It’s freaking brilliant.

As a front desk associate for this hotel, my responsibilities include the following; making the guests happy. Oh, you want specifics? Frankly, the list is way way too long for that, but suffice it to say that yes, I’ll be making reservations, checking people in and out, and the like, but really each individual associate is given the authority to do whatever it takes to make a guest happy without having to do the normal things that are on the top of a guest’s pet peeves like “checking with the manager.”

I’m also quite fond of the way employee incentive is handled. In my old job, quotas were beaten into us with no mercy, and we were always reminded of what we did wrong and called out about it in front of everyone. There was a wage freeze from the moment I walked in the door, meaning nobody got a raise. The strategy of the hotel, however, seems to be to guilt us into doing a good job by really giving us nothing to complain about. I get paid alright, we have bonuses, a break room, really nice discounts, nice people, and flexible schedules. It makes it so if I were to slack off or do a terrible job, I’d feel like an absolute dick! That’s the way to do it: hire people with a well-developed sense of moral decency and then guilt them through positive reinforcement.

Let it be known that this is an effective way to rule. Positive reinforcement. And for those who say it isn’t because not everyone has a conscience: people without consciences shouldn’t be part of your kingdom, pardner.

Everyone’s a little bit racist. – Avenue Q

We’re all a little racist, it’s true, but is that seriously a bad thing? Is every single racist thought a threat to social justice?

Of course racism is now a very slippery thing, isn’t it?  It is my understanding that “racist” now refers to any person who acts based on simple statistics.  If it’s statistically proven that 76% of Irish people have gonorrhea*, is it racist to tell a woman to be careful about Irish men when visiting Ireland?  Where’s the line?  Is it closed-minded, because I didn’t tell her to be careful about the women?  Is it made even more racist when 97% of people with gonorrhea eat lots of potatoes, to say that Irish people who eat potatoes have gonorrhea?

*None of these statistics are true, to my knowledge.  If they are, it’s an incredible coincidence.

It is my belief that racism isn’t the issue here.  That’s right, racism is, in itself, not a threat. It’s nothing to cry foul at, and it’s nothing to really worry about.  What we’ve done with racism is looked at a sneeze and called it a disease instead of a symptom.  Racism is not a problem.  The real problem is a simple one, one that started the whole racism thing and is the reason why people can’t believe that racism can be a harmless thing.

That problem, dear readers, is stupidity.  Stupidity in large and generous amounts is the only thing that account for the ruination of racism as something that doesn’t have to harm a soul.

Farmer Jackson thinks that black people are lazy people who can’t do squat.  He sees his neighbors move in, and sees that they are black.  He concludes that they are lazy.  You still with me so far?  Right now, Farmer Jackson isn’t hurting anyone with his racist thoughts.

Farmer Jackson sees one of the said neighbors, Habibu, in the market.  He avoids him.  Hooray.

Farmer Jackson is in a position to hire some farm hands, and is pretty set on turning down Habibu’s request to take the job.  Still not hurting anything.

Habibu shows that he gathers corn the fastest.  Farmer Jackson chooses someone else.  “RACIST!” the people cry!

No!  This isn’t the problem!  The problem is that Farmer Jackson is an IDIOT!  He let his racism – which is in itself not harmful – affect his judgment, making him pass over someone who was the most qualified for the job.  The problem isn’t his racism; the problem is that Farmer Jackson is too stupid to handle it.

And that’s really the issue.  Humankind is too stupid to handle racism the right way.  Some readers are probably still stuck on the fact that I chose “Habibu” as a name for a black guy.  It’s not racist to use an African name.  In fact, it’s kind of racist to complain about it, isn’t it?  I could have just as easily chosen the name “Adolf” or “Jennifer.”  You don’t know the reasons behind my choice, so don’t pretend to!

And what about if racism is beneficial?  Oh, nobody complains then!  Let’s say I chose a black man because I assumed he’d jump higher and therefore be useful on my basketball team.  Nobody complains if you hire them based on racist motives, now do they?

“JUDGE I WOULD LIKE TO SUE!”

“Why?”

“He hired me because I was Asian, and he therefore assumed I would be able to do his calculations quickly. When I couldn’t do them quickly, he fired me!”

How is this situation any different from

“He hired me because I was qualified, and he therefore assumed I would be able to do his calculations quickly.  When I couldn’t do them quickly, he fired me!”

Sounds legit to me.  Racism is funny.  Hate is not.  Stupidity is not.  If we could enjoy racism without all of that hate and stupidity, life would be better.

Racism isn’t stupid; people are.

Nope. No dice.

So what I’m going to do is start writing again every day. I mean write with the expectation that someone will read it. Then I’ll send it to Dan. If he likes it, I’ll publish it. If he hates it I’ll publish it. If it sucks then I’ll be able to tell from his response or lack thereof and I won’t publish it.

I’m going to get some new readers and some things about messagehawk are going to change. For one thing, I’ll curse a lot less. Not a decision I made, it’s just how I write nowadays. But one thing that won’t change is what my goal is with this blog: to shed some light on what we all know but refuse to admit we know.

But they will consume you.

I’m not gonna be a distressed mother banning San Andreas and saying bad movies make bad people.  Far from it!  Ilove most of the movies I see that are disturbing.

That came out phrased differently in my head.

Anyway, I was walking to the library from the bus stop when a man stopped me and asked if I would like a free sample.  He was wearing an apron that had the logo of his café on it, and he gestured proudly at the little cups of fruity beverage samples on his cart.  I reached for a cup when a little tingle in the back of my mind went off, like a spider-sense.

Suddenly in my face I see ELLEN PAGE going “Don’t drink anything you haven’t mixed yourself.”

So I said “No, thank you.”

It’s getting ridiculous.  When I see pencils, I see the Joker making them disappear.  When I see burgers, I think about how they’re the cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast.

Movies will consume you.

And I don’t even watch that many.  I’m one of those people who watch a movie once and instantly memorize the damn thing.  I don’t have a perfect memory or anything, I just instantly memorize anything I watch.  It’s ridiculous.  Especially for my generation: my generation wasn’t supposed to remember great movies like Angels in the Outfield; we’re supposed to be stuck with movies like Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle.

(Okay, I liked that movie too, shut up.  The point is still there.)

This ability is a curse though; after watching American Psycho, I have an image of Christian Bale, naked with blood coming out of his mouth, chasing a girl through an apartment building with a chainsaw.  Yech.  American Psycho is a sick sick movie.  I recommend it to everyone.  I want everyone to rent it right now at the same time.  That way Netflix’s servers will be overrun, Blockbuster will be S.O.L., and people will move on with their lives and I won’t ever have to explain that image again.

This would be because you are not yet aware of the Code of Honor.

In normal society, saying a rude or crass comment, no matter how clever, labels you immediately.  It’s like you take the comment and tape it to your front, saying “I’M AN ASSHOLE!” to the world.  Well, that’s all well and good, but if I told someone that they were so bad at singing that Helen Keller would have them put down, there will be that core group of people that will keep to the code.  With men, an asshole comment is not stuck on your chest.  It’s placed into a communal pot for everyone to draw from and enjoy.  There is zero accountability.

The general rule is that if it exists, you can make fun of it.  Everything.  There are no lines unless they’re drawn by a victim, and if they’re real about it and not butt-hurt then the lines will be respected.  Exceptions include allusions to any sort of personal traumatic event.  You can make fun of 9/11 but not someone’s brother who died in a fire last month.  (Who would make fun of that?  You’re such a dick, get away from my blog.)

The success of this game is purely dependent on sportsmanship.  That’s right, being insensitive, callous, and rude is only doable if you have good character.  If someone burns you, burn them back.  If they get you really badly, though, admit defeat.  Join the laugh, high five the victor, save whatever line they used so you can tell someone about that burn later.  It’s a core part of the Code, being able to take the shots.  If you take the shots well, you realize that these burns are far from pejoratives; they’re part of a unique bonding process.  If you win, and win well, you impress.  If you lose, and lose well, you show your level of respect and the bond is also established.

You cannot – CANNOT – play this game with women.  There are exceptions, but even when it seems like they take it and laugh, you’ll find the comments once again stuck to your fucking chest, grounds for a complete judgment on your character, complete with how each and every kablam is you being an absolute dick.

Every once in a while a line is crossed.  Do NOT recoil, withdrawing whatever you said.  If you do that, it shows you are inconsiderate, such that you have no idea how to react when someone is bothered.  You’ll also look like a pussy.  Behold, proper procedure:

Offended guy: Dude, that one was kinda close to home.  I kinda felt that one, seriously, don’t touch it.

Offender: Alright, sorry, man, I didn’t mean anything, I’ll remember.

You keep EYE CONTACT, you maintain decorum, and you slowly reach in and remove the statement from the communal pot.  However, in a healthy, solid group of male friends, there will be hardly any instance of this happening.  Because they all know that it’s a game, and that if there was real shit going down, they’d cut the crap and they’d be there for each other in a pinch.

Just because everything can be joked about doesn’t mean that we don’t take friendship seriously.

And that’s exactly why this can’t be shared with women; they bond differently.  Women tend to judge a lot of people based on what they say.  Men tend to judge on actions, on mannerisms, on the “ego to respect for others” ratio shown.

Er… at least, that’s how they judge other men.  Heh.  We appraise women a bit differently, don’t we?

Say you meet someone walking down the street.  You say hi a couple times, smile a lot, and ask about their holiday.  You do this about once a week.  Meeting coincidentally, asking about the wife and kids, blah blah blah.  Are you friends?

Some would say yes.  They’d think: I enjoy the limited company of this person and would probably lend him a dollar if he asked.  He makes me laugh.  He asks about things and he listens to me.  Therefore he is my friend.  Sound logic, right?  Is this really a sound definition of a friend?

friend (frend) 1. noun: an individual who is on speaking terms with the subject.

In essence, if you have a few friendly conversations with someone that you enjoy and this meets the criteria for “friend,” you have a lot of friends.  And I’m sure every single one of them have your best interests at heart.  Please (don’t) read further and (or) I’ll offend you.

People whose friends are like this?  They’re missing out on the true friendships, the ones that last forever.  Yes, that’s right, I’m sorry, but when people say “friendship lasts forever,” they’re not talking about all, some, or maybe even any of the people you might call a friend.

You’ll think they’re friends until you suddenly get a real one.  Then you’ll know what friendship is.

A very good friend asked me this question, and he also gave me some writing advice.  Therefore, in accordance with his advice, I’m going to try an experiment and write this as colloquially as I can.  He thinks it’d be a good exercise.

So basically this question was a metaphor; when is the time to give up a girl? (This is barring any outstanding events that sandblast the relationship without any real decision-making on your part.)

Well, see, there are so many approaches I could take with this question.  I could take the logical approach, which is Darwinian and also, by incredible coincidence, the road to becoming an asshole.  If you take that approach you go “shit, there’s two in the fucking bush” and put the two in the bush right in your hand.

But my approach is from my POFV (Point Of Fucking View), and the way I see it is it doesn’t matter who or what is in the fucking bush, it’s a fucking bush, it’s not your problem yet.  Deal with what’s in your hand.  If you start concerning yourself with what’s in the bush… ugh, trust me, don’t mess with the bush.  If you start dealing with the birds in the bush while you’re still with your loved one… that’s wrong, my friend.  It’s dipping your feet in both pools, it’s holding the door open with a chair.  If you’re with a girl, commit yourself.  No, you’re not married, but if you have a girlfriend, you don’t look for another until after you’ve decided and acted upon the knowledge that the one you have isn’t the one for you.  Make your decision.  Don’t fuck with two people’s hearts.  You can seriously mess up things between you and that other person and your loved one. Next thing you know, you’ve cheated.

The world is smaller than you know.  Cheating is something that can be overcome… but never quite forgiven.  Don’t touch that shit.  (I’ve never cheated for exactly this reason – and also because I’m not a pussy.)

And playing around with that bush isn’t even healthy – especially if it’s because you’re looking for something other than what you have.  For one thing, you won’t perform as well.  Seriously, how can you give 100%… twice?  If you don’t make the investment and put down what you’re holding in order to go for something else… even if you eventually find what you want, you have the added complication of dropping what’s in your hand without making it apparent who’s lurking in the bush.  And that’s a MESS.  It can become very personal very very fast.

If you know you’ll never be happy in the relationship you’re in, and you also know she’ll prolong the motherfucker to kingdom come, well, then you have a situation.  On the one hand, there’s her happiness.  But you know, that’s short-lived if you’re not going to be 100% in this relationship.  Really.  And do not think you can fool yourself into going into it.  You can’t simulate conditions for falling back into the swing of a relationship, it doesn’t fucking work.  If you are not happy and won’t be happy about going back into this stagnant thing trying to find some life in it, no amount of investment is going to change that.  You can’t trick yourself into giving 100%.  You CAN’T.

So there’s Fact #1: you won’t be giving 100% into this relationship, because you’ll be making this decision to stay every second you do.

Fact #2: she loses either way.  Yes, even if you stay.  Why?  See reason 1.  That will eke into the relationship like a rusty scalpel, and it will hurt until someone pulls it out.  And even when it’s pulled out, and the relationship is over, it’ll hurt even more before it even begins to heal.  (Rusty scalpels are a bitch!)

So those are the two facts to consider.  If the given values are that A) You are looking for something else, and B) You still don’t want to hurt her, B is shit out of luck.

But now, factor this into the equation: your problem and your pain.  If you hurt her the first way (sorry to phrase it like that instead ofjust saying “if you choose the first option,” but in the words of the The Wolf, “I’m not here to say please, I’m here to tell you what to do.”)  If you hurt her the first way, and stay in the relationship, YOUR problem is NOT solved.  (See reason 1 yet again)  She’s hurt, and you’re hurt, nobody wins, and you go on (barring the variable that is life and probability) to lead a half-hearted relationship hanging by the thread of her not wanting you to leave, and you not wanting to hurt her.  That is not a pillar of success.  There’s no way that lasts, and if it does… hell, are you sure you even want it to?

If you hurt her the second way, there’s a (painful) way for you to both win.  You now have a chance to do what you wanted to do, AND she has a chance to get over someone who wasn’t going to put 100% into it anyway.  Win-win.  Sort of.

Yeah this one sucks because there’s that chance that you’ll both lose.  she could wallow in grief and never get over you, and you could not find what you’re looking for, and boom, you’re both fucked.  But in that case you might find that you had what you were looking for, and you’d get back together.  This does NOT mean you keep the doors open when you part, that’s not even giving yourselves a chance to win the other way.  It means that you let your future be your future.  You can’t do that without relinquishing some certainty, and that’s scary but you have to do it anyway.

I’m in a relationship that has been through some tough shit, nothing especially serious on the fringe side, but it’s very emotionally invested.  If I believed my trust was compromised or if I questioned whether she was someone I really wanted in terms of how I feel about her, I’d split fast, because if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s this: Our women deserve 100%.

So to solve your problem, you have to solve your problem, and if that happens to go along a path she likes, that’s dandy, but sometimes it won’t turn out that way.

And again, for fuck’s sake, forget the motherfucking bush.

What an asshole.

Really, though, the experience is this: if (almost) anyone else had said that to me, I’d have kept right on opening the package and would have just asked “why?”  Because it was my very good friend talking, I absolutely froze as my mind racked through the different Indiana Jones-like theories I was getting;  Had some weird guy with a monkey poisoned my cheese?  Did he know something that directly associated this cheese with a killer epidemic?  Did he want some?

I just thought that the difference in one’s typical reactions was worth noting.

By the way, you know what really sucks?

Vacuums.

Manhattan. It’s not as majestic there as I thought it would be. It was more like a huge concentration of testosterone formed into one enormous blob of civilization. In fact, now that I’ve written it I realize that this is the perfect way to describe my impression of Manhattan; it’s a fucking manly city. People are aggressive, the traffic is beastly, and the buildings loom impressively, all slightly envious of the ones taller than they are, but resolute that they have a right to gloat over the puny masses below. I saw a policewoman with her gun drawn outside my car window. The sky was perfectly clear, such that you could see all of the city from the 86th floor of the Empire State Building. This city is one ripe for competing in, for shoving at those who can not only take your shove but shove you back with enough force for you to laugh and relish the fight. It smelled dirty, looked dirty, and commanded respect. Those who disrespected it suffered. People who left their cars parked on the side of the road with their purses and computers in the car were patronizing the city, insulting it by taking it for granted, and so I saw the Manhattan’s reminder that this was a place where the sharp survived when I looked at a car that had clearly been robbed, its doors wide open and stereo torn from the front.

The line to get to the 86th floor of the Empire State Bulding was 2 and a half hours long. Cake. The longest line I’ve waited in was like 21 hours (met Metallica and all).  So I just ran on standby until I woke up on the 86th floor.  Badabing badaboom.  Some guy up there must have been having a bad day: when you’re on the 86th floor of the Empire State Building and you still have a pigeon shit on you… that’s rough.

MAN-hattan. Don’t fuck with it.

I have gone home several times in the last few weeks with an urge to write about the bus system. Typical bus days, bus arguments, the cooling problem… and yet by the time I get around to it, it as inevitably been a great many hours since the last bus ride and I am already completely indifferent to the whole idea of buses and the elements included in writing about them.

So to motivate myself to write about these rare bursts of inspiration I have decided to start a series of pieces that are based solely on the transient urges of written outbursts. Starting with buses, naturally.

Every day during the fall and spring I take two buses in the morrow and two back home. Normally these are eventless and dull, but every so often you have an incident or two.

Once there was a Korean lady who forgot to pay a quarter. The driver, naturally, called her on it, and yelled “Is anybody here Asian?!”

This was so wrong I couldn’t believe it. I wonder if she would have asked if anyone was European if the lady was French.

Eventually I came to the conclusion that the job of bus driver somehow holds an appeal for the racially insensitive. Another time I heard a Chinese woman wanting to know how to get to Mountain View. (I had seen enough Chinese movies such that I could actually almost understand her… it was surreal.) The bus driver’s reply was literally “Talk English, ma’am, talk English, take an English class, you’re in America!”

While it is true that English is the language the news is in, I couldn’t believe the nerve of this guy. I mean, there are people listening there, everyone could hear him! He should go learn to “speak Asian,” it should be a new job requirement for bus drivers.

Aside from the racially insensitive drivers, it’s also easy to notice the trend of bus drivers to fall into a certain demographic. Old people… ugly women… people who invest heavily in real estate… It’s just a trend I’ve noticed. Sure enough however, there was one day when it was all shattered. I swear to God I saw this, but you’ll never believe me anyway: a hot bus driver. How the hell does that happen?

Teacher: What do you want to be when you grow up?

Unfortunate Girl: I want to go into modeling… and once that takes off I’m going into the bus driver business!

Alas, it is a sad, sad world out there. Did you know that the bus drivers in the Silicon Valley are the second-most well-paid bus drivers in the country? I forget who the first are, but they’re paid more than New York City’s bus drivers… the world is screwed up.