“No way Duuuuuuuude . . . this is not Washington, D.C. It’s District of Columbia. Loooook, maaaan, it says it right here . . . Dis – trict – of – Col -u-mbia.”
Never had a comment made me feel so stoned. I was driving to the Phish show, halfway through our 3 hour tour of the western most section of I-90 that would take us to the Gorge Amphitheater, when the douchebag in the backseat made his comment. At the time, I was completely sober. No substance in my system, I hadn’t taken a single puff all day. Yet that comment completely numbed my brain like nothing I had inhaled before . . . I couldn’t respond.
We had connected with Keeley (aka Lord Douchebag aka D.C. aka Killy aka The Douchebag Bartender at Piper’s Creek) 10 minutes prior to leaving. I received the first phone call:
“Duuuude, maaaan, I got a tick to the shoaaa, but no way theaaaaa. Heard you may have rooooom. That would be coooool.”
I was packed, ready to go. We were about to embark on a weekend trip to the Gorge – 2 Phish shows and Corey’s 100th rodeo – to celebrate my brother’s 37 year tour of this earth. The plan was to pick up Corey and head east on our 3 hour drive to the Gorge. It would leave us an hour to setup our tents and enjoy a beer or two before the show was scheduled to start.
D.C.’s phone call was complicated. I sensed the guy on the other end was a douchebag. But this guy knew someone who knew me, and yadi yadi yadi, I am a fucking sucker. So after multiple phone calls from the douchebag, in which he promised he could meet me only 1o minutes out of the way, I agreed to pick him up.
Of course, Lord Douchebag claimed a return favor.
“Duuuude, I got free VIP parking. I can set you up for the weeken’.”
Now you start to get a sense of this douchebag with that suggestion. You see, it’s not just that he is a moron, which I could deal with. Nor is it that he pressures you to accommodate his situation, which is bullshit but manageable. But what makes a true douchebag is to manipulate the truth to get solely what he wants without providing any value in return – in other words a punk, a jackass, a wanker, a fucktard, a douchebag.
To completely understand how I arrived at this conclusion at this very point, it is important to note some facts about this set-up:
- Lord Douchebag knew we were planning to stay at the Gorge through the weekend.
- All cars park for free at the Gorge as long as they leave the lot after the show.
- To overnight park the car it costs $60 for a regular camping pass.
- There is also a much more expensive VIP camping pass. Which is what I thought the douchebag had.
What I didn’t know at the time, but I do now, is there is something called VIP parking that provides no value and is strictly reserved for assholes stupid enough to provide favors to douchebags. Like regular parking, VIP requires the car to leave the lot after the show. Therefore VIP parking provides absolutely no value to me or anyone else.
But D.C. convinced me. I reasoned “he knows my buddy . . . who I am going to be camping with for the weekend. He has VIP camping (so I thought). He is willing to accommodate and meet me halfway so I only have to drive 10 minutes out of the way (so I wanted to believe).”
And here lies my own issue. I am a nice guy. I know I can sound like an asshole, especially when bitching. OK, OK . . . I am an asshole. But I am quick to do things for people, to accommodate their needs and wants. I have people over to my place all the time and let them trash my apartment. I drive people to where they need to go, even if it is far out of the way. I am the one of my three brothers my Dad calls to get a ride to and from the airport, because he knows I will accommodate. I do everything (but clean the bathroom).
I am the perfect target for douchebags.
So after driving around Bellevue – a godforsaken suburb east of Seattle that I usually avoid at all costs – for well over an hour to completely accommodate this douchebag we finally reached the on-ramp to I-90 East for our 3 hour drive to the Gorge . . . douchebag in tow. The show was starting in 3 hours, which meant we were left with no buffer to deal with things like traffic and setting up our tents, let alone to enjoy a beer or two at the campsite after a long drive with a douchebag.
For the most part, I was able to keep the douchebag in check during the drive to the Gorge, primarily by ignoring his conversations. The parts I heard provided ample support to solidify his douchebag status. He had a 3 month old at home, who he ditched without notice to his girlfriend for the weekend. In following his stories about “the fests” he had attended this summer, it seemed to me he had only been home a few weekends in the past 3 months. How is your newborn son doing . . . Lord Douchebag?
It was then, about an hour from the Gorge, Corey asks me: “Have you seen the new Washington, D.C. quarter? It has Duke Ellington on it. I have one. Check it out.”
“Duuuuude, let me see that,” demanded the douchebag in the backseat. Corey passed the quarter to Lord Douchebag.
“No way Duuuuuuuude . . . this is not Washington, D.C. It’s District of Columbia. Loooook, maaaan, it says it right here . . . Dis – trict – of – Col -u-mbia..”
As I said, his comment incapacitated me. I was unable to respond. Apparently Corey, with his years studying at Pitzer College followed by years working as a taxi driver at Sun Valley and as counselor at 1-800-quit-smoking, has built a strong tolerance to even the stupidest statements. So he was able to continue the conversation:
Corey: “Yea, Washington, D.C. That’s what I was saying.”
DC: “No maaaaaan, looook, it says District of Columbia.”
Corey: “Right, Washington, D.C.”
DC: “What are youuuu taaaalking about? Caaaaan’t you read? . . . (dead air) . . . Waaaaaait, o0hhh, I think, ahhhh, do you mean DC is not a word? I always thought DC was a word. I didn’t know it stood for something”
I guess Lord Douchebag thought the appropriate spelling was Washington DeeCee.
We arrived at the Gorge and sho nuff Lord Douchebag did not have a VIP camping pass. What he did have was quick feet. The moment I pulled the car into the line to pay for our camping the back door swung open. Lord Douchebag left us with only a cloud of dust in our face, kicked up from his heels as he scampered down the dirt road . . . and not a cent to be put towards the $60 camping tab.
On the douchebag scale, I place DC somewhere below Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Glenn Beck, and George Conard, but probably slightly above Sean Hannity (as mentioned, if you are simply a moron it’s something we should be able to deal with).
I’ll admit, this episode has me feeling that I am being taken advantage of. I am a laid back person with a lot of energy. I don’t like to sit around, so I am always willing to do things. That is why I am always willing to do stuff and probably why people call on me to do stuff. Even the corporate world exploits me. I gleefully take on responsibility, but receive little cred.
A few weeks prior to the Phish show I met the model for the new me. It was at the Northwest String Summit, a hippie fest if there ever was one. The hippie get together was held at Horning’s Hideout, 30 minutes west of Portland. When we pulled up, we were greeted by the hippie at the gate:
Me: “Our friends told us to meet them at Lot 3″
Hippie Gate Guy (HGG): “Weeeell, I wish they talked to me because I would’ve told them nooooo.” (note: in same hippie, stoned voice as D.C.).
Me: “That’s cool. Is it alright if I drive down there and unload our camping gear and then drive back and park where you want me?”
HGG: “Wiiiiiiish I could say ‘yes’, but saaadly I am going to have to say ‘noooooo’.”
Sad for who? This guy had no remorse. But he said it in a cooooool way. Fuck him! But I think he’s on to something. I need to learn to say “no”, but say it in a brohie way.
Let’s take a step back to when DC called asking for a ride. With the new me, it would’ve played:
DC: “Duuuude, maaaan, I got a tick to the shoaaa, but no way theaaaaa. I heard you may have rooooom. That would be coooool.”
New Me: “Wow, sweeeeeeet, nice hook. Gonna be a sweeeeeet shoaaa. Wish I could abide and supply, but saaaadly I am going to have to say ‘noooo’.”
DC: “But duuuude, you’re my only hope.”
New me: “Wish I could be ya Obi-Wan, but the Starship is set to Hyperdrive (Note: when talking hippie, its important to mix references). See yaaa on other side. Paah.eace! . . . and save me some of that diggity dank fo when you finally get to the Gorge. Out, duuuuuuude.”
Now let’s extrapolate that to the corporate world. From my recent experience, I have realized that those individuals who are able to divert responsibility are most successful. Therefore, instead of eagerly taking on new tasks, the new me will respond as follows:
Superior (at meeting with others attending): We really need to get that contract finalized. Scott, can you get it done?
Me: Of course I can! Although, as you know, I am really driving forward with our cross-functional team priorities, which is THE key success factor for the objectives that we are now focused on. I would hate to lose focus because of such a minor task. But I am willing to do what it takes, if YOU really think it’s important.
Superior: Scott, it’s great that you are willing to take on added responsibility for the team!! Though, I am concerned. It sounds like you’ve got a lot on your plate. I don’t want you to lose focus on our key success factor. I am afraid you won’t have the bandwidth for this added responsibility.
Me: I am willing to do whatever the team needs. But you know, I don’t want to risk our key success factor, especially with our cross functional team’s buy in!! You know what I am saying?
Superior: You are absolutely right! We’ll have Billy take care of the contract!!
This tactic will work great in the corp environment. Billy (like anyone else) would invariably leave out some minor stipulation in the contract that somehow leaves us exposed. Which, of course, the new me will profit off of:
Superior: Jesus Christ!! What do you mean the project is completely stalled, if not dead?
Me: Well, in the contract, it doesn’t stipulate that they need internet connection at the time of implementation. Of course, we can’t proceed without internet connection.
Superior: What do you mean it’s not in the contract?
Me: Ask Billy. He’s the one that put the contract together. I told him several times how important internet connection is.
Nancy Pelosi gives Rep Joe Wilson her death stare.
Billy’s only recourse would be a Nancy Pelosi-esque death stare as full blame for a failed project I was responsible for is his heaped onto his frail shoulders.
I am excited to have discovered the new me. Never did I imagine that a few weekend “fests” and a car ride with Lord Douchebag would have such a profound effect on me as a person and how I will relate to other people from now on.
Of course, if a trip ends while enjoying a premium Northwest brew on the back deck of the Brick – which is the oldest bar in Washington situated in the small town of Roslyn located in the east foothills of the Cascades; the very same Roslyn that was the setting for the classic television sho
w Northern Exposure – with a geeked-out wookie at the next table proudly proclaiming to us that he is the guy at the shows who hides in the Honey Bucket and leaps out to scare people as they try to enter (“Yea, maaaaan, I’ll hide in one for hours. It’s a fucking trip, duuuuude!!”) . . . shouldn’t the weekend be profound?
