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crisis domesticus
Wednesday, September 30 1998
I ran into one too many troubles with the girlfriend, Kim, over the snide comments I've been saying about her in my online journal(s). She told me I cannot write about her any more and that if I wanted to persist in abusing her in this way, then she'd be better off without me. She said I have an addiction, adding that the addiction is not confined to remarks about her. I could see Kim's point; I have been bad to her. I'm not treating her like someone I love, and many of the remarks I make are clearly irrational, more like the grumblings of a spoiled-brat misanthrope than a thirty year old [insert positive noun phrase describing me here]. So I've decided to bow to Kim's demands and not discuss her any more in my public writing. This decision pains me a lot; I need to say wild, subjective, unflattering things if only for the therapeutic value of such outbursts.
But then I realized that this decision not to write about Kim also liberates me. No longer do I have to consider her reactions to anything I write about her because it won't be appearing before the general public. I've decided to keep writing as before, but to force some of the content invisible on my web pages.
Beyond that, I can also write without fear about other things that I need to discuss, such as Kafkaesque made-for-teevee job interview scenes I've been experiencing.
One such interview happened just down the canyon in Mission Valley at a place called College Club. The premise for the organization is to be a hip and happening online place for educated young adults to gather. It's a gaudy set of pages, but they need web programmers (or HTMLers, as they call them).
No one wore a tie except for me. I felt like a shackled zoo exhibit as I awaited my interview in the small lobby area while the receptionist engaged in cheerful banter with my prospective co-workers, all hip and happening young adults, the kind one sees sunning themselves on Pacific Beach.
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I should mention at this point that on the very few occasions when I dress in a businessman uniform, I always feel as though my impostor status is painfully obvious to all who see me. The way I tie my tie doesn't really look quite as neat and tidy as the way ties look on everyone else. And my shirt just doesn't seem to want to stay tucked in; there's something inherently wrong with my posture. But all the time, while I'm actually wearing a tie, people do give me more respect than usual. I don't get followed around in stores as a suspected shoplifter, and everyone greets me with an unctuous smile. I become, for the duration, the stereotypical white male. You can see it in people's eyes: there must be money in my wallet and more in my bank account.
My interviewer seemed like a nice enough guy. Basically the job I'd be doing for his organization was HTML: he wants it fast-loading, precise, efficient, and above all, quickly delivered. He asked what my HTML proficiency was, on a scale of one to ten. I said (quite honestly) that though I didn't want to be immodest, I couldn't think of anyone who was any better. (Of course, in the online world, there are those who might well be better, or have a much better sense of design, but the truth is that I don't think of anyone, not even Zach Garland, as my HTML superior.)
I knew the interview was going well when the topic turned to The Simpsons. In the end I was invited back for a date tomorrow afternoon to demonstrate those HTML skills to which I made such arrogant claims.
Another interview I gave was this morning up in northern San Diego, as far north as La Jolla, but inland in that uncertain part of California where dusty hills muscle in between dismal industrial parks. The job was tech support for an ISP. Unlike Comet, my last (now defunct) employer, this place was serious about collecting its bills. While I waited as the only overdressed interviewee in the lobby, I could hear the finances guy systematically calling customers and hassling them for past-due bills.
I was surprised to find that most of the managerial positions at this ISP were occupied by women, even the job of System Administrator. I did well at a little tech quiz they gave me, so my interview was extended into a second segment where we discussed wages and such. The main thing I didn't like about the place was how far away it was.
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In the evening I took Sophie for a walk down to the edge of the canyon. On the way, I passed a coed group of teenagers, laughing, flirting and playing on their skateboards. I felt a pang of loss, suddenly aware of the fact that their world was one I could never again enter.
Above Mission Valley, I stood for awhile appreciating the scenery. To the east I could see the mountains of the Cleveland National Forest, to the west I could see Dog Beach and the mouth of the San Diego River, with the endlessly glinting Pacific Ocean beyond. The wind was cool and strong at the edge of the Normal Heights flatlands.
The mountains to the east of Mission Valley.
Civilization obscured in the glare of the setting sun.
Two century trees springing up among the scrub by the edge of a canyon.
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