANY challenge; be in physical, emotional, spiritual or supernatural. Life remains too amazing and full of potential to be defeated so easily by a corporeal malady. Bones will break, cells will degrade, people will be assholes, and life will remain a general bitch as long as you draw breath.

The solution comes in attitude. If you roll over and die after some tragedy befalls you, accepting your fate, then you deserve said fate. I do not see the act of overcoming a challenge as something one should be commended for, but something that is a natural part of human life. Giving up is a failure, while kicking the situation’s metaphysical ass is a success, and should be expected. By all means, express your amazement or admiration for someone’s ability to overcome something that by all means should be difficult, but do not exalt it to some superhuman status.

According to the general public, I am currently “overcoming adversity”. It really doesn’t feel that way. I feel like I should be striving to return to a healthy state of being for myself, my family, my vocation and my ever-present sense of self-satisfaction. I suggest we start helping those people who are struggling with their difficult, unfortunate situations, instead of wasting our energy telling people who just so happen to get on with their lives how proud we are of them. The people who overcome need the least support; start helping the people who can’t seem to get themselves out of the quagmire of desperation that often accompanies a life changing event.

If you go into a situation assuming it will be difficult, your self-defeating prophecy may just come true. If you go into a situation with a, “ok, sweet, what’s next!” attitude, you may just come out OK. Optimism is difficult when everyone reminds you that you may never be able to reach your head with your left hand again. I recognize this. To those people, I say, “fuck you!”. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but seriously, sod off. Being realistic is important to keep someone grounded, but it can also cause a spiral of despair some people are not ready to handle.

To my fellow Adversity Overcomers; do not fret! Well, you can fret your guitar if it will help with physical therapy, but do not fear! Doctors have to be pragmatists by the nature of their profession and the general litigiousness of the field. Take nothing at face value. It was once suggested by a very reputable orthopedist that I may never play soccer again after a serious leg break. I was running and playing 10 months later. Nothing is impossible, and impossible is nothing.

I am prepared to make this recovery my bitch. Sure there may be some pain, and yea, I may never be able to beat Rafael Nadal one-on-one. Some things you have to live with. I will despair for cathartic purposes, but will not let it consume me. The human body is capable of amazing feats, have some pride in yourself and your future, and nothing is too big to hold you down. To all those out there with broken bones and welling tears, I quote all around optimist, Norman Vincent Peale:

“Life’s blows cannot break a person whose spirit is warmed at the fire of enthusiasm.”

Thumbs Up!

Itchy, Itchy, Scratchy, Scratchy

October 13, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

It’s not all bad.

An injury can be quite sobering, especially if it impacts your well developed routine. It’s very easy to take things, even those that are very important to you, for granted when you’re able-bodied. Stupid things that normally take no cognitive thought become herculean feats of strength. Do you have any idea how hard it is to put on socks with one hand?

It forces your brain out of its comfort zone and tests the very limits of your creative thinking. Healthy limbs and surfaces of your body take on new roles and your manual strength and dexterity is tested at every turn. I’ve found ways to open bottles one-handed, sort the mail one-handed, even apply deodorant, to both armpits, one-handed. Some people may resign themselves to not doing certain things while injured, but I am far too stubborn to be so fatalistic when I still have some capacities.

I may not go to the extreme of driving or playing guitar with my feet, but I have been using them for unorthodox purposes. I can use my left foot in conjunction with my right hand to create a grip with a much wider span, or put my feet together to grasp something while my good hand opens/adjusts it. Years of soccer have given my toes freakish strength, which comes in very handy for picking up assorted items that are out of reach due to the injury.

But beyond forcing a new kind of adaptation, an injury ruins some of your favorite activities. Like the realization that all of your entertainment is electronic during a power outage, I was faced with the realization that all of my favorite hobbies rely heavily on having two free hands. Playing a stringed instrument: two hands. Using a computer efficiently: two hands. Reading a book: two hands. Dressing oneself: two hands. Showering: two hands.

All of your innate learning wants your body to use both hands, but a screaming stop sign of pain quickly reminds you of reality. Your arm becomes a cumbersome dangly part; good for getting in the way or making you look mentally handicapped at best. The easy route would be to lie in bed until cast removal day, but some of us don’t get that kind of time off work.

Instead I began to appreciate what I was missing. I took my left hand for granted, using the most literal definition of the phrase. My mini jam sessions will be all the more sweet from here on out, as I’ve tasted life without my music. I will cherish any feeling in my hands, cold or hot, good or bad, just because I know realize how terrible prolonged numbness feels. I’ve reawakened my appreciation for the little things in my life and all it took was one catastrophic injury!

There are many things I have found joy in, in an otherwise miserable period. I learned that the harmonica is one of the only instruments you can play one handed, and is fun as hell to boot. I rediscovered the joy of classic, turn-based video games that don’t require the frenetic response time of their contemporary brothers. I taught myself to take pride and garner a sense of accomplishment from the perfunctory, because I opened that can of cat food all by myself, dammit. Life becomes simple and your brain goes a little Pennsylvania dutch; it doesn’t matter that you’re not building an HD TV satellite, it just matters that your overalls are clean and that you can wear a sweet beard in public.

I have to mention the one bastion of sanity that an injured person can cling to even in the darkest of times, that I have embraced like a mother: scratching itches. A cast, while protective and stylish, is a hellish prison full of itch-monsters, hell-bent on driving you insane with impossibly placed, difficult to scratch itches. They will wake you up in the night, tickling or poking the hardest to reach areas of your wound, until you maniacally laugh or depressingly cry out of sheer frustration.

I had a theory in high school, that the total pleasure experienced from scratching itches outweighed the total pleasure experienced from sexual gratification over a lifetime, but unfortunately I cannot back it up with anything empirical. Scratches itched inside a cast are the mangum opus of a career featuring thousands of bug bites and the worst poison-plant induced rashes.

When you finally manage to satisfactorily scratch the itch, a euphoria, that I can only assume is like doing a buttload of Ecstasy while watching The Incredibles, washes over you. Your knees quiver and a chorus of angels sing praise hymms in your name. Small, furry animals flock to you and hippie folk musicians sing of your triumph. You may even black out. It it quite possibly one of the most rewarding physical experiences in the scope of human feeling.

Getting to these itches is an art in itself. Some suggest vibrating the cast from the outside with a personal massage tool (nudge nudge wink wink, say no more), but I found this only marginally effective. Others suggest using a can of compressed air to “shoot” air down into your cast. The thought of liquid nitrogen leaking out into my cast and incisions negates the idea. One of my coworkers even suggested dumping talcum powder down my arm, an idea I found difficult to pull off without creating a giant mess.

See below for my weapon of choice, a size 3 (3.25 MM) knitting needle.

(Scissors included for scale)

This is a thin, green, metal stick. A knitting needle is ideal because of its rounded edge and superb length. That curve came naturally from use and is exactly why I didn’t buy the plastic versions; I don’t want to explain to my orthopedist why there is a half of a broken plastic stick stuck in my cast.

Here is an action shot!

(Scissors included because I forgot to move them)

Technically speaking, you’re not really supposed to stick things down your cast. The doctors claim you can cut yourself and get a horrible infection, but I’m pretty sure that is an empty warning. Anyone who has ever experienced the mind-bending bliss of scratching that long sought after itch would completely agree with me.

This has been my life for the past 5 weeks, scratching my way to freedom one day at a time. I’m over the hump now but hopefully I can retain the appreciation for the little things that this elbow has given me the chance to finally notice. Do yourself a favor and try to use just your dominant hand for one day; duct tape the other one to your leg or something. You’ll be surprised how awkward, but ultimately humbled, you feel by the time you go to sleep.

Sticks and Stones

October 12, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

I have a small piece of advice for anyone reading this: do not, under any circumstances, no matter the situation or social pressure involved, break any of your bones. Breaking a bone is one of the worst decisions a human can make. If at all possible, keep all of your bones intact and in their locked and upright, original positions.

I know this may not be easy for those more athletically or recklessly inclined, but heed my words; I speak as a grizzled veteran of the skeletal wars. I have seen all manner of bio-structural wounds, from hair-lines to compounds, even a complete shatter. Some of these have left scars, but those are the least worrying of all the after effects.

My list of broken bones, from minor to major, is as follows: toes (phalanges), fingers (also phalanges), nose (nasal bone), ankle (tarsal), wrist (carpal), shin-bone (tibia/fibula) and now elbow (humerus). Two of the prior involved somewhat major surgery to correct. Surgery is also inadvisable; they make you go to, and then stay in a hospital for an indeterminable amount of days. Parts of you get uncomfortably numb and what doesn’t becomes excruciatingly itchy. Other parts they color with funny chemicals, making your post-surgery recovery feel like a drugged out version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, where your hand, but only your hand, is an Oompa Loompa. You will sing the Oompa Loopma song and your significant other will probably join in. It’s terrifyingly confusing.

For those of you who remain virgin, broken bones hurt like hell. You’d think your body would have the decency to pass out upon suffering a break, but no, you just get to sit there in agony, feeling stupid and helpless. After a severe break, you can’t really move and will most likely go into shock, so you are limited to whimpering pathetically, crying lightly as to not aggravate the injury further, or trying to be a badass and shrugging off as much pain as possible. Shock normally takes over after a few minutes, leaving the poor selfless paramedics in the direct path of possible regurgitation. I had eaten Mexican food prior to my most recent injury, a poor choice in hindsight.

I have tried in the past to explain the initial pain of a major fracture, but somehow words fail me. It is describable only in abstracts. It is a very badly stubbed toe combined with a scalding burn from boiling water. It is a crunch and a pinch, followed by a poorly injected flu shot. It is a wave of dull and a scream of sharp and as debilitating as the worst odor you’ve ever smelled. It is having your favorite meal spoiled by noisy patrons after being stung by 15 bees. It is fleeting terror of the surreal mixed with teary acknowledgment of reality. It is your stomach leaping into the air while you startle awake from a most unpleasant dream. It is the horror of dead men walking the earth, until the few seconds after they inject the morphine.

And as awful as that sounds, the initial pain passes rather quickly. Deft hands hastily repair your damages, even if their skills come at great cost. The recovery, with all of its emotional punches and unforeseen disabilities is the where the real pain hides. If you are an independent soul, the limits forced upon you by medication, casts, and movement-oriented pain are almost too much to handle. You can do little but live day-by-irritating day, stealing awkward chemically induced naps when you find that one comfortable resting position. Slowly but surely it gets better, but it takes a steel resolve to maintain your sanity when assaulted by itches that are damn near impossible to scratch.

Contrary to popular rumor, the easiest part is the physical therapy. When you finally get to the point that you can rebuild your strength, you are free; the very worst parts of the injury are behind you, only scars remain as discolored reminders. With no casts and greatly diminished pain you are suddenly capable of anything. A feeling of emancipation washes over you, and you will at any cost restore your limb to its former, sexy glory. Joints may be tight, muscles may be weak, but you can easily look past any of these trivialities and bask; bask in the wonderful glow of wholeness and normalcy.

These are the days I crave. The days when I can drive, and run, and type with both hands. The days when my left hand is more than a half-numb crab-claw of frustrating clumsiness. The days when I can hug my beautiful lady with both arms, and no pain. Soon, my cat will bite and scratch both of my hands and afterward a melody will float through the house, in the neighborhood of D minor.

Soon.

As proof of all advice and anecdotes contained herein, here is the inside of my left arm as of 9/22/2010:

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