A Sociopolitical Anthropology of Office Behavior

Ah, the office: a place more awkward than a class reunion at Introvert High School. Prior to actually wearing the white collar, all I knew about offices was borrowed from Kids in the Hall, which, I daresay, was a grand introduction:

Because politics is off-limits, I fill my conversation with mock-shocked statements about the weather ("can you believe it's raining again?") or reminding my coworkers of the day ("ugh, Monday!"). If I'm feeling particularly adventurous, I’ll allude to some weekend debauchery, but as far as my coworkers are concerned, my Saturday consists of laundry, laundry, laundry.

During my first week, my coworkers took a marked interest in me: the youngest, newest inhabitant sharing their corridors and copy machines. They would constantly ask:

"What's your background?"

Which translates into a question about whether or not you're qualified for your position. For other tyros to the office habitat, and for those likewise lacking in actual job experience, ranting about academic accomplishments seems to have a neutralizing effect, thank the high holy heavens.

Determining the intonations of everyday office language could be paradise to the paranoid. Is "you're so nice" office lingo for "you're such a naive little boy"? Does "get home safely" suggest an inability to take care of oneself?

In addition to language, there's the whole, dire matter of politics, both the interpersonal and macro-level kind. How can we be honest with one another if we are advised not to speak about politics when "the personal is political"?

Veganism is a case in-point. At first, whenever a staff member offered a pastry, a fruitcake or somethings' leg, I'd turn-down the food without explanation. Human Resources identified that I was refusing every food offer. I was told that this could be taken as offensive - not accepting the gifts of others - and so I confessed to my deviant lifestyle. Admittedly, the whole point of veganism is to make a political or philosophical statement, so my initial reluctance to declare my morality sounds less logical than a spray-tan salon in the middle of Oompa-Loompa-land.

Then again, given my apathy towards isinglass and my wardrobe of more than few wool garments, any attempt to share my “reduce harm” mindset seems superficial. I’m not a particularly good vegan; why, I’m worse at veganism than Hitler was at making Jewish friends.

A greater sense of shame resulted from my not challenging the political discourse of others in my office. One coworker (“A ‘liberal,’ but not a “blame-America-first liberal’”) recently claimed that imperialism was a “mixed bag." I'm genuinely embarrassed for not shutting him down; yet, considering my newbie status, I wouldn't want any argument to explode and leave me scraping coins from the subway again. Thus the binds of capitalism.

Finally, being a man in a mostly-female office leads to its share of awkwardness, especially around the damned water cooler, which, I've discovered, forces us to retreat into medieval gender roles. Once I was asked to replace the water tank by an unsmiling, bird-like woman who communicates using automobile sounds. “Beep Beep,” she says, meaning “hi” or “excuse me” or “I am censoring a series of two swear words.” Intending to parody her stereotype of male strength, I said something along the lines of “let me know if you need help with anything else He-Man related,” which I followed quickly with, “I’M SORRY THAT SOUNDED INCREDIBLY SEXIST.” I shouted it across the hall. She didn’t care either way; she simply beeped along like a fussy Fiat in a jubilee traffic jam.

Another female co-worker “needed a man” for the same job, and when I happened to overhear her, I stepped-up to the proverbial, masculinized plate. She thanked me a little too profusely for “acting like a man,” "being a real gentleman" and emphasizing my general manliness in general. Did I offend her? Or were my chest hairs a little too visible? I approached her later on and asked whether she was insulted by my help. She was not; as it turns out, she was emphasizing manliness to emasculate the other male coworker in the room who did not help.

Thank goodness for this one person with whom I work - the other fellow leftist in my office. Whenever we talk, she launches a shameless rant about the importance of feminism, her hatred for her daughter’s hipster boyfriend (whom she impersonates with a hilarious, lackadaisical Californian accent) or her love of Ian MacKaye. I knew we were cut from the same cloth when she looked at my Doc Martens and said that, in her days on the New York City punk circuit, they used to call them “shitkickers."

“Lose Your Fingers!”

A recent, lengthy walk to the edges of Bensonhurst led me to a folksy-looking bric-a-brac shop. Inside, below racks and rows of delicate teacups, porcelain figurines and various other pieces of precariously-cluttered daintiness, there beamed a beautiful, flame-colored electric guitar. The mock Fender's presence seemed like a deliberate artistic statement: a discordant bit of loudness among the myriad quiet, fragile, civilized things displayed.

I expressed interest. “Fifty dollars,” said the jovial, Eastern European shopkeeper, “but for you, forty-five.” When I turned-down the offer, he said, good-humoredly, “I hope it doesn’t end-up with one of those bands that smash their instruments at the end!” He repeatedly smashed an air guitar and laughed to himself.

On the walk home, I decided that I had made a mistake. I thought about the guitar constantly. I even decided to give it a name: "Jocylin." Several more days of rumination passed before I returned.

Jocylin was still there, smiling her big, fierce guitar-grin. I walked over. A small boy, perhaps the store owner’s son, seemed to mirror my enthusiasm. He wanted me to play.

“You gotta do it,” encouraged the boy, “lose your fingers!”

“Lose your fingers?”

“Yeah!” said the kid, “you gotta lose your fingers!” That extra “L” struck me as a perfect metaphor. I held Jocylin for him and began alternating between C- and G-Major as he pawed the strings with his fingertips. The two of us spent a minute "losing our fingers" on the guitar, smiling widely all the while.

I bought the guitar and high-fived the kid as I left.

Once outside, I defrocked Jocilyn from the plastic bag that the shopkeeper ridiculously wrapped her body in: the world should see her. At first, I carried Jocilyn by the neck – like a dead, flame-colored phoenix, ready to burn and reemerge, electric and anew – but because holding Jocilyn in this way felt somehow disrespectful, I instead began carrying her like an assault rifle. As I forged ahead through the streets, as high on adrenaline as a successful revolutionary, it occurred to me that I was wielding a far more powerful weapon: all an assault rifle can do is kill a man.

Jocilyn turned heads. Once, a group of kids, away from their mother’s tether, saw the guitar, stopped what they were doing, and lined-up against a wall: staring awe-eyed, as though for a newly-coronated king in his first royal ride down High Street.

For the amp, I went inside a local music store, where I gravitated towards the black hole in the center letter of “VOX.” I was sold once the owner mentioned the “wah wah” sound effect option, hearkening me back to that bizarre advertisement/track on Pebbles Box of Trash:

10 Nostalgic Songs

As my pre-post internet search for "nostalgic songs" would suggest, nostalgia is a very personal thing. Every similar list I came across was radically different from the last, in terms of genre, time-period, etc. Therefore, perhaps most of what follows is only relevant to my own, narrow experiences, but hopefully there's something here to which you can relate.
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"Losing Haringey," by The Clientele

Remember those long, contemplative walks? Remember that feeling of 1982-ness: dizzy, illogical, as if none of the intervening disasters and wrong turns had happened yet?

"Slide," by Goo Goo Dolls

Remember consolations?

"I Will Remember You," by Sarah McLachlan

Remember the last time we saw each other? I've long associated this one with graduation day...

"Fast Car," by Tracy Chapman

Remember forgetting it all to wild exhilaration?

"You Get What You Give," by New Radicals

Remember the 1990s: Beck, Hanson, Courtney Love, Marilyn Manson? Remember what the Staten Island Mall looked like back then?

"Green and Grey," by New Model Army

Remember the one who got out, sold out?

"Drops of Jupiter," by Train

Remember your best friend always stickin' up for you? The best soy latte that you ever had?

"Late Night, Maudlin Street," by Morrissey

Remember moving away from the street you grew up on?

"Post World War Two Blues," by Al Stewart

Remember your youthful idealism? Which way did the 60's go?

"Talent Show," The Replacements

Remember how cool we all thought we were in our younger, dumber years?
(Hon. nostalgic Placemats mention: "When it Began," of course)

Neckties; Or, Adventures in Vasoconstriction, Part III

Although I learned during week one that they were not mandated by the company dress code, I continued wearing neckties to my new job until week three: mostly because, for yours truly, the image of me in a necktie was as novel a sight as a gorilla in a shopping mall reading Anna Karenina. The novelty has since lost its affect – like similes with gorillas or puns on the word “novel” – and with summer fast approaching (let’s hope Greenland doesn’t start thawing again), only the hipsterest hipster could bear wearing a sweat-slopped business-noose for the sake of ironic self-parody.

The lesser reason that I kept wearing ties was as a social experiment: do people treat necktie-wearers differently? I discovered that the courtesies and hostilities of everyday urban social interaction remain: what changes is who exchanges what.

For example, in my non-work attire, I accidentally happened upon Chevy's: a menswear shop on 86^th Street in Gravesend. The moment I entered, the owner, sitting behind the counter, asked, with a very subtle enmity:

“Can I help you?”

I responded “just browsing!” and began perusing his wares. Much of it was Italian-made, which meant, to my own paranoid, left-wing head, that I could buy something and not fear that it came from a sweatshop.

As I walked to the back of the store, the owner rose and began sneaking quick glances at me, strongly resembling nervous butler with a peasant in his midst. I felt self-conscious and unwelcome. When I approached a rack of neatly-hung jeans, the contempt he held for my class and kind became clear:

“Those jeans cost $135. Is that a problem?”

Such a question can only be asked to humiliate. “No,” I lied, “that’s not a problem,” but I nevertheless considered buying a pair just to best him. I smiled savagely and asked if he carried the jeans in a size 29.

“I don’t,” said the sallow, class-prejudiced, pathetic little fuck.

“That,” said I, Shakespearean, triumphant, “is a problem,” and I left, mouth puckered inward, teeth clenched tighter than a streetfighter’s fist.

Blatant classism is bad enough, but I was more disturbed by how my peers, or those whom I would regard as such, treated me when I wore a tie. In the subway, my fellow countercultural twentysomethings, with their piercings, thrift-store clothing and chunky headphones blasting almost loud enough to drown-out their student loan anxieties, no longer looked at me with an acknowledgement of <DROOG> in their eyes. No matter what your actual job entails (I would consider my line pro-social), no matter how much David Graber or Michel Foucault you’ve read, and no matter that you’ve listened to every song on Sandinista! at least twice, a necktie immediately makes you The Man.

The absolute worst, however, was the socially-engineered, resentful obsequiousness of the very poor; the exaggerated nicities that we assume we should bestow on those of high rank. Having that directed at me was the straw that broke this camel's heart.

Thus lay a mess of neckties on my dresser table, gathering the same dust that all things, splendid and decrepit, generally do.

Decisions in Footwear Ethics, Part II: New Balance

When I was particularly young, I was more grossed-out by the thought of wearing something else’s skin than with sticky geopolitical issues. Converse and most things Payless sufficed for my anti-leather phase. However, as I began to learn about the grisly world of globalization, sweatshops and child labor, I wanted the kicks I picked to match my politics. Thus, New Balance, with its lovely range of non-leather, Made-in-America footwear, seemed a happy option for my ambling needs. Without having researched the company, I bought a pair and sported them throughout my high school days.

In college, in Boston, with my New Balance sneaks all roughed-up and losing their inner-padding, I gave No Sweat a try. No Sweat's mock-Converse shoes ticked all of my ethics boxes. Lamentably, in addition to providing no arch support, they fell apart within just two months of (daily) wear. I then bought used, Made-in-America Danner boots (my first leather footwear since age eight – second-hand leather doesn’t directly support the industry... or so I had reasoned). I clunked around in those heavy things for two years. They weighed a ton; I might as well have strapped the rest of the cow to my feet.

In the summer of my final year in Boston, in desperate need of something more lightweight, I dragged my Danner-clad feet over to the New Balance factory and bought a pair of Made-in-America sneakers. These lasted me until just recently, with the inner-padding once more rubbing away. I bought yet another pair – again, “Made-in-America,” vegan-friendly – and, finally, albeit retroactively, did the ethics research.

Run Run Run...

As it turns-out, New Balance is a company of ambiguous ethical character, with various websites lending contrasting opinions. From what I can gather, there was a labor dispute in 1999, during which New Balance’s American workforce accused the company of employing extreme low-wage, no-benefit temp workers in China. The following year, these accusations were exposed as valid in Business Week.

We must also mention the strange relationship between New Balance and the Li Kai Shoe Manufacturing Company – a giant Chinese sweatshop rife with child labor, unsafe food, and women being forced to shower in the same facilities as men. This partnership is elaborated in an online report by the National Labor Committee and China Labor Watch:

http://www.iatp.org/files/451_2_78428.pdf 

Granted, these scandals are a bit old, back when every company was getting hit by similar or worse accusations. Plus, to their credit, New Balance remains the only major manufacturer of athletic footwear that still employs an American workforce, even if this accounts only for a symbolic 15% of their product line, and even if the material components for the shoes themselves are imported. Whether these idiomatic grains of salt changes New Balance's ethical flavor is your decision alone, but personally, I'll need a lot more sodium chloride before I buy another pair.

Expect a sequel entry about Macbeths shortly. In the meantime, here’s a link to the prequel entry about Dr Martens (or, as a work colleague called them when I donned them for casual Friday, “shit-kickers”).

Eleven Ecstatically Happy Songs

To celebrate the return of my favorite childhood confectionery - hot cinnamon tic tacs - there follows a list of all-purpose, ebullient tunes. This should recompense for a previous entry suiting quite the opposite set of moods. Enjoy!
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"Sweet Jane," by The Velvet Underground

I'd call this classic, but then again, I call everything by The Velvet Underground classic.

"All Around You (Intro)," by The Brian Jonestown Massacre

The warm, friendly bit of psychedelic trippiness that kicks-off The Satanic Majesties' Second Request.

"Punk Rock Girl," by The Dead Milkmen

I can't listen to this one without grinning widely. Everything about this is hilarious. Three cheers for the Philadelphian accent!

"Certain People I Know," by Morrissey

Miserablist my arsenal: a song for those days when you can take just about anything with a grain of salt... or sand.

"The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy)," by Simon and Garfunkel

I listened to this frequently when I first returned to dear old Glasgow. Continuing my education in the city I loved most meant the constant need to stifle spontaneous smiling. "What the fuck is he so happy about?"

"Can't Hardly Wait," by The Replacements

Nervous anticipation, when, after far too long, we finally know for certain that it's all going to turn out wonderfully.

"Change," by The Lightning Seeds

"Oh, you fool, you've got me started..."

"I Kissed a Girl," by Jill Sobule

A convincing little love song for the list.

"The Big Sky," by Kate Bush

"That cloud... that cloud... looks like Ireland!" I likewise tend to spot geopolitical entities in the sky.

"Waiting for the Great Leap Forward," by Billy Bragg

Takes you down before taking you way, way up. This is for all of you dispirited lefties out there: if no one out there understands, start your own revolution and cut out the middle-man!

"Tom Hark," by Elias and his Zig Zag Jive Flutes

Pennywhistle playfulness from South Africa, 1956. Stewart Lee must be a fan.

Pulled to Safety?

When I received the phone call confirming my employment, I was in the dressing room stall of a thrift store, trying on the only pair of jeans they had in my size: a shapeless, ugly pair. I had taken everything out of my pocket and slipped off the pair I was wearing when the phone began to buzz. Human resources had, quite literally, caught me with my pants down.

“We have made some tough decisions, as there were many strong candidates for the position,” and I gulped harder than a thirsty wino would beaujolais, “…but we’ve decided to give you a shot,” and I saw myself sink to my knees in the mirror before me.

 Should the offer come, I had intended to say something dignified and graceful, such as:

“It is with enthusiasm, humility and the sincerest gratitude that I accept your offer.”

Instead, I said, verbatim:

“Oh, thank you so, so, so, so much!”

I was with a friend at the time, and after receiving the job offer, Rusty Nails, Washington Apples and various other cocktails that I do not remember followed. My first action upon getting home the next morning was to cancel all those daily job notification e-mails that clog my inbox: slaying Monster, zapping ZipRecruiter, deconstructing CareerBuilder and clipping StartWire.

I don't think I'll miss spending my mornings filling-out online job application forms...

Since then, two new ruminations have crept into my mind, and now, with the rain pitter-pattering outside and a tepid cup of tea on my desktop, I have been trying to contend with them. The first is the flipside of my former fear of failure: the thought that I might actually “make it.” What does this mean for me in relation to others of my generation? The news media constantly warns us twentysomethings that we will fare significantly worse than our parents. We are the precariat. In my mind’s eye, economic circumstance is a fault line. As it rips open, we all dangle from the rumbling ledge, and regardless of hope or cynicism, there is not enough rope to pull everyone to safety. Some will be swallowed by the gaping chasm. With the cruelty of context considered, if I am saved, how should I feel about it?

The second musing is less abstract and more classically anxious: What if I fuck up? This is, after all, a temp-to-perm position, and I have been given ninety days to demonstrate my worth.

When I was a psychology Masters student, I learned that cognitive therapy works – and it does indeed work – by challenging a client’s deluded, distressed or otherwise faulty fears with whichever of their past experiences contradict those worries. I learned during this time that, when I am given a challenge (such as a dissertation in a topic that I had never before formally studied), I put my all into it.

Thus, however cocksure it might sound, the answer to “What if I fuck up?” is “I won’t.” So there.