This is an old post.
Jan 12, 2011
8:25 PM
Futility Is the
New Utility
by Benb Gallaher
I've got a
bizarre amount of explaining to do, although not really TO anyone. That, I
suppose, is blogging's raison d’être, but that doesn't really mean that much
yet in my life with a dead computer and the fact that I've been paralyzed by
financial desperation and the claustrophobic crescendo of January's abject
stupefaction.
Yesterday and
the day before that, people came and replaced our windows and did all sorts of
sawdusty [Ziggy Sawdust?] things, so we showered in Bath (funny funny) at the
YMCA (they'd given us a "2 WEEKS FREE!" membership for unspecified
reasons) and tried to occupy ourselves, to some avail. I suppose that the
windows aren't offensive, but gosh, do I ever miss their beautiful, unwieldy
predecessors.
I attended a
function today, amid a horrid blizzardy apparatus. I'm really good at attending
functions when there's a blizzard happening. Other times, it's a crapshoot.
That may sound flippant, but it's more apparent with each huge storm.
(DIGRESSION:
Everyone that's known me in day-to-day life knows about my fixation upon people
discussing the weather--not the weather per se, but people talking about it
like they have some kind of handle on what's vaguely imminent at all times.
Paid to lie, just like most policymakers [and, while we're being candid, most
other grown-ups], meteorologists have categorically undue sway over and say in
how life [insofar as any of us has one of those] gets conducted in their
aftermath. Wouldn't it be weird if every person that you saw in a day were to
predict some other element of your life in the immediate future? Like Miss
Cleo, but inescapable?)
Oh, hold up.
(ADDITIONAL
DIGRESSION: Speaking of Miss Cleo, and bringing us niftily if not neatly to an
existing narrative that's rather in progress, my father went to see a psychic a
couple of years ago. This itself is far from newsworthy, as people tend to do
things like that. [Indeed, the attendant stigma of yore regarding psychics is
possibly why the telephonic franchise of Miss Cleo herself was so popular, and
its dissipation is probably why her star receded.] Anyway, this particular
psychic told him that, in order to get a job, "your son with MS [that's
me] needs to join Mensa. My folks offered to pay for it and everything, so I
opted to ignore my decades-long distaste for people that think of themselves as
being intelligent [which is just plain silly] and test for it.
There was a snow event, occurring on R. Stevie Moore's 57th birthday [January
18, 2009] and appearing in Maine shortly following the arrival of my very-wonderful
friend Bridget Moore [no relation to R. Stevie], who not only was living in
Boston while attending grad school, but also had agreed in advance to accompany
me on the half-mile walk from our new-to-us house to the testing facility.
"How great," I thought.
My predictions
regarding that process merited my failure before the test even began. First,
the snowfall began to intensify as if timed to coincide with our walk [I remain
amazed at how people (like me) can actually take the weather really/actually/legitimately/sincerely/personally.
Wow. That makes meteorologists into sinister henchmen rather than average
guessers.]
Speaking of
guesses and how awry some guesses go, it should be said that the distance was
not what I had calculated. [Blind in my left eye, I have a distorted perception
of depth. But that doesn't explain an error so egregious.] Instead of 0.5 miles,
the distance was 1.6 miles. [I only learned that later.] And the snow started
hurling itself at us, my already-large eyebrows transmuted to gigantic Narnia
caterpillars, and Bridget graciously trudged beside me, asking only on
occasion, "Are you sure that it's only half-mile?" I insisted with
diminishing confidence and icicled eyebrows that it was?
By and by,
Bridget and I hobbled across "the finish line," arriving punctually
at the testing location [if memory serves, it was a Presbyterian church]. No
matter what or which, however, there was some kind of emergency unfolding, with
fire trucks and related trappings of emergency response [I'm pretty sure about
this, but I could very well have been hallucinating by that point]. Bridget went
into the chapel to study, while I went to the testing room in the church's fluorescent-lit
basement [again, it's as I recall], feeling profoundly screwed up at how
vividly surreal life had smelted itself into being. Time was passing
spasmodically, lurching and skidding to such extremes that a person [like me]
could grow woozy [like I did] just by watching the hands on the wall clock [like
I was doing, compulsively]. And I was surrounded by either Mensans [eek!] or
hopeful Mensans [eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!] under these willfully wearisome
fluorescent lights, and we had to take this test that would somehow make a
factual statement about our smarts. Curiously, we were given an
"obvious" practice question [to boost morale? to ensure adherence to
testing procedures?] as a prelude to the proper test.
I say to you
now, with pride, that I gave it my best shot, and that I did not answer that sample
question correctly. And I wasn't making any kind of statement other than,
"Oh my effing WORD" by default. Everybody present thought that I was
joking. I decided to go through with the test regardless, mostly because I
wanted to explore maximally the alien feelings that were my only companion for
this episode's duration. Anyway, we got a ride home from a very-gracious
proctor-in-training, and I passed the damned test, but that did not discernibly
affect my job prospects. Oh is the new zero—Join Mensa today!
Which brings us to the sadistic climatic tomfoolery of yesterday.)
On account of my
illness, which is considered a disability (for which I would receive a pittance
in perpetuity), I have been affiliated with Vocational Rehabilitation for about
a year now. They don't know what to do about me and my inconsistent physical
considerations (i.e., no restaurant or construction work), so not only have
they adopted a default of blaming me for not having found work, but I have to
resist at every turn their inscrutable wont toward placing me into positions in
which I will definitely not succeed (I've pursued such positions with all
sincerity, but have been met unfailingly with resounding lassitude.).
This is rather
well-worn territory—plenty of people have behaved ignorantly and hurtfully
toward me on a basis of things that they don't understand—but this is a STATE
PROGRAM. This doesn't feel any better than the legion of occasions on which
strangers have assumed my drunkenness because of my variable dexterity. Well,
it feels worse, because it's the job of these people to take me seriously;
they're paid to take me seriously—not to rest upon my shoulders the
"fault" of my not getting paid.
So, I went to
the newspaper for a Voc-Rehab-endorsed "interest interview." Even
though that interview was not for any vacancy or available position, I was
grateful for the opportunity to meet someone that was maybe capable of
providing some insights. At any rate, the outdoor bluster began hours
beforehand (thus necessitating a taxi ride to the interview; conditions were
deteriorating so rapidly that, as I was en route, the decision was made to
discontinue taxi service for the day). I met my Voc-Rehab contact person there.
True to his doubting view of me, he certainly hadn't expected my appearance
amid a blizzard, and I think that my being there (for lack of a better term)
effed with him. It seemed to me that, throughout the meeting, he was actively
pursuing any possible avenue for (a) proclaiming stratified demarcations
between us, and (b) creating dissonance within me.
The friendly and
warm-hearted gentleman with whom we met did indeed provide me with some
insights, but they were retreads of prior insights. (It's difficult to project
confidence when rejection becomes so routine.) I didn't have the heart to
evaporate, but I couldn't see any reason why I shouldn't have done just that.
As my contact person gave me a ride home, white-knuckling and scared stiff by
road conditions, he was probably wondering about what had been gained by way of
this exercise in "I told you so" hubris. Meanwhile, I sat in the
passenger seat, thinking about how spite can motivate people in ways that
they'd never foreseen.
Feb 18, 2011
11:58 PM
if you had all
your verbal gems minted, you'd be a vocablillionaire.
Feb 19, 2011
4:30 PM
where y'all comments at? does anyone else think that, when we get to the airport,
we should sign a release form, get into huge smocks, and get knocked the
expletive out until we arrive at our destination? the airlines would save a
fortune! we'd live to overripe old ages!
4:49 PM
If possession is nine-tenths of the law, and "possession" is a
10-letter word, then could it stand to reason that 'possessio' is nine-tenths
of possession'?
4:50 PM
Julia said:
I for two would
love the idea of getting into a slanket, being given my knock out drops, and
waking up refreshed and halfway round the world, it seeming that no time had
elapsed.Better than downing all the free booze pronto and spending the flight
passed out on the restroom floor.
5:19 PM
Benb responds: That's assuming that the restroom floor will contain you. It
rarely happens thus; consider all of the people whose lives are irrevocably
altered (almost exclusively for the worse) by obstreperous behavior while
aloft. Tedious rockstars (like the once-worthwhile peter buck, the often-worthwhile
viv prince, and the never-worthwhile jim morrison) have had this problem with
some regularity, but in a nine-twelve world, everyone's always wrong. So knock
us out, onetime. Please.
