My Pipedream

So I have now been working as a real, salaried worker for 7ish months, and it's great. Really, I love it. I work in a cubicle, I deal with IT and HR, I stare at a computer and occasionally change my wallpaper. In short, I've done everything that is requisite to laugh at all Dilbert jokes. But I really do enjoy it. However, every man has a dream, and if that dream is reality, then what more can we dream?

So at about 2:30 or so this afternoon, I came to terms with my dream job. The job that, in a perfect world, in the perfect time/place/position in society/etc., I would have. This, mind you is a very fluid concept in my mind that was a basketball player from ages 0-12, a lawyer from ages 12-16, a journalist from ages 16-17, a firefighting journalist from ages 17-19, a seminary-teaching puppy-rescuing child-adopting hair-parting philanthropist from ages 19-21 (ah, the dreams of young missionary minds), and something just a skosh better than superman from ages 21-23. But now, the tides have sloshed towards something better than all of that. Yes, better than Superman.

The new dream is to become a pipe organ builder. Wouldn't that be great? A highly skilled profession in which you get to work with metal and wood and buckets full of power and hand tools. You work with your hands and when you tell people that make organs for a living, they have to be interested, right? And when we talk about job security, there is nothing that can replace a pipe organ, other than 23,000 floutists of varying shapes and sizes. Or at least 23,000 floutist of the same size with flutes of varying sizes.

Now, this idea of course came from my time listening to the best radio program that American Public Media offers, Pipedreams. My BFF Michael Barone takes me on these virtual tours of pipe organs throughout the world and makes me feel so smart by saying things like, "As you probably guessed, this piece was originally scored for the harpsichord," and I nod my head and say, "Of course, it was, Barone. Nothing new here ..."

Today, we went to Macon, Georgia, of all places (Baptists love themselves an organ!). This was the first time that Pipedreams featured the C.B. Fisk Organ , which was (as I already knew, of course) installed in 2000. I guess that it had never occurred to me that people would still be making organs. I thought they might have died out years ago when Rock n' Roll was invented. (I blame Elvis for everything bad that exists.)

But then there's these Fisk Organ folks, out there in Gloucester, Massachusetts, with technical facilities with 2 cranes and 3-D design rooms and a paint and finishing shop and "A fully-equipped woodshop and mill room capable of making every kind of wooden part or structure, with dedicated space for seasoning 5,000 board feet of lumber." And there it is on their Web site, the job description: "C. B. Fisk, Inc. is always interested in talking to talented individuals about joining our team." I wish you could have see the smile on my face.

As you can imagine, they will soon have to be more specific about what they mean by "talented individuals." Because I'm ripping into a "talented individual" resume with bullet points cascading off the page, things like "Learned to juggle with tuna fish cans in one day" and "Proficient at inserting both of my contact lenses at one time" and "Obtained complete mastery of the between-the-legs desperation tennis shot" and "Able to play 'That Old Grey Mare Ain't What She Used to Be' on the trumpet in every major and minor key in the chromatic scale. Also able to play the same on the harmonica."

I'll tell you how it goes. And, if you need a pipe organ made, go ahead and give me a call. Shouldn't be long now before I'll be your go-to guy.

Myers Briggade

Back on the home front, my friends and I had somewhat of a weekend ritual of sitting on what we called "the bench." It was, as you might imagine, a bench. It was downtown on Idaho St., and we would go there as spectators in a phenomenon common to downtowns nationwide called the cruise. This was a time and place where teenagers would drive around in circles waiting for something to happen, although I was never sure what. Instead of driving around, we sat on the bench, ate pizza and drank Dr. Pepper. Good times, fond memories, etc.

At one point, we thought we could make good (better) use of our hours spent on the bench by finding me a date to homecoming. You see, I was a rare breed of social outcast, one who thought he was better than everyone else, yet was petrified of the world outside of his basement or beyond the sound-proofed walls of the band room. As such, I did not go to many school dances because I said I was too good for everyone but actually because I was scared of everyone. Anyways, we actually Kinkoed ourselves some flyers to hand out on the cruise which consisted of a brief checklist that would qualify or disqualify my would-be dates.

I will not go into too much detail, but generally things like "Are you an heiress to a thrown" and "Do your friends describe you as 'easy'" (there was much dispute as to whether this was a qualifier or a disqualifier). One of the questions that to this day I consider to be most brilliant was this: "Do you take offense to fat jokes?" Although it gets the point across, it does so with the utmost diplomacy. It is a question to which no one can take offense, but that everyone has to answer honsetly. That was the idea at least.

The reason I mention this is because I took the Meyers-Briggs exam today and I found a lot of the questions to be along the same lines as "Do you take offense to fat jokes?" Now, I don't know the results (I will find out tomorrow morning), but here's what I understand so far. You don't want to be an overly emotional, paranoid loner who can't mind his own business. However, the questions in the exam try to ask you exactly this as subtely as possible.

• "So, ummm, do you have a lot of friends?" (Are you a complete loser?)
• "And do you generally trust those around you?" (Are you paranoid of everything in life?) "
• "Do you frequently give others advice?" (Are you a nosy busybody?)
• "Okay then, do you eat brownie batter and watch SpongeBob Squarepants late at night on Nickelodeon?" (Are you an absolute emotional wreck?)

In the end, I think that it just tells you if anyone will like you. Any bets how my test results will be?

Conde Nast, etc.

I have a friend here in my ward in Queens who works in the Conde Nast building just across the 43rd Street from me. She and her husband are good people, the kind that make other people better people. You know the kind. Anyways, she works at Vanity Fair (the 22nd floor of the building, for those who care). I think that Conde Nast is such an interesting company because it has its hand in so many cookie jars at the same time. They have magazines that are self-proclaimed competitors like Vogue and Glamour and Vanity fair. They have their own sort of autonomous capitalistic organization within an organization.

I bring up Conde Nast because I subscribe to two publications, both of which cater to men's interests, both of which have a substanital readership, and both of which are under the Conde Nast umbrella. One is Wired, the other GQ. I got both of the latest issues in the mail today, which is always fun, mail. On the cover of each is a picture of a woman. Same overarching idea, of course, that sex sells. But here's where it gets interesting. (Yes, I put in cues like that in hopes that someone will keep reading, not necessarily because it will be any more interesting.)

The GQ cover is a picture of Rachel Bilson (I only know her from Chuck) in a patriotic bathing suit, saluting, because that's what you do when you wear patriotic swimwear. Anyways, it is tactful, but alluring nonetheless. The message is, "Yes I like to dress nice and read about men's fashion, but it's cool because this magazine has a girl on the cover." So there's GQ.

Then we have Wired. Again, a woman on the cover. But this time the message is very different. The featured female is Sarah Silverman. Those of you who know she is know that she ain't in a bikini. She's in jeans and a t-shirt that reads "tech support" across the front and, although she is not saluting, she does have a hand to her head scratching it as if to say, "I am pretending to be thinking about something." Interesting, right? The message here is, "Yes I like to write in my diary in binary code and introduce myself to people by my gamertag, but it's cool because this magazine has a girl on the cover."

I guess the only difference in men is that some like bikinis and others like tech support.

Vegas, a big well-lit place

Vegas is amazing. I went there last week on work, and I was fascinated by the intricacy of a city built on nothing. The city is host to many of the modern architectural marvels of North America (Of course, since I know nothing of architecture, that is simply an equally meaningless, slightly more pretentious way to say, "It has lotsa neat buildings"). I didn't know that the world still produced that much marble for columns and floors and ceilings and fountains. But it apparently does.

The city must put on more Broadway shows than Broadway does now. Every taxi cab and every buildingside is covered with an ad for Phantom or Spamalot, although all the shows are advertised as being able to turn me on or to excite my desires. Not sure how they do it, because when I saw Phantom of the Opera in San Francisco I don't remember getting all that randy. Of course, I was pretty young so maybe I just missed it. Whatever the reason, Vegas has a knack for making everything sexier. (Case-in-point: Madame Tussuad's Wax Museum in New York came out with the first-ever interactive wax figure. Her name was J-Lo, and when you whispered into her ear she would blush. Vegas also came out with an interactive J-Lo who also blushed, but not when you whispered into her ear. She blushed when you grab her "back forty.")

What I could not believe was that all of this exists not because of people's hard work and vision of a brighter future. This exists because of gambling, alcohol and sex. I love the place, don't get me wrong. But I find it a bit unsettling that the most opulent, beautiful parts of our culture exist thanks to what can be accurately called dirty money. As far as I see it, the only things that are built to this scale are funded by one of two things: sin or religion. Maybe that's ironic, maybe it's convergence. I hope it's ironic.