jennings rampage

For the dense: I prattle on about my day, except I reverse the sequence of events.

I like pina coladas. I do NOT like getting caught in the rain.

Lorimer’s my stop on the L, the second one in Brooklyn. If I take the train to the third stop, Graham, I’m within smelling distance of a White Castle. I had some unanticipated free time and a taste for steamed meat, so I took the train the extra stop and slapped down the cash for a sack of ten and an order of fries. (No, I don’t eat a sack of ten in one sitting. My friends, there is no better late night snack than a cold White Castle. Sublime.) Just as I walked out the door, loot in hand, I was immediately struck down for this selfish malspendage with a Florida-style thunderstorm, several more blocks from home than I’m used to. I was wishing I was still at work.

I was sent home from Eli’s Temp Assignment From Hell after two hours on the job tonight since there was no more work for me. I probably could have done some scanning/quality control work if I wanted, but I made it pretty clear up front that for $10/hour, I wasn’t getting anywhere near a computer. It’s a matter of nerd honour. And since there was no more stapling or unstapling to be done, off I went.

I’ve written that I don’t know how much longer I am for that office, but in fact I’m getting a little more comfortable there. People are starting to bother to learn my name, and are returning my friendly eye contact and trademark smile that are the foundation of any positive social interaction. Tonight, oh my heavens, I even did a bit with them. I was working from the break room, which I enjoy because it’s close to the two pillars of wasting time: the water cooler and the bathroom. So the Doctor of Style Eli Newell swings by to TCB, and a few of the girls assembled in the break room started commenting amongst themselves about how handsome young Mr. Newell is. Well, the ranking girl (as near as I can observe) decides to make an example of the girl who was most enthusiastic in her adoration of our Eli, and waves him over and tells him about this girl’s crush. Well, there’s giggling and smiling and Eli’s handling the situation with grace and aplomb when I decide this is far too uneventful and decide to bellow out a firm and forceful “HE’S MINE!” Oh, the hilarity’s just getting started! Naturally, Eli yesanded me and we were off to the bit-races. This went on for a few minutes, with the ranking female chiding the crushing female that Eli was “spoken for,” when the ranking female couldn’t handle the confusion any more and asked if I was being serious. Well, that’s the call for the end of the bit, and I fessed up to my deceivery. But for the rest of the night, I was “Eli’s Man,” which beats “What’s Your Name Again?”

I was a little late to work today because I was talking to my brother and lost track of time. Well, I wasn’t tracking it at all. Anyway, it was good to hear from Jeff, I hadn’t talked to him in a month or so since he was too lazy to pay his Sprint bill and he had no phone. We talked about our mom, and we both agreed it was just a matter of time for her. She’s back in a nursing home while Rod has since been evicted from their old house, so that’s clearly for the best. But her condition is deteriorating; she’s no longer able to walk, and she’s not capable of any conversation. We talked about what would happen when the time did come, and we confirmed that we both knew her final wishes are to be cremated and have her ashes spread in the Atlantic on the beach where she finally got around to spreading her father’s ashes eighteen or so years after his death. (This is where I get my propensity to procrastinate. I suggested that she’d appreciate the irony of having me hold on to her ashes in my closet for years on end, but I suppose in the end, we’ll do as she asks.) Jeff raised the question of whether or not we’d go down to be there when her ashes are spread if she died suddenly, and I told him it was a stupid question. The conversation went a little like this:

Jeff: Would we even go down there?
Scott: That’s a stupid question.
Jeff: Yeah. But we’d have to get a fucking hotel room and shit and so we wouldn’t be able to stay long.
Scott: Well, no one said it was going to be a fun trip. Besides, after she dies, we won’t have a reason to go back down there any more.
Jeff: Yeah, that sucks, I like Cocoa Beach.
Scott: Me too. I’ll miss the Lido. [a local strip club]
Jeff: No shit. We’ll have to go one last time. Mom will have wanted it that way.

I called my brother because I suddenly remembered that he called last night to tell me his phone was back on, and because I was failing at my attempt to take a nap. I should have been able to take a nap, considering how little sleep I got last night, but I was really jazzed about how well the interview at ZoharCo went. I don’t want to jinx myself because I have to go back and meet with the Director of Client Services, so I won’t pat myself on the back and mime international symbols of success, such as “scoring a slam dunk,” “hitting a home run,” or “nailing it to the wall.” But that follow-up interview was scheduled on the spot, and I was given the feedback that I was under serious consideration. Good for me.

I’ll share with you my secret of job interviews, which I first read in a book on interviewing back in college and had reinforced through my improvisation training. The basic advice is to mirror your interviewer as much as possible, from posture to tone and volume of voice to vocabulary and terminology used to general demeanour. Ian Roberts dedicated two class sessions to this concept in a level 4 I had with him, so all I did was think of the interviewer as my scene partner, and yesanded their physicality and style. Supposedly, it puts the interviewer at ease to be mirrored, and my perspective as an improviser would suggest that it’s because yesanding moves the action forward. A good interviewee simply listens to what the interviewer wants and finds ways to give it to them. Use your improv.

I interviewed with three women who covered the entire spectrum of the beautiful rainbow that is the very special breed of the nerd girl. The first was the nouveau nerd girl, one who wasn’t necessarily born with a talent for technology, but found herself learning on the job and now knows her stuff. She was upbeat, spoke at length and with passion, and focused on the client relationship aspects of the job. In response, I gave upbeat answers that went on a little longer than I normally would, and focused on examples that showed how I’ve worked with clients and thought on my feet. I said “client expectations” a lot. The second was the chic nerd girl, the one who’s just slightly too cool for school, and has a natural talent for technology but no real desire to read Slashdot all day. She slouched big time, rarely made eye contact, seemed like she didn’t want to be there, and asked short and direct questions. So I did what allegedly should never be done and slouched myself, didn’t try to make eye contact, and gave quicker answers than I normally would. She was mostly interested in hearing about situations where I got myself into and out of trouble. I said “communicate effectively” a lot. The third was my personal favorite and the type I’ll melt for every time, the bona fide nerd girl. Engaging green eyes, chin-length hair that bounced as she nodded and shook her head with such enthusiasm, absolutely delicious. Focus up, Jennings. She’s the type who loves technology, loves learning about it, loves solving problems, and had the added bonus of being personable as well. I straightened up (my back), leaned forward, and smiled. She wanted to hear about my technology skills and my client skills, and I responded with direct and quickly-paced answers that were peppered with enough detail to demonstrate that I knew what I was talking about, but didn’t bog down the interview with pointless information. She was the one I busted out the term “database schema” on. Overall, a job to be proud of, and not even too much sweat despite wearing the suit in the heat.

I was running on adrenaline through the interview because I only got about four hours of sleep last night, because I’m hooked on “Sports Night” at 3:30am on Comedy Central. So fucking good. So so fucking good. I can’t wait until November for the DVD box set. “Sports Night” always picks me up, which I sort of needed after last night. But how about that last journal entry, huh? Somebody’s got an ego problem, methinks. Effective immediately, a moratorium on writing about any improv-related events until 48 hours of perspective-gathering has taken place. I shall hold myself to it.