I Get By All the Time (With a Little Help from My...Grandmother?)

My mother's mother, Gammie, was my favorite person.  Considering how much I moved around when I was young, I came to consider her my rock and her house my home.

Gammie had a heart episode at the beginning of my senior year of high school and she could no longer live alone.  Unfortunately, the retirement home she wanted to go to, where her friends had gone once they needed help, didn't have an opening.  She came to live with us for a few months until a spot opened up.  As she needed someone to keep an eye on her, we became roomies.  Sure, I was a seventeen year old senior, but I was a-okay with that.  I loved my Gammie.

In college, I'd visit Gammie at the retirement home about once a month.  We'd hang out, go out to eat, and watch movies.  As far as I was concerned, it was great.

From Gammie's perspective though, I think she was worried about her youngest grandson.  Yes, I was dutiful and a good kid, but I wasn't quite normal.  She became quite concerned about my dating life...or lack thereof.

Our phone conversations and visits began to focus on me and girls.  Because, objectively, it's a good sign when a grandmother becomes slightly obsessed with fixing her grandson's love life.

Gammie would tell me about all the granddaughters of her friends.  If she saw a girl in the supermarket, she'd tell me about it.  If she laid eyes on anyone with two X chromosomes who was 15-25 years old, I heard all about it.  As a nineteen year old sophomore, it was by turns amusing, endearing, annoying, and mortifying.

One weekend, when I called to let her know I was on my way, she told me to bring a coat and tie "in case (I) needed it."  I was a bit suspicious, but complied.

When I arrived two hours later, Gammie fussed at me, "You're late!  And you're not wearing your coat and tie!"

"Huh? What?"

"You've got a date in fifteen minutes!"

Yup.  That's right.  I was not on the path to marriage and babies fast enough for her tastes.  My grandmother, the general's wife, had commandeered my dating life.  

I didn't fight her because there was no fighting her.  Some poor woman had been guilted by an adorable old lady into suffering through a pity date with her loser grandson.  It wasn't right to stand her up, even though I was embarrassed.  I went into the bathroom and changed.

When I came out of the bathroom, I discovered Gammie at the door, picking out which purse she was going to bring.  I stopped dead in my tracks.  I didn't say a word.  I stared at her.

"Don't just stand there," she barked.  "Let's go."

So.  Not only had my grandmother set me up on a blind date, she was coming along to supervise.

There was nothing I could do.  This was a full-on train wreck.  Objectively, I had to follow through with it, just out of perverse curiosity.  It was good that I had that perspective because if I didn't stay detached and somewhat bemused, I'd die of shame.

Anyway, there was no way it could get worse.  

So I thought.

Boy, was I wrong.

On the way, as I drove, Gammie filled me in on my date.  Was she a pretty nurse? No.  A gorgeous heiress granddaughter of one of her rich friends? No.  It was a high school sophomore, a sixteen year old, that Gammie met and decided was "perfect for (me)" because the girl spent her Thursday nights volunteering at the retirement home, reading to the elderly.

Now, while I may not have been a catch (after all, I was a nineteen year old who occasionally spent weekends hanging out with his grandmother), at least when I wasn't doing that I was fairly normal (ie drunk).  I certainly wasn't some lame goody-two-shoes.

We got to the restaurant.  The girl was there.  She was plain. 

The table was only big enough for two.  No matter.  Gammie ordered the waiter to bring her a chair and she sat between us, which was the perfect place for her.

No, she was not there to observe the proceedings.  She'd taken charge.  She was running the show.

 She played conversation referee to ensure I didn't mess up and make things awkward.

"So, (Kid), where are you going to school?"

"Blahblah High!"

"And where do you plan to matriculate?"

"I don't know! I'm just a soft-headed child!"

Instead of volleying back and forth, she decided it was best she speak for me.

"Ajax is a sophomore at the University of South Carolina.  His course of study is Classics.  His likes are camping and hugs and smiles.  His dislikes are vulgar people, jazz, and other 'ethnic' music.  His turn-ons are anything you do.  And, please, dear God, I beg of you, please make him a man! He can't be gay!"

Okay, she may not have said that exactly, but whatever she did say was nearly as bad.

The whole meal was like that.  I inhaled my food and stole food from Gammie's plate, pretending that I just had to try a bite (giant's mouthful) of whatever she had on her plate to speed things along.

Finally, we were finished.  As we were all walking out of the restaurant together, for reasons known only to herself and God (though I'm willing to bet abject pity played a part), the girl asked me if I wanted to join her and her friends.  They were meeting up to play board games.

Gammie immediately answered for me, "OH! HE'D LOVE TO..."

I cut her off.

"...But," I interrupted, "I have a very early morning and have to turn in."

"Oh! Okay then!" the girl said brightly without giving it a thought.

Gammie gave me a disappointed look.

On the ride back to her place, Gammie explained that I blew it and the girl really liked me.

I took my lumps.

That was the last time Gammie interfered in my love life, but she would often mention the "one (I) let get away."

My mother, evil harpy, if I annoyed her when we were around Gammie, or if she simply wanted to torment me, would loudly ask, "What ever happened to that lovely girl Gammie set you up with?"

Then she'd devilishly grin as Gammie exasperatingly recounted, in minute detail, how I'd blown it.

Sigh...

Field of Broken Dreams

I picked up baseball late for a kid.  I didn't do tee ball.  Basketball had always been more my thing.  One day during gym near the end of fifth grade year, we played softball.  I did well and really enjoyed it.  This was 1990.  I was eleven.

I dove into baseball.  I made my grandmama, Gammie, buy me a glove and a bat.  I started hitting everything I could.  When I couldn't get anyone to pitch to me, I'd toss the ball up and hit it myself.  If I hit the ball into the woods and couldn't find it, I'd hit pine cones or rocks.  If I could find someone to throw with me, I'd throw until their arm wouldn't throw any more (I was blessed with a rubber arm...one of the few benefits to having no muscle).  I'd throw against a wall or mattress.

To say I was deeply, passionately in love with baseball would be an understatement.  I started collecting baseball cards, scouring them for statistics.  I got to the point where I had players' careers memorized and could spot errors in stats on cards.  I would sit down and watch every Cubs baseball game that would come on WGN, which back then was nearly all of them.  I developed my very first man-crush on Ryne Sandberg, the Cubbies dynamo Hall of Fame Second Baseman. 

As I didn't know anything about baseball and hadn't played, I had mom or dad or Gammie sign me up for Dixie League (gotta love the South).  I was a right handed hitting outfielder.  For that first year, I was not bad.  I had no power because I was so little, but I could hit the ball, even though I was moderately terrified of it.  In homage to the Steroid Twins, Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire, then starring for the Oakland As, a fellow teammate and myself christened ourselves "The Brothers of Bomb" even though we struggled to hit doubles in the gap.

I wasn't able to play the next year because of family strife, which infuriated me.  My parents and the custody case didn't seem to care that I wanted to play baseball, dammit.  I had to make do with having my best friend play home run derby with me over at the local tennis court. Thus it was that when I finally got to play in a league again, after seventh grade, I'd only had one summer of playing in a league.  I'd moved up to the next league because of my birthday, but I was one of the younger kids and definitely one of the scrawniest.  I didn't play much because I was terrible compared to the older kids who'd been playing for years.  When I got to play, it was as a pinch runner.  Seventh grade, 1992, was the last year of my life that anyone considered me fast.  I did manage to get one hit, out of a handful of at bats, when I blooped a ball over 1B Jimmy Sahn's head (he went to the same school I did).

Now, if my parents had understood or cared about baseball, they would have tried to make sure that I played as much as possible.  Alas, they couldn't be bothered.  Instead, as I'd been trained from birth to go for the best even if, literally, out of my league, when it turned out the small private school I went to was allowing middle schoolers to try out for the undermanned Varsity Team, I went for it.

Now, when I said I stunk as a 7th grader, that was because I hit a big growth spurt and lost what strength I had (basketball that year was a wash too).  I was still pretty freakishly coordinated though and taught myself how to switch hit.  Still, I hadn't played daily since the end of fifth grade.

Somehow, I made the Varsity team.  As I mentioned, we were woefully undermanned, so I was one of three 8th graders and even a 7th grader who made it (that 7th grader, Scott Howell, ended up playing in college).  I was mainly pumped because I knew that making the Varsity as an 8th grader meant I was well on my way to Cooperstown, regardless of the fact that my main job was keeping the scorebook (they noticed I was batty about stats).  Three or four times during the course of the year, they let me play outfield if we were being blown out.  I was happier than a pig in poop.

One of the games where I got to play was against my big cousin Dave's school, Hammond.  Dave was a senior and played outfield.  Hammond was much, much better than us.  They had a first baseman who hit the ball so far that he basically walked around the bases (no fence at our field).  They scored a bajillion runs against us.  They also were no-hitting us.  The closest we came to getting a hit was when someone hit a line drive to Dave and he tripped and fell on his face, the ball flying past him for a two or three base error.

As we were being absolutely annihilated, the coach found pity on me and put me in the game.  I was even going to get an at-bat!  I'd been practicing and practicing hitting left-handed.  This was going to be my debut.  Unfortunately for their pitcher, even though he was throwing the no-hitter, they had taken so long hitting and scoring those bajillion runs that his arm had tightened up.  They had to bring in a reliever.  A lefty.  I had to bat righty.

Since hardly anyone throws lefty, I really didn't practice batting right handed.  My big chance, in front of Dave and my aunt and uncle [my dad didn't waste his time going to my games since a) he didn't care and b) I was mired on the bench] and I'd have to hit righty against a high school kid.  Dangit.

I guess my pathetic frame and the fact the bat was nearly bigger than me didn't intimidate the lefty.  He pumped a fastball down the middle.  I'm not sure I knew what happened, if I even saw the ball or realized I swung, but *PING* I made contact.  I was fairly well amazed, so I put my head down and ran like hell for first base.  No throw!  I'd hit it to the outfield! A single! I'd broken up a high school no-hitter!

I got wiped off the bases by a double play and that was the end of the game.  I was beaming.  We'd been rotating any and everyone through right field, except for me, and I was the first one of the young'uns to get a hit.  I just knew I'd be getting a start!  The coach was pretty ticked about being one-hit though and he probably made us do sprints.  Whatever, I was finally gonna play!

As I walked home (the field was nearby) visions of starting for the rest of the season and the next four years flashed through my head.  I was well on my way to being drafted.  Sure, I was skinny then, but that would change.  I would fill out.  I could already make contact; it would just be a matter of hitting with authority.  I could hear the crowd at Wrigley calling my name.

The next morning, I scoured the newspaper for the box score of our game that always got published.  I wanted to see my achievement in print.  Nothing.  Wasn't in there.  Later that day, I stopped by the coach's office and asked him.  "I'm not putting the fact we got blown out in the newspaper, kid."

I'm not sure if I pissed him off asking about it, or, more likely, I just wasn't good enough, but I did not play again.  I sat on the bench as the other two eighth graders and even the seventh grader got to try to play right field.

Another custody case emerged, and I was off to a new town, so I didn't play in Dixie League again.  Ninth grade was at a much larger public school so I only made the JV and because I was pressing so hard to show I was a future major leaguer and I hit another damn growth spurt, I sucked again and was on the bench. Even so, I tried out and made the American Legion team as the only freshman.  Of course I rode the bench.  As a sophomore, I made the varsity and looked like I was going to start, but then I put too much pressure on myself since I was finally on my path to stardom and slumped my way to the bench.  Same deal with junior year.  Finally, senior year, I filled out some and was an honorable mention for All Region.

When I got to college, I finally finished filling out and could hit the ball a mile, but it was too late.  Even though I knew there was no way I'd make the team, I tried out for USC during their yearly walk-on tryout.  Each year, I'd get a hit during the scrimmage when their pitchers would throw to get some work in.  Each year it was the same thing.  I'd hit a 90mph+ pitch and one of the coaches would say "Great job, Carpenter.  See you next year."

By my last year, while I could hit, I hadn't touched a glove in four years and was pretty much worthless on defense.  The coaches playfully asked, "This going to be the year Carpenter?  Gonna hit a homer?"

Nope, no homer.  Yet another line drive up the middle and a sloth-like jog to first base. 

Then it was off to the Army and then to war. Then to law school.  Then out here to Afghanistan.

I've done many things in my life, none of which I've particularly felt passionate about.  The only thing I've ever wanted to do with every ounce of my being was be a baseball player.  That, clearly, was not in the cards.

Still, for 1993, I led the team, league, state, country, planet, galaxy and universe in batting.

So take that, life.

Yeah, I'm wearing Ryno's #23

A Few Degrees Difference

So, I just got back from vacation to the States.  While it was fantastic to see everyone, I also sorta dreaded it because I wore myself out, driving all over creation to visit.  Still, when you live way far away, in a land where things explode from time to time, you appreciate those who make the effort to keep in touch; it's very easy for most people to abide by "out of sight, out of mind." I managed to put 500 miles or so on a rental car in the 12 days I was in SC driving from Charleston to Myrtle Beach to Hartsville to Columbia and back to Charleston. 

Since I like to be adventurous, but an SC trip is by no means an adventure, I figured I'd liven things up while I was driving around.  Thus it was that I picked up a hitchhiker as I was leaving Charleston for Myrtle Beach.  Nothing like the threat of being murdered to keep you on your toes and make you feel alive.  Besides, I figure the 'psychopath' part of hitchhiking is split about 50/50 between driver and hitchhiker.  Six years ago, when I was driving from Jacksonville to Lafayette, LA, I actually had a hitchhiker ask me to let him out early because I creeped him out, I figured. Or he might have seen my Desert Eagle tucked under my thigh.  Either way, he asked out 200 miles before his destination. Yeah, that's talent right there folks.

As for this guy, he was a big fella.  The car was a small Hyundai Elantra.  He took his sweet time getting to the car, which is not in keeping with the usual hitchhiker etiquette of at least feigning a jog to get up to the car that's pulled over for you.  I expected him to smell like a deer, which he did, but not unbearably so.  We got to talking.

I don't waste my time asking names because it's not as if I'll ever run across these people again.  I just ask questions and wait for crazy stories. For the sake of ease, we'll call this guy Bizarro White Trash Ajax.  Okay, maybe just Bizarro.

Bizarro was, like me, 32 years old.  He called himself, like me, an adventurer.  He claimed, unlike me, to have a 170 IQ (I happen to think that IQ tests are insufficient to effectively judge my historical brilliance).  He said he had a BA and MA in English and that he was writing a book on his travels.  He, on his own, said "You don't judge people by their words, but by their actions," something I've thought about obsessively these past few years. I was starting to wonder if this is what it would be like if you looked at your reflection in one of those distorted funhouse mirrors and it talked back to you.

Then, he went off the rails.  Now, while I'm "unusual", I'm not crazy, so to speak.  Bizarro clearly was.  Some people are crazy because they make no sense; others are crazy because they can't figure out how to live life and get in disastrous situations routinely.  I feel that if you're a spectacularly bad judge of character and make horrific decisions, that qualifies you for crazy.  My crazy label is harsh, but it is what it is.

Bizarro started telling me how he'd been hitchhiking for two and a half years but that he was going to finish up to get back to Indiana so he could get custody of his daughter.  Uh huh.  Right.  Because judges routinely grant custody to hobos...  Bizarro had thought of that though and he was putting all his eggs in the "my ex is a crazy disaster" basket.  They'd split up when he'd walked in on her having sex with another man in their marital bed.  That man was Bizarro's father.  Bizarro said, "That little skinny son of a bitch is lucky he was fast and got out that window or I'd have killed his skinny ass."

When someone says "That little skinny son of a bitch is lucky he was fast and got out that window or I'd have killed his skinny ass" about his father, who had sex with his wife, you don't need to gather more information.  You can make the determination right there.  Bizarro was crazy.

I know lots of crazy people though (some of my closest friends), so I just let him get it out.

Bizarro talked about how the wife tried to fix things with him but he wouldn't touch her after that, of course.  A month after their divorce had gone through, she'd married his dad.  This all happened in some small town in Indiana.  I have to think that place must be crawling with Talk Show recruiters.  Too bad for Bizarro that Jerry Springer isn't on air anymore.

Anyway, after the divorce, it turned out the wife was a bipolar, paranoid schizophrenic, so Bizarro was pretty sure that, along with how @#$@ed up it was she married his daddy, should convince the judge that a disabled hobo (he claimed had some spinal injury and was on disability, though that didn't keep him from sleeping on the side of highways) should get custody of his seven year old daughter, though he admitted the judge might not take too kindly to the fact that Bizarro had been hitchhiking and hadn't attempted to talk to his daughter in two and a half years.

I bought Bizarro a burger and dropped him off on the outskirts of Myrtle Beach.  I rolled all the windows down to get rid of the funk.  As I drove on to my destination, I was very pleased and felt fortunate that I had not been hit in the head with a hammer, gained 70lbs, knocked up an insane woman at 25 years old, and been born to a trailer park life in Indiana, because, other than that, Bizarro and I were clearly the same person.

Marching Right Along Part 1

On the taxi ride back from the resort to the airport, my Mexican cabbie, Servicio, wanted to get chatty.  I'm not sure if it's because a) he was just naturally friendly, b) found silence awkward and thus terrifying or c) figured it might beef up the tip.  Probably all three.  As I was pretty worn out with mankind at that point, I'd have paid more for silence, but I played along.

Somehow, we got to the point where I told him I vivo-ed en Afghanistan.  Considering my Espanol is embryonic, I couldn't think of much to say.  I figured I'd tell him that the people there were sorta moreno pero con ojos verdes o azules.  He then clarified they were not brown like him.  Then, he asked if they were Catholic.

I often mock/embrace American centered-ness.  "America!", I'll randomly scream. 

That being said, I was actually shocked that the Mexican cabbie didn't know anything, whatsoever, about the country los Estados Unidos has been at war in for the past decade, particularly with his shuttling around American tourists.  I get that the American tourists that go to Cancun aren't watching MacNeil/Lehrer News Hour, but still.

"No," I explained, "they are not."

Then I said "Ellos son Muslim."

Nothing.

"Islam."

He said, "Israel?"

"Muhammed?" I threw out there.

My high school Spanish class did not prepare me to teach Islamic theology to Mayan cabbies.

"No. No Jesus.  No Maria.  Solamente uno Dio.  El nombre de el dio de Islam es 'Allah.'"

That fairly blew his mind and I'm pretty sure he assumed that I was getting it all wrong because I don't speak Spanish, because how in the mundo bueno verde can there be no Maria o Jesus? 

He changed the subject to the women there.  He asked if they were all covered.  That made me think he'd definitely heard of Afghanistan but that he simply couldn't accept that they really didn't believe in Roman Catholicism.

He was still pretty baffled when we got to the airport, but by that point so was I. 

Random Thoughts on Travel-Not PC

1.  Look.  Seriously.  Don't tell me to turn off my iPod because you're afraid it will shut off the multi-million dollar plane's electronics and send us into a nosedive of death.  If my (basically) hard drive with headphones jammed in it that has no broadcast ability is enough to kill us all, then maybe the @$%!ing plane shouldn't have cleared whatever inspections it had to.  The FAA is worthless.  That's what I say.

2.  I love that I have about 200 movies on hand during a flight.  Really, I do.  I love that with the touch of a screen, I can access that.  What I don't love is that when I finally somehow manage to pass out in my tiny little chair and my head bangs forward (which I don't notice because I'm delirious from exhaustion) that I somehow hit the screen and have a flight attendant asking me what I needed because I hit the call button.  There needs to be a 6'2" variable turn off on the touch screen.  That's all I'm saying.

3.  Yes. I have gargantuan feet.  I appreciate that the chairs are now supersized for fat ass Americans.  That's nice.  I was in a row with two big burly lumberjack dudes.  Somehow, our torsos fit in the row.  However, our huge legs/feet did not and I spent most of the flight accidentally tripping any and everyone who walked near me, usually while I was simultaneously (accidentally) headbutting the touch screen and calling a stewardess.

4.  What in the hell is with porno mags in the Atlanta airport?  "Welcome to America! We objectify Women!"  "America! Tits! And Spread Vagina!"  "America! (Attention) Whores!"  Seriously?  I've just gotten off a 16 hour flight and transferred to another flight.  It's not like I just have to see a birth canal or five.  And, hey, I get that not all travelers are transfers, but what the hell is wrong with the guy who showed up at the airport just to buy a porn mag before he got on a flight.  I just can't imagine any scenario where that's a legitimate purchase.  

Brother Dearest

I have an older brother. Sorta.  He's my half-brother.  We consider ourselves full-on brothers.  We don't look much alike.  Anyway, as I tell people, "Long story short: Our dad boned his mom first."

Being eight years older, as a little boy, Evan was a god to me.  He lived with his mother so he'd come to visit one weekend a month and for half a summer and he'd have a little brat aggravating the hell out of him.

Anything Evan did was by far the coolest thing on the planet.  Anything Evan said was by far the smartest or funniest thing anyone said in the history of ever.

When I was six, Pop went on sabbatical to England to finish writing his book on dialectic (don't ask).  So, I went to first grade in England.  Halfway through the year, Evan, then a freshman in high school, came to live with us and did the 2nd half of the year there.  I was in heaven.

Mom recalls the house literally shaking from me running around hassling Evan and us thumping and bumping. Inevitably, being so much younger and smaller, I'd get hurt, or pretend to get hurt and would run crying to her, trying to get him in trouble.  She also recalls the time we were all ready to go somewhere and then Pop realized we were about 15 minutes early so we'd wait and I immediately turned to Evan and said "Great! Wanna fight?!"

Things I adored as a kid:

1. Evan

2. Sugar

3. Toys

4. Gammie

...

67. Mom and Pop.

Anyway, after that half year, we didn't live with each other again, until I was 12.

Evan was 20 then.  He had been off at college.  He dropped out.  He grew his hair long.  He got earrings. He went to a guitar school.  He bought a motorcycle.  He had a girlfriend with really big boobs.  All of that, to a 12 year old, more firmly entrenched Evan as the biggest badass of all time.

(Now, as a 31 year old, while I still kinda think his meltdown was awesome, I find it to be pretty run of the mill)

I was in middle school.  I lived with my brother, the badass.  He had come to live with Pop and me and had entered the local college to get his grades going again so he could transfer back to his original school.  He had a wall of CDs.  In the early 90s, tapes were still dominant, so CDs showed how debonair Evan was.  I was pretty sure he had even actually had sex before.  Thus, more than ever, Evan remained my favoritest person.

Pop was a professor at a military college.  We lived on the campus.  Pop was, and remains to this day, not one to waste a dollar.  If I needed a haircut, he gave me three dollars and sent me to the barbers the cadets went to.

The running joke was this:  A cadet went in to the barbershop and asked Ramey (barber who'd been there for at least forever) for a haircut.  The cadet said, "I want it an inch longer on the right side than on the left.  On the left though, I want you to put three tiers into it and, up top, I want a lightning bolt shaved in."  Ramey looked at the cadet as though he were crazy.  "Cadet," he said, "you know I can't do anything like that."  The cadet replied, "Yes, you can. You did it to me two weeks ago."

That's my way of telling you that I hated getting haircuts. Yay. Great.  I looked like a prisoner/refugee every time I got one.  Middle schoolers are known to be kind and understanding of the misfortunes of others.

I had Evan though.  Evan would save me.

Evan convinced me that there was this awesome new haircut that all the college guys were getting.  I'd be the coolest kid in 7th grade because I'd have a sweet college guy haircut. 

As it was 1992, he was talking about the Mushroom haircut.

(I cringe now)

Best of all, Evan would do it for me so a) it was guaranteed to be perfect and b) I could pocket THREE WHOLE DOLLARS! So what that Evan had never cut hair before?  That didn't faze me in the least.  I hadn't seen him try, but I was fairly certain he could walk on water.

We went in the bathroom.  He wet my hair down and started cutting.  I heard "hmmmm" a lot.  Then I heard "uh oh."  I may have heard an "oops."

I was a trifle concerned.  Evan was super, but then so are brain surgeons and if you ever hear "hmmmmm", "uh oh", and "ooops" from one of them you get worried too.

"Okay, Ajax.  I admit. I didn't get it quite right.  It's a little higher up than the college guys have," my idol calmly explained, "but, it's okay, because none of the other seventh graders will know because none of them will have one."

People hear what they want to hear. That's why I believed him.  He made sure to show me how it looked while my hair was still wet.  He was right.  I didn't know how to tell he'd messed up because I'd never seen a haircut like it before.  From what I could tell I was okay. Also, my badass brother assured me it was okay.

The only problem was that, the next morning when I got dropped off at school, he wasn't there to explain to the other kids (not just 7th graders...pretty much anyone who saw me), how I had a badass college guy haircut (nearly).  They took one look at me and...

...that's the story of how I came to be called "[Penis] Head" for the rest of 7th grade and, therefore, how my brother was no longer my hero.

F.Y.M.

In the brilliant, if admittedly low-budget/low-brow, 1994 film Fear of a Black Hat, writer/director/actor Rusty Cundieff, portraying rapper "Ice Cold", puts forth a concept that I find quite pertinent in a frustrating environment. I shall let him explain (NSFW):

As I've mentioned previously, out here, we have a set amount of b.s. we can handle.  When our Patience Wells fill up, they erupt into B.S. Volcanoes.  The problem is not that this happens.  It happens to all of us so we learn to deal with it.

The problem is that there are people out here who thrive on antagonism and purposely try to get people to go Vesuvial. 

I am currently there, being 8 days from vacation.  I have hit my B.S. Volcano.  I am also dealing with a person who is pushing me well into FYM territory.  I'm being pushed so far, in fact, that I might even be at Jules on "Brain Detail": (Super-Duper NSFW)

Unfortunately, I cannot explain myself thusly. 

I have long made note that when people are depressed or in mental pain they will often purposely self-destruct.  They may not be able to control feeling good.  They may not be able to control that they feel bad, but they can control how they feel bad.  Just to be able to direct themselves, even in a bad way is better than helplessness, uncontrolled misery, or despair.  See also, people who cut themselves.

As I've come here though that has come to light in another way.  We have very strange people who work out in Afghanistan. Yes, I know that I am saying this.  There are people that are stranger than me.  Think about that.

Anyway, some of these strange people, because of their quirks/eccentricities/flat-out-behavioral-disorders are unpopular.  It's not a situation where everyone goes "let's pick on that person" like in grade school, just that the screwed up people can tell no one likes them.  What some of them do, when they see that they can't get people to like them, is that they decide to go the route of deciding how people will dislike them by being raging jerks, stirring controversy, being antagonistic, and harassing and just being wildly unpleasant in general.

The issue is you can get away from people like that in a normal environment. Here, you can't escape. Because you can't escape and you can't make them leave, these people get emboldened, particularly if they are in positions of importance.  They press and press and press and take glee in harassing, filling up their need for acceptance with perverse feelings of power instead.

The problem is, they become myopic and lose sight of the big picture, that, ultimately, while they can get away with such poor behavior for a much longer period of time than in a normal environment, eventually, they will be pulled back to reality and spanked.

The people currently driving me bonkers forgot that they are not, in fact, tyrants, and that the laws of the United States concerning hostile work environment and personal litigation still apply.  It's great that they're in positions of authority over here; that doesn't exempt them from the time-honored maxim of "Don't @$#! with a lawyer."

F.Y.M.