The Hippy-Dippy Shake

May 17, 2007 at 11:27 PM | Posted in Notes on Society | 1 Comment
  The first thought I had when I arrived at work this morning was this:
  "What’s the deal with the fuckin’ hippy?  Huh?"

  I work in the "corporate" environment, with the all the frills and accessories that go with that:  suits, computers, paperwork, meetings, coffee, and the constant threat of sexual harrassment accusations.  It is hard out here for a pimp.
  I’ve never been the "type" for this job, or so I thought.  But I do enjoy it; perhaps that is what makes me odd.  Does everyone else come in, dreading the drudgery and monotony?  I feel that, but not so much–I mean, do you remember what I did before?
  And I may not have been cut out for that type of work either.  I remember when I was a manager for Domino’s, we had a manager meeting once, one of the semi-annual offsite deals at a hotel, complete with cutrate deli catering and warm soda.  To make the meeting longer–and in their eyes, worthwhile –the bosses had to add some filler.  Among them, we all did a personality quiz.
  You know this can only lead to trouble.
  I don’t remember the specifics of it, but it turns out, shockingly enough, that I don’t have the right temperment or personality to be a boss, a manager.  In fact, I have the exact opposite personality.  Look at the chart. 
  What does that mean?  What, am I rebel?  James Dean?
  I always thought of myself as an "odd" character.  Different, special, unique, blah-blah-blah.  I always had all these thoughts that I figured were unique; I mean, no one else was having these thoughts, right?  World domination, sex with hundreds of women, travelling in space, can my parents actually read my mind, or not?  What makes Ovaltine so good? –I surmised that these were not the thoughts that an individual might normally have.
  But as I have gotten older, I see much more odd behavior than I ever displayed, or even thought about for that matter.  There are some pretty odd ducks out there. 
  I am fully cognizant of the behavior necessary to function in society.  I know how to act, what to say, what is polite, what small talk in conversation is supposed to be without (for the most part) being off-putting.  Of course, I still have the strange thoughts in my head, but God, not so strange that I should be locked up.  I think.

  So I get to work this morning, early.  7:30; This is a bank, most people don’t show up until 8:30.  It’s a warm spring morning, the air fresh, I feel good.  We have two buildings, the main building and the PFC building.  I now work in the PFC, but the main building has the most parking.  I park in that lot but nearest to my building.  I get out, and walk to the walkway/steps to go across the street. 
  Right there, right in that primo parking spot, is the guy.  He has a beat up mid 80’s Cutlass with the door open, and he’s sitting on the ground, wearing jeans and an environmentally conscious tee shirt and sandals.
  And he’s playing the guitar.
  He has some paper lying on the ground in front of him; notes on this masterpiece of sensitivity and feelings that he is emoting.  His face is twisted in the painful look of soulful creation.
  I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt and hope that maybe he’s just in love–like with that hot Suicide Girl-type teller that we have.  But she is smokin’ and a little scary and intense, and way to much woman for him to handle.  Maybe he likes it when she drives her 6 inch spiked heels into his shrinking, feminine testicles.
  I mean, come on.  He reminded me of a character in the movie Bedazzled, the remake.  Brendan Fraser got some wishes from the Devil, and one of them was "to be the most (emotionally) sensitive man on earth."
  It made me want to kick sand in his face, or punch him and make him cry.  I wonder if he’s still out there?  I don’t want you to think I’m jealous of him in any way, just because he gets to do what he wants and express his creativity–I get to express my creativity.
  Sometimes it is expressed as rage at talent-less idiots.  If he had been wearing socks with the sandals I would have been legally obligated to snap his neck.  And Another thing–
  You all know, if you have read me here, you have somewhat of an indication of how I am.  How my thoughts go from one to the other in a chaotically random manner, and yet at the end I manage to tie them together.  You’ve read–and you know how I am.  You have an indication of what goes on in my brain.  I guess. . .acting normal is one of the strangest things I do.  And being normal is the strangest thing I *can* do, in a world full of head cases.
  I don’t have to act strange to the outside world, which is a desperate cry for attention, like all the disaffected youths of the world, tattooing and piercing themselves not because they want to express their individuality (If one person does it, it’s individuality; if an entire generation of people do it, it’s a fad), but a misguided sense of. . .what’s the word I seek?  An ironic dichotomy of Narcissism and insecurity,  seeking validation via outrageous behavior.  "Look at me!"
  Look at me, indeed. 

  Good Lord, what a self-serving psychoanalyst I’ve become.  Not withstanding that, the freak playing guitar in our parking lot is a misguided freak, trying to hard to *prove* that he is special and unique. 
  I don’t know about unique, but he sure is *special.*  Fucking retard.

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  1. Great post!
    I am going to wonder all day now, why he was there.
    I\’m also going to wonder if you spelt dichotomy, narcissism, psychoanalyst, individuality without spell check…
    That\’s what rattles around in my small brain.
    Thank you for laugh!


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