Sometimes I’d put a dent in it. Just to know that I did it.

This is an old post from my now-defunct Myspace blog. I'm going to post some of the older postings in reverse chronological order to put a little meat on the bones of this puppy.

Originally posted on Sunday, April 20, 2008.

"Sometimes I'd put a dent in it. Just to know that I did it. I made this one. This one will be different." When I was a senior in high school, a bunch of my classmates and I went to see our teacher in a play. While I don't recall the name of the play, I do recall its delicious little communist undertones. Our teacher played the role of a steel worker. At one point during his soliloquy he told the tale of how he made pipes on a machine all day long. There was no art involved; it required minimal skill. He wasn't part of his work product; he was a mere producer. Though every pipe was supposed to be the same, he explained with a powerful but pitiful voice, "Sometimes I'd put a dent in it. Just to know that I did it. I made this one. This one will be different."

Even writing about this is a bit pathetic, I suppose. I've long since had the feeling that there are no original thoughts. It's all be done. It's all been lived. It's all been described far better than I ever could by people who understood it far more than I ever will. Writing about feeling woefully replaceable isn't exactly a new concept. But I can't help but think I haven't dinged any pipes lately, despite my attempts at trying. Nor has anyone bothered to look for any dents on my sorry self. There's a joke that associates at large law firms are "FBUs"—Fungible Billing Units. And while part of my job requires more creativity than making uniform pipes, most of it does not. I conduct research, I write summaries, I review documents, I go to bed, and I repeat the next day. On pay day we have bagels. And there's mild rejoicing. And then we go back to our desks. And do what any other attorney could do.

This wouldn't be all so troubling if it didn't coincide with a growing recognition that Chicago's gay scene (I daresay any gay scene, but I'm retaining a shred of optimism) is not unlike my job. Instead of FBUs we are FFUs—Fungible Friend Units. Or even Fungible F*ck Units. At the risk of mixing metaphors, while plenty of people want to lay the pipe, no one really wants to dent your pipe, if you catch my drift. Roll them off the assembly line—this one the same as the last. To treat someone as though they're not just another identical loser rolling off the production line would take effort. And it's an effort few are willing to expend. And so we get up every morning and do what anyone else could do. FBU. And then we go out every weekend to be treated like anyone else could be treated. FFU. Frighteningly, sickeningly, pitifully replaceable. As a wise young poet-acquaintance of mine aptly put it recently, "Lather. Rinse. Still incomplete."

"Sometimes I'd put a dent in it. Just to know that I did it. I made this one. This one will be different." Perhaps, like my teacher's character, it's enough to know that you did it differently. Something in this world—if only an inanimate object—will, by the work of your hands, be changed. But it sure would be satisfying now and then if others took the time to look for those beautiful, wonderful, life-altering dents that make some people worth keeping around.

But they don't. Lather. Rinse. Still incomplete.