I registered a domain for this blog–not for any important reason other than it was available: ephemerality.net; and since domain names only become increasingly more rare, I was pleased to see that a single word–the titular word of this blog–was available. I hadn’t even thought to check its availability until now, assuming it had been taken.
Although .com certainly was taken, by a squatter. As in, it’s registered but no active site exists at that location, so it must be some guy who thought he’d hang onto it and wait for some company to offer him a big payout for it some day. But visiting the URL brings up a 404 error, so it’s routing traffic somewhere, just not somewhere with an HTTP site. Maybe he’s using it as a placeholder to a private server. Dunno.
In any case, I now own the .net version, which redirects here anyway so nothing amazing going on. At least it’s shorter to type.
The request immediately snapped me from my daydreams.
For reasons I won’t go into here, we were headed to a social function. And Liz wanted to send the appropriate social cue: engaged, but slightly and arrogantly aloof (see above: pretentious). Not negatively and actively pretentious, but rather one of perceived pretentiousness, as in: I dressed up to go out and I speak with proper grammar. That kind of pretentiousness–the kind that would complement her husband’s trenchcoat/tie/scarf-wearing pretentiousness. You get the idea.
Mix pretentiousness with drinking, and in this very specific scenario, she was married to the right man.
“Ah, well then you need an obscure yet classic cocktail,” I replied, then began thinking. It had to be something she would drink, obviously, yet it had to be something I’d never seen on a menu before. But, it had to be rooted in old traditions–a recipe that had an official IBA standing and contested origination history. A memory coalesced of Alton Brown (culinary pretentiousness personified), arguing his historical version of the margarita’s predecessor. The associated visual he had provided was even in a Parisian cafe–or bar, whatever the French call those establishments. It was a perfect backstory, if only I could remember what it was called.
I remember having had one before, though I didn’t remember when or where. It had a dark spirit, and was sweet and citrus-y. I lapsed into silence, waiting for the fragmented neurons to fire in the appropriate sequence. Minutes passed since my response; while I grumbled to myself, cursed my memory, and browsed through my phone hoping to find the answer. Yet Liz didn’t interrupt my thoughts. Perhaps the visual signals I was sending indicated a heavy CPU load, like a fervently-blinking yellow light–you just let it finish what it’s doing before trying something else or it might lock up and crash.
“A sidecar!” Huzzah! I then researched the exact ingredients: cognac, lemon juice, and an orange liqueur–which sounded good to Liz. Then, to complete the effect, we discussed the manner in which such a drink had to be ordered: with a specified liqueur and manner of serving–ultimately concluded to be Grand Marnier and served up (and Courvoisier–if your preference is for that mediocre product of marketing other cognac that’s only drunk because of its popularity among hip-hop singers, kill yourself).
At the restaurant, the waitress took down the order with an obvious air of skepticism, probably assuming that someone at the bar had to know what it was. She returned with a cocktail–served up and in the appropriate vessel…with a glass of something else alongside. Upon inquiry, she explained that that was the Grand Marnier. Apparently somewhere along the way someone considered the liqueur to be a separate request, rather than a preferred ingredient. No matter, once the Grand Marnier was mixed in, it made for a very respectable sidecar.
Liz found it very agreeable to her palette, and decided to request the drink elsewhere, and each time it was a phenomenal success. This made me re-think my own cocktail of choice, the Manhattan, because 1) Bourbon is increasing in popularity, and 2) Possibly as a result of the first reason, the Manhattan is now well known, which leads to 3) The drink appears on cocktail menus now which means that everyone makes their own non-standard version, they’re watered-down, and they’re overpriced. My weak-ass Manhattan cost $10 next to Liz’s significantly stronger and tastier $7 sidecar.
So now I’m jealous. We can’t both order the same drink, and the sidecar’s become her socially-refined signature cocktail. Perhaps it’s time for me to just move on. Bourbon, you were good to me for a long time, but you’re kind of a whore, and too many lips have touched you.
With the looming winter there just aren’t as many projects to undertake (and to write about), but rather than make yet another video game post I thought I’d ramble a bit about economic and workplace observations. I’m sure that sounds riveting, but I’m not one to mislead with a false premise. If you prefer, simply rename this post’s title to: Ten Things You Need to Know About the Millennial Worforce (in the typical clickbait list fashion).
Although, I still don’t consider myself a Millennial. I fit somewhere into that forgotten Generation-Y group, before Millennials but too young to be a Gen-Xer. And like everyone else, I feel that my generation had it worse, and I will explain why.
I will do so by mentioning two movies that I consider to be flagships of this Lost Generation, Gen-X: Fight Club and Office Space. Media serves as an excellent historical record of a society.
Taken at face value, they’re comedies. Looking deeper, however, I became irritated at the protagonists’ complaints. In Fight Club, for example, a young professional becomes disillusioned with the consumerist society in which he lives, abandons it all, recruits followers, and then uses domestic terrorism to try and topple the financial sector.
I’m so angry and brooding. Look how cool I am though. In a later scene I take off my shirt.
Here’s another look: a young professional has more money than he knows what to do with, struggles to find meaning in his life, becomes an asshole at work, foregoes finding a meaningful relationship because he’s a misogynist and opts for a friend with benefits (to whom he’s also an asshole), then creates a gang to commit large-scale vandalism.
I’m so sad because I’m a cubicle jockey. Fucker–I had to work 9 YEARS to get my OWN cubicle.
In Office Space, a young professional becomes disillusioned with the lack of meaningful employment, struggles with having a relationship, then snarkily finds ways to strike back against his evil corporate overlords. Or, a young professional doesn’t like his job and girlfriend, so he grabs the hottest girl he can find (obvious because it’s Jennifer Aniston–who’s always playing the part of hot chick), shamelessly ceases to do any work (but doesn’t quit his job–just pulls a paycheck while sitting around), then convinces a couple of his colleagues to commit computer crime and steal a lot of money, culminating in some vague message that these actions were maybe not justified, but permissible, since his boss/employer was terrible.
If I extrapolate a line of reasoning akin to the hierarchy of needs, then I would conclude that the Gen-Xers, not having to work as hard for economic sustenance, invented problems, or possibly focused too much on more minor problems, and as a result have a much greater expectation of their effort/reward ratio.
I mention all this because I work with this older generation. As a whole, I’ve been reasonably content in my current role and department, feeling as though I’ve finally achieved a satisfying level of accomplishment and respect (see above: my own cubicle). At least I don’t feel like killing myself anymore, so I was a little surprised that when we took our usual round of company surveys, the overall scores for the department were rather low.
I was not the only one who wanted to know why, as committees were soon formed with the intent of identifying the factors that were lowering the scores. As I was conscripted, I had little say in my involvement. So I just listened. Common complaints were: inconsistencies regarding using benefit time, lack of established policies, perceived lack of trust, and a general feeling of being treated like a child. I found little merit in these claims, seeing them as superficial interpretations of inevitable inconsistencies.
But I suppose the surveys did what they intended: measured the level of employee contentment; and the committees identified specifics. Still, I can’t help but feel that the prior generation had it a little too easy. I suppose, in time, the Millennials will consider me a big whiner with unreasonable demands too.
