A Day I'll Never Get Back

There's a certain pressure in realizing every day, every hour or minute of your life can only be lived once, and once misspent or squandered, is lost forever.

Yesterday our company had its annual employee meeting. We were summoned to a large concert hall, the buses leaving the parking lot of the call center at 7:30 in the morning, the middle of the night for me. I work till midnight and invariably waste an hour or two when I get home, for a snack and a couple of games of Internet chess or catching up on TV. This summer I'm following "The Last Comic Standing" and "America's Got Talent". Neither show has earth-shattering significance but both are entertaining.

You develop an interest in the performers and it's enjoyable to watch emerging new talent, and consider along the way the difference between genuine excellence and mediocrity, true vision and mimicry. The shows pull you in with human interest vignettes. Decidedly there's a formula, but you can't help rooting for certain contestants and mildly despising others. The hand whistling old lady repulses me; she doesn't even whistle in tune. Yet everyone patronizes her with applause. The two little boys who dance are off in their steps, but everyone raves over them because they are supposedly "cute". The troupe of eleven year old girls gave a more precise and nuanced performance but got far less credit. That's just how I saw it. You are free to disagree, and that's the beauty of it. I think the two singing girls, the heartthrob Justin Beiber clone and the blacklight fraternity brothers dance act are sure to go through, and the judge-baiting juggler and catsuit-wearing sketcher (by no means an "artist" are sure to go home. The cheesy crooner hasn't got a chance; his gestures and posture don't win the crowd. Already I'm too involved in this: it's just a show. I like the cheerful graceful good humor of host Nick Cannon. He has a generous spirit and an infectious likability, perfect for his role.

On the comic show host Craig Robinson also is perfectly placed. Everything about him is funny. His gestures, his mannerisms, his delivery are pitch-perfect and you can't help but be drawn in. Among the contestants I like Felipe Esparza, Maronzio Vance and Roy Wood Jr.. James Adomian and Jonathan Thymius weren't funny at all, Thymius doing a couple of head-scratching where-did-that-come-from bits about Aesop's Fables and Paul Giamatti as John Adams; Thymius doddering around the stage left you wondering when the jokes would start. Rachel Feinstein is gifted with a distinct voice for her characters but I don't connect to her comedy.

So in the last two nights I've spent 46 minutes on each of these, mercifully shortened by the length of the commercial time thanks to the miracle of the dvr. They eased my transition from work to leisure and accompanied my late-night dinner. TV becomes our most trusted companion and accompanies far more of time than conversation or exercise or sex. It makes me a dull person. Then again, it gives us something to talk about, something to fill the void. Could I have made a better choice?

About the employee meeting I had no choice at all. We suffered through five hours of sloganeering and pep talks, interspersed with lame skits and titled bigwigs trying to be cool. They wore Hawaiian shirts, which was supposed to make them more relatable, but it just drove home the point for me that they were the only ones among us whose compensation could allow them to afford a trip to Hawaii or anywhere else with white sand and blue water. Like most seminars and meetings the useful information conveyed in the meeting could have fit on one side of a 3x5 card. Some people bought into it with both on hands on the company Kool-aid pitcher, the sticky red sugar water running down their neck and their shirts as they pranced about in goofy costumes and waved ridiculous signs. Bubble blowing machines, air horns, noisemakers and clackers and foam applause sticks. There was even a house band that did three songs, some woman from sales incentive trying to gyrate and be Lady Gaga for ten minutes, the black man from engineering trying to be hip in a beret. They did some 70's rock and roll complete with a keyboard solo, nothing memorable, nothing that would make the second round of "America's Got Talent" nothing worth five precious hours in the middle of the day. Now the whole rhythm of my week is off; I'm behind in everything and out of my routine. I haven't had enough sleep, I've neglected my workouts and missed a day of writing. I'd have to really love something to work thirteen hours a day at it, although some people have the admirable dedication to do that every single day, mothers more than most.

As for me I'd have rather been home watching TV. Attendance was required. Having witnessed the whole tepid show I can't begin to imagine why. Nothing about it was inspiring or informative. I was neither educated or entertained. They paid me for nothing and wasted my time, the most precious thing any of us have. Not that I would have spent it any better myself. I just treasure the freedom of making my own bad choices. It's an inalienable right in an indifferent world.