imbalance

What triggers anger? Fear? Arrogance? Impotence? My anger is a rich blend of all three and something deeper and more primal. No, it's more about my inner child. My history.

Many smart, capable female friends have been posting on Facebook about getting old. And fat. And not being pretty. I see decades of creativity sucked dry by bullshit. And I got angry.

"Why do you waste your energy puling about aging? All you have is time and you're pissing it away. There's a million more fascinating, enriching and amusing things to do out there than moan than something you can't change. I am 53. I don't give a rat's ass about getting older. Get on with your lives and stop this ridiculous, first-world whiny shit.
You are smart and I love you but you are wasting your precious time. The End."

It probably won't make a bit of difference and I'll offend people and make them defensive. I should just block them so I don't have to read it. 

Who do I think I am, telling people that they're full of shit? 
Who do I think I am, telling them I know better than they do? 

This goes back to power. And balance and imbalance. 

Do I have the right? 
Do I have the obligation? 
Do I see clearly?

Well, I guess I think I do. I think I have the right and obligation to say that the Emperor is stark naked. I am pretty sure, however, that it falls on deaf ears and I want to be okay with exorcising cultural demons even if it seems I'm the only one witnessing the act.

choreography saturday

My Saturday entertainment line up for this past weekend was as follows:

• IWE Wrestling at the Armadillo Flea Market on I-45 and Airtex from 3-6pm.
• Tango Buenos Aires at Jones Hall in downtown Houston from 8-10pm.

If high and low culture were weather systems, there should have been thundersnow in my life between 6pm and 8pm.

To recap the local wrestling:
There were masked luchadores. There was much spandex (the TMI of fabrics) stretched over lumpy frames. There were tag teams (chanted for Wrecking Crew and against Nemesis & Sin, if you need to know where I stand). The wrestling spilled off the mat into the crowd on numerous occasions.

The event was sponsored by H-Town Bail Bonds. Butofcourse. There were toddlers cheering. There was a mock weapons search of some of the wrestlers. I brought pen and paper to take notes...and found myself stuffing them into my bra whenever I needed my hands for clapping. Something I never do normally. Subconscious adaptation is what that is.

Our dear friend Josh (who calls me his SHEro for agreeing to attend and actually showing up), initiated us into the taunting chant ritual. Explained the beauty of the "unnecessary USA chant" and how intoxicating it is to the crowd. We jeered. We whooped.

In the interest of full disclosure I must add that I was 2/3 drunk. Which means I'd had 2 beers in quick succession prior to the festivities. I was hoping to maintain that state of inebriation; I was sure there would be beer there but no. Just carny food that wouldn't have made the cut at an elementary school festival. Nonetheless, that simple buzz went a long way to easing me into the world of fake sleeper holds and dramatic ref counts.

To recap the Tango Buenos Aires performance:
There were women in slitted dresses with brightly colored linings* that flashed repeatedly as they swirled and slid and did all the tango-flavored gyrations. There were sparkly high-heeled dance shoes that mesmerized.

And there were men in fluid suits moving with their partners in stupefying synchronicity. Apart and together, sliding and twirling. How they were not covered in shin contusions is a mystery to me. High heels and that much leg-slinging whilst spinning gonad-to-gonad ought to produce serious bruising. I can't vouch for the panted men but either the women were that good or they have awesome cover stick makeup.

Finally, there was a mock fight scene which recalled the event earlier in the day. Only this fight didn't involve any head-to-sweaty-crotch holds.

*Which reminds me of one of my favorite insects, the underwing moth. (source)

It's all about the mystery people.

support hosed

Racism and xenophobia are so repugnant. And yet it’s naïve to imagine we’re all free and clear on this one. Especially those of us who are cultural minorities and think ourselves politically sensitive. There is a thin, blurry line that separates racism from the acknowledgment of cultural differences. We often avoid mentioning the issue in order to never step over that line. I am going to attempt to navigate this morass.

Tech Support and Outsourcing. It’s a problem. I spent the better part of the week talking to, what felt like, most of the Indian Subcontinent and half of Southeast Asia. I had a problem that wasn’t on the list. A weird DSL configuration that I could. not. make. clear. Swear to god, I must have talked to 30 people. 40, maybe. I was escalated up to the next level. I was transferred. Double-transferred. Call back in 4 hours. We’ll call you back. Talk to the installation department (in Myanmar? Thailand? What does it mean that the tech support is mostly in India but the Installation and Customer Service is in Singapore? Why?) With each call my irritation mounted.

Years ago when I was in school, I worked at the public university library. I am a total research, book, info-junkie nerd. I LOVED working in the library. I went through months of training to work at the reference information desk. Helping students and professors find the answers for their research. Back when there was (jesussaveme) NO internet. We were phasing out the card catalog, starting to use some very clumsy databases…and the dinosaurs had just stopped roaming the earth. Anyway, the information desk was a source of great anecdote. A public library is just that—any crazy-ass fool can walk through the door and come up to you and ask a question. We were all about information, even though we couldn’t always help the ones with the tinfoil hats. We actually helped tons of people find sources for their research or papers. But we were taught that one of the more important aspects of that job is diffusing.

When people feel frustrated or dismissed or just stupid about a thing, they tend to get defensive. And angry at the person embodying their real or imagined ignorance. My daughter pointed this critical skill out to me when I was talking to her about tech support. When I worked the gay-lesbo-bi-trannie switchboard, I also tapped into this training. You need to be able to listen to a person, empathize, help them let off steam and assure them you will truly try and help them solve their problem.

That is, no shit, all most people need. Listen, empathize, convince them you’ll do your best (and of course, back that up by TRYING to do your fucking best).

However. This is hard to do. (Some of our crusty librarians were scathing. Their disdain for the requester's ignorance threw gasoline on the insecurity fire. It was, I’m afraid, quite funny in anecdote…but rare enough.) And this was basically within a culture and face-to-face. Cross-culturally and over-the-phone it is very hard to do. Not impossible, but quite hard. When you deal with a society weaned on leftover British Empire language/manner skill set, you end up with very polite and at times, overly formal responses to anger. This, I feel safe to say, drives most United Statesians completely bonkers.

And that’s just the social niceties part of the challenge.

So, people, outsourcing tech support may be here to stay but I’m pretty sure that this problem will come to a head someday. I’m afraid when presented with two comparable services, the one with the local help line is going to get my vote. And you bigots out there, can not count me in your club. This is all about expediency. We certainly don’t speak the best English in the world and our slang is prolific but we probably understand each other a little better than not.

One last note. When I was trying to get the brand name and model of the DSL modem that my ISP supported, the customer service person said what sounded and spelled out like SpeedCREAM. I said SpeedCREAM? No, SpeedPREAM? No, SpeedSCREAM? How weird. She kept spelling it out but I could not distinguish her t as in thomas from her p as in pomade? pumice? Swear, I couldn’t. She got fairly impatient (couldn’t blame her) and I finally understood that she was spelling out SpeedSTREAM. Oh. Well, that makes sense. She’s probably blogging right now about the illiterate, idiotic American woman she spoke to this week.