thediastema's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Long-ass entry. Again. My work has a definite atmosphere. I suppose, given the nature of the establishment in question, it's to be expected. It's the likely result of mixing performing arts with an undereducated populace and garnishing it with a laundry list of locally-prominent wealthy people throwing their weight around in the name of philanthropy. One could say, perhaps, that the air at PTC embodies a few distinct qualities -- among them pretense, elitism, social Darwinism, and inevitable acquiescence of all those things to capitalism and/or the Lowest Common Denominator. I love it for all those reasons, but there's one thing I love about PTC even more: It is pathologically cliquey. I acknowledge the presence of cliques, gossip, and other juvenile social politics in any workplace, especially any workplace where higher-ups encourage their underlings to address them on a first-name basis (an increasingly popular practise in the modern office job, and one I find thoroughly icky for reasons I can't seem to pinpoint). But with all due respect to your hospitals, libraries, law firms, convenience stores, and brothels, PTC has your job's ass whupped in the "interacting like your grade-eleven pep squad at the worst possible time of the month" category. Everybody knows everybody, and everybody knows more about everybody than they let on, and everybody generally acts like best buddies face-to-face, and behind people's backs, anything goes. It's with this knowledge that we arm ourselves against the greatest threat to our subsociety: the newcomer. The newcomer poses incalculable danger to our structure, because the newcomer is either too green and incompetent to play the game correctly (thus frustrating those of us who follow The One True System) or, much worse, knows how to subvert our shallow and capricious behaviour to suit his own ends. Many of us have developed lines of defence against these savage freshmen who join the staff at about a third the rate at which people quit. (Hmmmm.) Some of us, supervisors and managers, do a half-assed job training the fresh blood so they'll stay in the dark and eventually become overwhelmed and head for the hills, leaving our precious core set safe once again. Others among us prefer to snark at length about the drudgery of work, or to palm same off on the new kids while we cool our heels. Men who join the staff are automatically delegated any heavy lifting (boxes of programs, bags of ice, the guy who went into insulin shock outside this show's first matinee) and women who join the staff are instantly hounded with questions about which men they best like to objectify. (So far, blond men and biology majors are leaving every other demographic in the dust. Stud should have stuck around.) Some topics are fair game when the purportedly-good-natured teasing wars begin (as occurs every day, multiple times, like clockwork, without fail). Among these are: Molly's height, Gimp's laziness, HM's alleged dalliances in Florida, the way Erin talks, just about anything Al does, Potatohead's hair, Fisher's virginity, Dimples' alleged and substantiated dalliances on campus, Neophyte Boy's clothes (old t-shirt and track pants every day ... we should set up a donation fund and send that poor boy to a Nordstrom, stat) and Morticia's five or six boyfriends (none of whom know about one another, and we've all been sworn to secrecy whilst in the presence of Army Guy 1, Baseball Guy, Basketball Guy, Army Guy 2, et cetera). Oddly enough, when our new recruit (whom we shall call "Minnesota" in honour of her upbringing) stepped into the coat check and donned the gaudy burgundy vest for the first time, she seemed instantly aware of all our secret rules -- not to mention the actual work-related ones we were, as a clique organization, planning to ration out to her as minimally as possible. Indeed, it's partly because she's a friend and dormmate of Potatohead's. The kid fit right in, preparing coffee, arranging cookies, taking inventory, counting revenue, and indulging in harmless backbiting as if by instinct. She took to critiquing patrons' fashions like breathing. She could have stuffed programs in her sleep. She was so good, she surpassed the danger zone of "too damn perfect and must be destroyed." She was granted instant assimilation, which I don't even know if I've ever seen before. Before the overture had ended, she was trading Kitchener jokes with HM and myself, because she apparently dated a rebellious Kitchenerite somewhere in her dark past. I like her already. ~~ Yeah, Morticia has about six boyfriends now. I was shooting the breeze with her after work on Tuesday. "I just can't concentrate tonight!" said she. I smirked and remarked about the guy who'd just departed, announcing he was soon to ask her out. She scowled. "Yeah, sometimes I wonder if it's worth the hassle. I did three of them today and now I'm soooooo sore." Turned out she meant she played their respective sports with each of them today, but it was excellent teasing fodder, and I milked it. ~~ On my commute, I was stopped by the light just cater-corner from the Friendship Man[or] sign of old, belting out harmonies to match my long-suffering Aimee Man[n] mix tape, when a motorcycle pulled up abreast in the lane on my right. Initially I thought nothing of it. The light changed and we both pealed forward, southbound on Thirteenth. Rather quickly I shot out waaaaaay ahead of the motorcyclist and gave Aimee a few more decibels of control. Planning my next right turn well in advance, I noticed with mild alarm and moderate amusement that the cyclist had pulled up right beside me. I called him a bad name and floored it again. We both got stuck at the light on Eighth, and I allowed myself a glance at him. The pantywaist had a helmet on. I couldn't see his face. I could, however, make out the glare of eyeglasses worn underneath the helmet. It was right about then that I recognised his jacket, too. I thought about guys I knew who (a) were pantywaists, (b) wore glasses, (c) headed south from campus to get home and (d) had motorcycles. I knew what I was supposed to do. I returned to ignoring him completely and floored it again when the light turned green. We continued our wussy-ass drag-race until thirteenth and thirteenth, when I finally overtook him and turned down the hill. Just as I suspected, he continued southward, in the direction of the Alternayuppie Minimansion. An odd sense of empowerment washed over me. I turned the radio back down to normal. ~ETK 00:28 - 04 April, 2002 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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