(From the Register-Pajaronian)
Once you have a business card, you know you’ve arrived.
During most of my life, I believed that. For years, I had visions of myself striding confidently into a hotel bar (the Hanoi Hilton, perhaps, or maybe some Sheraton in a climate so balmy as to make any fabric heavier than seersucker a novelty that compels the locals to run their hands over your coat to reassure themselves that it’s real) and ordering a smart cocktail with a broad, easy smile. I’d lean back on the mahogany bar and let the light streaming in from the cabana play over my rugged features and sun-bleached hair as I savored the first swallow of a very expensive martini.
Then a dark-haired woman with high cheekbones would rise from her booth and come feel my summer weight jacket and introduce herself. The high-end stock of my business card would make a pleasing snap as I flipped it out of its case with two fingers and said, "Farley. Universal Exports."
Of course, that was before I realized that they let just about any jackass have a business card these days. The guy who changed my oil last week, for instance, offered me his card, as did the woman who cuts my hair. It’s not that I am unhappy with either person’s service or that they don’t deserve to be remembered. It’s just that the romance of being invited into someone’s life via index card is somewhat diminished when they’re wearing a zippered jumpsuit and asking if Penzoil will be OK or if you’d rather step up to the Havoline.
This is the first job I’ve had where I needed a business card. It’s nothing special, but sure enough, it has my name on it (though the phone number is wrong) and I’m unreasonably proud of it. At a Christmas gathering last week, I waited like a lion in the brush for the perfect moment to deploy my card on unwitting prey.
By 11 p.m., no opportunity had presented itself and I was beginning to despair. What good is working at a newspaper if you can’t lie to anybody about being famous? Then, as I was heading for the bathroom, I passed one of my buddies while he was talking to a girl we knew and heard him say, "Yeah, I think I have a card here somewhere."
The trap was sprung.
"I have a card right here," I announced, going for my wallet. Just as I cleared the holster, though, he found his and brought it forth into the light. I clapped a hand to my forehead and just stared. The card was a magnificent affair, resplendent with gold leaves and intricate scrolling and his name writ large in a special font. The phone number was probably even right.
It suddenly dawned on me that my own business card looked like I had embossed it myself with a flathead screwdriver and gone back over the impressions with a magic marker, so I jammed it back in my pocket. The girl took my friend’s card and looked over at me.
"Can I have one of yours, too?"
I furrowed my brow. "I’m not sure what you mean."
"Your business card."
I nodded gravely. "Right. I don’t use those. Hell on the rainforests. In fact, I wouldn’t trust anybody that just carried them around with him."
"But you just said..."
"Anyone want a drink?" I exclaimed. "I’m going to go get a drink. Would you like a drink?"
She rolled her eyes. "No, I think I’m good." She left.
My friend gave me a halfhearted shot in the arm and said, "So, do you, like, plan these things, or do they just happen?"
I looked at him levelly. "I don’t have to answer your questions. You’re killing Mother Earth. What are you drinking?"
"Rum and Coke. You’re a strange guy, Matty."
"Good looking, though," I said. I noticed he was still holding a bundle of cards. "Will you put that away? You’re giving me a complex."
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Thursday, November 3, 2005
The new Calvinism
(From the Register-Pajaronian)
A decade from now, when those of us who grew up reading the comic strip “Calvin and Hobbes” every morning are old enough to make proclamations, I’m certain that the strip’s author, Bill Watterson, will be recognized as one of the greatest artists of his generation in any medium.
If you want to read reams (or at least gigabytes) of essays supporting that argument, just Google his name. The number of info-weary, chronically unimpressed 20-somethings gushing about the impact the adventures of a 6-year-old kid and his stuffed tiger had on their lives will astonish you.
I absolutely count myself among them. Watterson’s strip was genius not just because of his stunning visual art, which may never again be equaled on the comics page as more and more papers require all strips to fit into a 2-by-5-inch space, but because of the man’s ideas. He would condense entire philosophies and worldviews into five panels without losing a single nuance, using water balloons and superheroes as metaphors.
Watterson always wrote to adults, but he never lost sight of the fact that kids grasp things intuitively that grown-ups have to relearn later in the context of the real world. The principles are the same, though, and that’s one reason the strip worked: A lot of us still see strong parallels between the bully, Moe, and the big guy walking straight down the middle of the sidewalk on Pacific Avenue. And I think there have been echoes of Calvin pelting Susie Derkins with snowballs rather than talking to her in every relationship I’ve ever been in.
One of my favorite strips is one where Calvin’s dad asks him to consider all sides of an argument and suddenly the strip becomes an M.C. Escher piece — Calvin can literally see all sides of everything at once and is unable to move without crashing into the furniture.
I first read it when I was about 11, and I got the joke. But like all good art, it makes more sense as I get older. I think the first time I really got my mind around it in a grown-up way was on Saturday.
The front yard of the house was empty and quiet, and there was a distinct wet chill in the air that made me glad I’d dressed up as a referee rather than, say, Tarzan. The brunette gangster and the cowboy with me seemed to be doing OK in coats and hats, but the black cat was rubbing her exposed arms and Alice in Stripperland was clearly having second thoughts about the length of her skirt.
A heavy wave of warmth and sound spilled over us and into the street when I opened the door. Because of new laws, parties in Santa Cruz are subject to being raided like crackhouses the instant neighbors complain, so the host ushered us into the cheek-to-cheek crowd in a panic and quickly slammed the door.
Immediately, the single most intoxicated female I had ever seen standing upright grabbed me by the shoulders and drove me back several steps before I could get my feet set.
“Hi!” she announced into my left ear. She had probably been a pirate before she’d started shedding clothes, though it was hard to tell. At least she’d managed to hang on to her hat and sword.
“Hey,” I said, but she’d already caught sight of the pink bow in Alice’s hair and was trying to pluck it out while making small talk. Eventually, she lost interest, gave her a big hug, and disappeared into the press of people.
“She looks really different in that costume,” Alice said.
I tore my eyes away from what I had just realized were Wonderland-themed garters. “Like a different person,” I agreed.
I didn’t know most of the people at the party, which was good because I could walk up to anyone and just start talking and they’d likely be drunk enough to consider us great friends within a few minutes. The downside was that lasting bonds are rarely formed while intoxicated and in costume, so after a while all the masked killers and cavewomen started seeming awfully similar. Fortunately, the pirate found me and broke up the monotony by showing me (and most of the rest of the room) her various tattoos. When she got confused and started over from the star on the back of her neck, I excused myself and slipped outside.
Alice was alone on the porch, her breath fogging the screen of her cell phone. Within five words, I could tell that the person on the phone was male, far away and that neither of them was happy about it. There’s a specific inflection that works its way into your voice during those talks, and it’s pretty easy to pick out after you’ve heard it come out of your own mouth a few times.
“OK,” she said, lingering over the word, stretching it out because she knew she’d have to hang up after it was finished. “Happy Halloween. Bye.”
She snapped the phone carefully shut and stared at it for a few seconds. Then she looked up and saw me. For a moment, she looked like she might get embarrassed, but the look faded.
“This sucks,” she said.
I looked past her at the street.
“Not much fun being on the other end of that call, either,” I said.
“Yeah.” She sipped from a stainless steel flask she’d borrowed from the gangster, offered it to me. “Probably not.”
I’d never seen the Wish You Were Here talk from this side before. I wasn’t sure I liked the possibility that it might be tough on both parties. When I had been in similar situations, I’d always sort of assumed I was bearing the weight of distance alone. Calvin was right. Things are a lot simpler when you can only see one side of them.
The door swung open and the black cat stared at us in disbelief.
“You guys,” she said. Her black ears had turned so they ran diagonally across her head. “This is a party. Get in here!”
I shrugged at Alice, handed her the flask and we all plunged into the crowd. If Calvin had taught me anything, it was that being lonely and confused can’t keep you from having a good time. Only you can do that. You, or a random pterodactyl attack.
A decade from now, when those of us who grew up reading the comic strip “Calvin and Hobbes” every morning are old enough to make proclamations, I’m certain that the strip’s author, Bill Watterson, will be recognized as one of the greatest artists of his generation in any medium.
If you want to read reams (or at least gigabytes) of essays supporting that argument, just Google his name. The number of info-weary, chronically unimpressed 20-somethings gushing about the impact the adventures of a 6-year-old kid and his stuffed tiger had on their lives will astonish you.
I absolutely count myself among them. Watterson’s strip was genius not just because of his stunning visual art, which may never again be equaled on the comics page as more and more papers require all strips to fit into a 2-by-5-inch space, but because of the man’s ideas. He would condense entire philosophies and worldviews into five panels without losing a single nuance, using water balloons and superheroes as metaphors.
Watterson always wrote to adults, but he never lost sight of the fact that kids grasp things intuitively that grown-ups have to relearn later in the context of the real world. The principles are the same, though, and that’s one reason the strip worked: A lot of us still see strong parallels between the bully, Moe, and the big guy walking straight down the middle of the sidewalk on Pacific Avenue. And I think there have been echoes of Calvin pelting Susie Derkins with snowballs rather than talking to her in every relationship I’ve ever been in.
One of my favorite strips is one where Calvin’s dad asks him to consider all sides of an argument and suddenly the strip becomes an M.C. Escher piece — Calvin can literally see all sides of everything at once and is unable to move without crashing into the furniture.
I first read it when I was about 11, and I got the joke. But like all good art, it makes more sense as I get older. I think the first time I really got my mind around it in a grown-up way was on Saturday.
The front yard of the house was empty and quiet, and there was a distinct wet chill in the air that made me glad I’d dressed up as a referee rather than, say, Tarzan. The brunette gangster and the cowboy with me seemed to be doing OK in coats and hats, but the black cat was rubbing her exposed arms and Alice in Stripperland was clearly having second thoughts about the length of her skirt.
A heavy wave of warmth and sound spilled over us and into the street when I opened the door. Because of new laws, parties in Santa Cruz are subject to being raided like crackhouses the instant neighbors complain, so the host ushered us into the cheek-to-cheek crowd in a panic and quickly slammed the door.
Immediately, the single most intoxicated female I had ever seen standing upright grabbed me by the shoulders and drove me back several steps before I could get my feet set.
“Hi!” she announced into my left ear. She had probably been a pirate before she’d started shedding clothes, though it was hard to tell. At least she’d managed to hang on to her hat and sword.
“Hey,” I said, but she’d already caught sight of the pink bow in Alice’s hair and was trying to pluck it out while making small talk. Eventually, she lost interest, gave her a big hug, and disappeared into the press of people.
“She looks really different in that costume,” Alice said.
I tore my eyes away from what I had just realized were Wonderland-themed garters. “Like a different person,” I agreed.
I didn’t know most of the people at the party, which was good because I could walk up to anyone and just start talking and they’d likely be drunk enough to consider us great friends within a few minutes. The downside was that lasting bonds are rarely formed while intoxicated and in costume, so after a while all the masked killers and cavewomen started seeming awfully similar. Fortunately, the pirate found me and broke up the monotony by showing me (and most of the rest of the room) her various tattoos. When she got confused and started over from the star on the back of her neck, I excused myself and slipped outside.
Alice was alone on the porch, her breath fogging the screen of her cell phone. Within five words, I could tell that the person on the phone was male, far away and that neither of them was happy about it. There’s a specific inflection that works its way into your voice during those talks, and it’s pretty easy to pick out after you’ve heard it come out of your own mouth a few times.
“OK,” she said, lingering over the word, stretching it out because she knew she’d have to hang up after it was finished. “Happy Halloween. Bye.”
She snapped the phone carefully shut and stared at it for a few seconds. Then she looked up and saw me. For a moment, she looked like she might get embarrassed, but the look faded.
“This sucks,” she said.
I looked past her at the street.
“Not much fun being on the other end of that call, either,” I said.
“Yeah.” She sipped from a stainless steel flask she’d borrowed from the gangster, offered it to me. “Probably not.”
I’d never seen the Wish You Were Here talk from this side before. I wasn’t sure I liked the possibility that it might be tough on both parties. When I had been in similar situations, I’d always sort of assumed I was bearing the weight of distance alone. Calvin was right. Things are a lot simpler when you can only see one side of them.
The door swung open and the black cat stared at us in disbelief.
“You guys,” she said. Her black ears had turned so they ran diagonally across her head. “This is a party. Get in here!”
I shrugged at Alice, handed her the flask and we all plunged into the crowd. If Calvin had taught me anything, it was that being lonely and confused can’t keep you from having a good time. Only you can do that. You, or a random pterodactyl attack.
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