The Vault
- April 2004
- May 2004
- June 2004
- July 2004
- August 2004
- September 2004
- October 2004
- November 2004
- December 2004
- January 2005
- February 2005
- March 2005
- April 2005
- May 2005
- June 2005
- July 2005
- August 2005
- October 2005
- November 2005
- December 2005
- January 2006
- December 2006
- January 2007
- February 2007
- March 2007
- April 2007
- November 2007
Refuge for the rational.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
At the Top of the Pyramid
Dry-Clean only tags assume that you have more than three pairs of functioning work pants. I don’t have the money for such things. I bought a one-hundred dollar pair the other day that make my ass look phenomenal and I think considering the result, I will remain satisfied with quality over quantity.
I wore them to the “dealer rally”. This is an annual event at which the mother ship congratulates and encourages the underling companies that sell its goods (the aforementioned “dealers”). People drink too much and attempt to screw each other while lessening the sight of their wrinkles and receding hairlines with the memory of the figure on their commission checks and the humouring grins of their co-workers. It really is the definition of gong show.
Thankfully, I had companionship in the way of S, a co-worker whose reaction to being forced into a post-work drink-fest masquerading as an informative seminar was almost as groaning and eyes-to-the-ceiling as my own. We went for a drink beforehand to ease some of the expected annoyance and anxiety that was to arise. Our pleasant conversation was interrupted every few seconds by our boss calling my cell phone to tell us that she was going to give away our free swag and drink tickets if we didn’t cross the street immediately. Eventually, we made our way over and were immediately greeted by a man with thinning hair, a plastic smile and leather-looking skin. We were promptly checked out and grinned at with teeth that were obviously artificially whitened, given the gleam. I was waiting for the pistol fingers and a wink and was pleasantly surprised when it didn’t come. I wasn’t interested in anything but alcohol when I noticed that almost everyone in the room was a clone of the man I’d just seen, the only thing that varied was age, gender, shade of leather and level of desperation (If you’ve ever taken the time to look at the album insert to “This is Hardcore” you know exactly what I’m talking about). It seemed the older and more successful they were, the more desperate they were to tell everyone about it. The older dealers shook hands with the younger ones in a display that struck me as overtly Athenian. Mixed in, there were some whose motivations were genuine and who enjoyed new technology and therefore, their jobs, and maybe even the rally for the new hardware displays, but they somehow couldn’t make up for the nauseous feeling the weasel level in the place was giving me. I understood by single glances that these people were only motivated by sex and quantity.
I began to wonder, as I perused the food tables, if there was any chance of having a real conversation that night and not ending up just drinking myself into happiness to counteract the depression that would bring. There wasn’t much I could do. I either found myself evaluating people based on their clothes, copiously applied colognes and slicked back hair or reproaching myself for doing so. Truth be told, it was kind of amusing and by my third glass of wine I wasn’t feeling so terrible.
We watched a long and boring presentation on why we were the best. It was predictable, go figure, and by the end of it I was falling asleep due to being half drunk the hour before and then depriving myself of any alcohol for that period of time. The incessant clapping helped keep me awake. Once that was over, the tension in the room rose; one could actually have touched it. It went from schmoozing and bragging to actual attempts at evocation. Most of the younger dealers went home, respectful of their elders, but feeling safely delusional in the belief that their youth would save them from the death of a salesman.
I knew I wouldn’t escape the post-work, post-rally drink and I didn’t. Our boss dragged S and I back to our original hideout, where a cast of interesting and stock-role fulfilling characters joined us.
Number one, an old Texan turned Canadian with shockingly white hair (next to the tanned skin) and a face that oddly resembled a less Zen Johnny Cash. He brought with him two middle aged cougars. One, “prettier” than the other, the Other complaining about cigarette cravings.
Two, a walking penile dysfunction and mid-life crisis who took every opportunity to make things suggestive in some way. He sat on the “pretty” cougars arm chair and it was obvious that something was on its way to happening, until he stupidly started flirting with me and she gave me the evil eye.
Three, a girl in her late twenties who sat carefully and haughtily studying everyone while they spoke and did so herself only when directly addressed. There was a practised grace to her movements, and a practised calm to her demeanour that made her anything but.
Four, a Norwegian geologist who was in town presenting a new environmentally friendly technique for oil excavation. He was interesting and I attempted to speak to him about his project and about any cultural differences between Americans, Canadians and Europeans he may have encountered during his travels. I’m not sure if it was the language barrier, or if it was an assumption based on the rest of my company, but he kept stressing that the technique he was presenting was worth a lot of money.
Five, several jocks turned salesboys to whom the word “titties” is considered witty.
I don’t remember much of the conversation because none of it was interesting or relevant to me. I do remember the tension being built up and the expectation being built up and then everyone leaving on their own, the penile dysfunction in an oversized jeep. This experience didn’t help me shed any light on what the gutless pursuit of money has over actually enjoying ones self. I guess I’ll never know.
A better example of the blatant schism between my values and what seems to be the majority of the rest of the world just happens to be another work story. I’ve been approached twice in the last few weeks by people who smell strangely like pyramid schemes.
They begin with telling me how awful their day has been so far. Then, they begin telling me that soon the tides will be changing and they’ll be rich and making plenty of money. Then, they ask me if I’m interesting in making a lot of money. When asked what it involves they say “sales”, to which I plainly respond that I’m not interested. The surprise is what gets me, it’s actually more like wounded pride. I’m simply not going to do something I don’t enjoy just because and especially because it’s going to make me a lot of money (which it isn’t...hello, pyramid schemes don’t work, don’t people know this yet?). It’s one thing to do a job you’re not crazy about temporarily so you can eat and dry clean your pants once in awhile when you know you’re going to do something you love down the road. It’s another thing when down the road is only a dollar sign.
I wore them to the “dealer rally”. This is an annual event at which the mother ship congratulates and encourages the underling companies that sell its goods (the aforementioned “dealers”). People drink too much and attempt to screw each other while lessening the sight of their wrinkles and receding hairlines with the memory of the figure on their commission checks and the humouring grins of their co-workers. It really is the definition of gong show.
Thankfully, I had companionship in the way of S, a co-worker whose reaction to being forced into a post-work drink-fest masquerading as an informative seminar was almost as groaning and eyes-to-the-ceiling as my own. We went for a drink beforehand to ease some of the expected annoyance and anxiety that was to arise. Our pleasant conversation was interrupted every few seconds by our boss calling my cell phone to tell us that she was going to give away our free swag and drink tickets if we didn’t cross the street immediately. Eventually, we made our way over and were immediately greeted by a man with thinning hair, a plastic smile and leather-looking skin. We were promptly checked out and grinned at with teeth that were obviously artificially whitened, given the gleam. I was waiting for the pistol fingers and a wink and was pleasantly surprised when it didn’t come. I wasn’t interested in anything but alcohol when I noticed that almost everyone in the room was a clone of the man I’d just seen, the only thing that varied was age, gender, shade of leather and level of desperation (If you’ve ever taken the time to look at the album insert to “This is Hardcore” you know exactly what I’m talking about). It seemed the older and more successful they were, the more desperate they were to tell everyone about it. The older dealers shook hands with the younger ones in a display that struck me as overtly Athenian. Mixed in, there were some whose motivations were genuine and who enjoyed new technology and therefore, their jobs, and maybe even the rally for the new hardware displays, but they somehow couldn’t make up for the nauseous feeling the weasel level in the place was giving me. I understood by single glances that these people were only motivated by sex and quantity.
I began to wonder, as I perused the food tables, if there was any chance of having a real conversation that night and not ending up just drinking myself into happiness to counteract the depression that would bring. There wasn’t much I could do. I either found myself evaluating people based on their clothes, copiously applied colognes and slicked back hair or reproaching myself for doing so. Truth be told, it was kind of amusing and by my third glass of wine I wasn’t feeling so terrible.
We watched a long and boring presentation on why we were the best. It was predictable, go figure, and by the end of it I was falling asleep due to being half drunk the hour before and then depriving myself of any alcohol for that period of time. The incessant clapping helped keep me awake. Once that was over, the tension in the room rose; one could actually have touched it. It went from schmoozing and bragging to actual attempts at evocation. Most of the younger dealers went home, respectful of their elders, but feeling safely delusional in the belief that their youth would save them from the death of a salesman.
I knew I wouldn’t escape the post-work, post-rally drink and I didn’t. Our boss dragged S and I back to our original hideout, where a cast of interesting and stock-role fulfilling characters joined us.
Number one, an old Texan turned Canadian with shockingly white hair (next to the tanned skin) and a face that oddly resembled a less Zen Johnny Cash. He brought with him two middle aged cougars. One, “prettier” than the other, the Other complaining about cigarette cravings.
Two, a walking penile dysfunction and mid-life crisis who took every opportunity to make things suggestive in some way. He sat on the “pretty” cougars arm chair and it was obvious that something was on its way to happening, until he stupidly started flirting with me and she gave me the evil eye.
Three, a girl in her late twenties who sat carefully and haughtily studying everyone while they spoke and did so herself only when directly addressed. There was a practised grace to her movements, and a practised calm to her demeanour that made her anything but.
Four, a Norwegian geologist who was in town presenting a new environmentally friendly technique for oil excavation. He was interesting and I attempted to speak to him about his project and about any cultural differences between Americans, Canadians and Europeans he may have encountered during his travels. I’m not sure if it was the language barrier, or if it was an assumption based on the rest of my company, but he kept stressing that the technique he was presenting was worth a lot of money.
Five, several jocks turned salesboys to whom the word “titties” is considered witty.
I don’t remember much of the conversation because none of it was interesting or relevant to me. I do remember the tension being built up and the expectation being built up and then everyone leaving on their own, the penile dysfunction in an oversized jeep. This experience didn’t help me shed any light on what the gutless pursuit of money has over actually enjoying ones self. I guess I’ll never know.
A better example of the blatant schism between my values and what seems to be the majority of the rest of the world just happens to be another work story. I’ve been approached twice in the last few weeks by people who smell strangely like pyramid schemes.
They begin with telling me how awful their day has been so far. Then, they begin telling me that soon the tides will be changing and they’ll be rich and making plenty of money. Then, they ask me if I’m interesting in making a lot of money. When asked what it involves they say “sales”, to which I plainly respond that I’m not interested. The surprise is what gets me, it’s actually more like wounded pride. I’m simply not going to do something I don’t enjoy just because and especially because it’s going to make me a lot of money (which it isn’t...hello, pyramid schemes don’t work, don’t people know this yet?). It’s one thing to do a job you’re not crazy about temporarily so you can eat and dry clean your pants once in awhile when you know you’re going to do something you love down the road. It’s another thing when down the road is only a dollar sign.
Comments:
Post a Comment
Blogarama
Who Links Here
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.