The last couple of weeks have completely kicked my ass. Thrown me down, hammered me, and didn't even have the common courtesy to take me to breakfast afterwards.
dramatic re-creation. Note the stubble in that last panel - if I stop shaving, you know I'm having a nervous breakdown.
I haven't been blogging. I haven't been riding my bike. I haven't been working out, reading, writing, dancing, or doing any of the other things that keep me sane in my daily life. Even my cafe excursions are entirely utilitarian, like lightning is to Frankenstein's monster - fuel for an empty husk. Such is the level of the recent ass whooping delivered to me by my job.
My "day job" - that precious one-third of my life which is a wholly-owned subsidiary of "The Man". Every day it becomes increasingly more soul-crushing. The corporate machine continues to complexify, without ever actually becoming more efficient, like evolving entropy; an exercise in futility.
And the thing is, I've never really had a problem with Huge, Soulless, Multinational Corporations - in theory. "Per se", you know? I mean, yeah, yeah, "corporations suck" and all that. But sometimes, in a fit of conscience (and after a meeting of the board of directors, where all the appropriate forms and releases are signed in triplicate, then reviewed by the stockholders, etc. ad infintum) they can do some good. They'll offer domestic partner benefits, maybe donate some money to a good cause, or even pay a living wage to the workers who toil away, producing their wares. And for me... it's a paycheck. I've always thought there was some post-millenial slacker romance in working for a big, high tech company. Doing customer service for the Evil Empire, as it were. It's sorta funny to be a tiny, outmoded cog in the middle of a bunch of valiantly shining gears, all spinning too fast to realize that I don't actually serve any function.
But sometimes, stuffed into my cubicle like a experimental lab-monkey, cut off from any organic stimulus from the outside world and force-fed a steady diet of Orwellian corporate-speak, I just can't take it anymore. My emotions start to flare up and the thin veneer of my phyche begins to dissolve. Like Darkman. Remember Darkman? The deep fried dark avenger - master of disguise with the superhuman ability to pronounce the letter "p" with no lips? "The Man" would get him down, and his humanity would shatter in a flash of phychedelic psychosis and he'd start KICKING @$$!!
I always thought that Darkman's real motivation was the fact that "The Man" blew up his laboratory, sweet real estate located right above that awesome "Java Cafe". Even way back in 1990, when I first saw "Darkman", I imagined that the interior of "Java Cafe" would be just like Monkey Bean.
Ah, yes... th' Monkey. That archetypical Denver java joint. Never pretentious, just the perfect place to chill with the latest issue of The Onion while sipping an iced americano, while stealing sideways glances at the adorable red-headed barista behind the glass case of rice crispy squares...
The Monkey Bean... which just closed down on July 31st, due to a 400% (!) increase in rent by "The Man"!
This time, "The Man" has gone Too Far!
Screw that... the Monkey was cooler than any ol' "Java Cafe". The Monkey was as cool as Darkman's laboratory. It was my not-so-secret headquarters. If you're looking for Batman, you go to the Batcave; for the Superfriends, you go to the Hall of Justice. And if you're looking for Caff_X... you look in his bedroom, under the sheets, where he's curled up in a ball, weeping softly. You know why? BECAUSE "THE FRICKIN' MAN" KILLED THE MONKEY!
Over the last couple of weeks, in my state of depression, I haven't been taking care of myself. I haven't devoted time to the things that are important to me. I even broke my "no alcohol before the Weekend" policy, rather unceremoniously, on a Monday night, with a Gin and Blueberry Izze(when you see all the kids drinking this in a few weeks, remember; you heard it here first). But now it's time for full disclosure. Every superhero has their shadow, that dark part of themselves that makes them who they are. For Spiderman, it's the fact that he is partially responsible for the death of his beloved Uncle Ben. For Superman, it's the fact that he roofie-kisses the girls and leaves the planet after planting his seed. For me - for no other reason than laziness, I've been getting my coffee from Starbucks. I mean, it's not like my 2 bucks a day would have saved the Monkey (that's a "four", with two "zeroes" and a percent sign, people!) - but NO MORE! I won't contribute my money to the machine that makes the world more bland. "The Man" can keep me holed up in a cubicle all day, he can make me fear for my job... but I don't have to drink his coffee!
THE CAFF IS BACK!
About the Author
7 years ago