Give 'em What They Want

As I languished in temp hell yesterday, I made an off-hand remark about how they oughta do a 'Reality TV' Gilligan's Island.

Everyone got a good laugh at my expense, because apparently it starts tonight.

But I looked at it, and it's not at all what I meant.

I'd pictured the setting more like this.

I'd also envisioned a much less diverse cast than the original show offered.
I expected to have a group of shameless narcissists who are so lacking in anything resembling humanity that they'd think nothing of cannibalizing their murder victims, as long as it's on prime-time TV .

Toss a dozen assholes onto an barren strip of nowhere. Give them each nothing. There's no fresh water. At night, the sand has a radioactive glow.
Except for the dehydration, vomiting and skin lesions it could be kinda romantic.


A month later, have a CSI:Killagain's Island special. Who ate who, and in what order?

It'll give me something to talk to you about while I wait in line for coffee. You drink the last cup, but walk away giggling.

* don't know how to make coffee. Hee Hee. *

Who the fuck doesn't know how to make coffee? In the workplace, saying this is code for "I suck".

I make the coffee very stong. I know how to make coffee.

Jonny's Challenge, from Valancy Jane via Nick

The other day I wrote about working with a woman who utilized the exquisite corpse method to compose her conversations.
Then I got this 'challenge', and it kinda fit in with what I was thinking at the time:
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Jonny's Challenge(stolen from ValancyJane)
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 23.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal... Along with these instructions.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

So I did. But the book in question, Year's Best Sci-fi, 1996, begins with a lengthy summation; the pages use Roman numerals. I got greedy and posted two sentences:

"If you're really a glutton f0r punishment,you can find lots of other genre 'electronic magazines,' most of them extremely bad, by doing a search of http://www.yahoo.com.arts/humanities/literature/genres....
The next one's from pg.23 of the Gregory Benford story, Immersion:

"Had they memorized the hundred or more tunnels in each mound?"

I like the second one better.

My Benign Dictatorship

I was so burnt-out and burnt-up after this last "election" that I thought I'd hit political rock-bottom. Saturated with despair and outrage, I became unwilling to believe that things could get much worse.

But they are. And it's just starting.

The Democratic Party is barely alive. The GOP seems to be imploding.
The Intelligence Bill meltdown. The Abominable Spending Bill.

There's even talk of a 28th Amendment allowing non-native born Citizens to hold the office of President. This is designed for Gov. Arnold.
Maybe we could have an Ahnold vs. Bono election in 2012.
Oh joy.

Or just elect me. The GOP just revoked a rule preventing people who've been indicted on felony charges from holding positions of political leadership, so I'm now a valid candidate.

We need a new Party.

The Pauper Party. As in Twain's The Prince and the Pauper.

Vote me in as benevolent despot and I will:

-Seize the property and freeze the assets of every member of Congress and the Supreme Court. And every Cabinet member,all the way down to the deputy deputies.Those vigorous enough to work will be forced into minimum wage retail/foodservice jobs. Those who are too old or infirm to work will learn a hard lesson about trying to survive on Social Security and Food Stamps.

-Using a combination of nepotism and subjective observation I would assemble a Cabinet of competent and qualified personnel to replace the useless and departed politicians.
For example:

a) the stoned-looking kid at the market who did a 'sniff test' on the ham he was slicing.

I dunno, man . This ham smells kinda funky. Let me open a fresh one. Jus' be a sec while I clean the slicer.

I'm putting him in charge of the FDA.

b) my old boss George could defuse any situation. One night years ago,while I was working in the kitchen, Wayne, the cook, threw a hot skillet at a waitress. Luckily, it missed her, but it still wasn't the coolest thing to do.
Enter George. George was a big guy and he was so red he looked like Santa.( He actually had a bit part as a red-neck thug on the old Homicide TV show. Shit you not.)

Allan, go sit at the bar for a minute. Have a beer. Now!

I obey this order.

Peeking into the kitchen , I see George put his arm around Wayne's shoulder; they are standing in front of the grill. It occurs to me that it wouldn't take much pressure for George to press the Mad Cook's face into a half-dozen partially-cooked meals. Wayne seems to agree. He gathers up his radio and leaves out the back door. I get promoted to head cook before I can even finish my beer.

George would be my Secretary of State.

c) My twin brother would be Vice-Dictator. He'd be the 'nice one'. Just to be safe, he'd be the official Food Taster as well.

d) A *ahem* friend of mine told me about a topless waitress that he saw kick some groper's ass without spilling any of the watered-down drinks on her tray.

Secret Service bodyguard.


e) Bloggers. Lots of jobs for bloggers. That sounds sarcastic, but I'm not kidding. The insight and attention to detail I see on some blogs rivals or exceeds what's on the mainstream press. It's where I'd start Intelligence Reform.

f) A random selection of former minimum wage earners would fill many important posts. They'd get benefits and a small raise.

g) During elections, I'd introduce a novel, if not time consuming method of vote counts. First, we'd revert back to paper ballots-carbon ballots. Check the boxes, one into the box, keep a copy.
The ballots would be distributed to isolated non-violent convicts for a count and a mandatory re-count. No contact between the convicts/counters, each other and the outside world would be allowed, but if both groups come up with numbers within say, .5% or so, then all the participating crooks get released or at least get reduced sentences and since we rely on the self-serving veracity of the blind-tested and imprisoned criminal element for accuracy, we can be relativily assured of less tampering than we are increasingly becoming used to. Plus, every voter would have a receipt.

Does that allow for a refund?

Joking aside, the Paupers Party could have huuugggeee demographics by 2012.

Boom!

Here in Fallentown, strange things are happening. Unexplainable explosive booms plague respectable Northside neighbor-hood. Window-shaking, knick-knack knockin' stuff.

Yet, after two weeks, no one can explain them. No earthquakes, gas line accidents, sonic booms, nada. Just earth-shaking booming sounds , yet no explosive damage or debris has been found. Freaky.

I think it's some sort of anti-matter weapons system test. Or temporal booms from time travel experiments.

Or the spirits are really pissed.

Who can blame them?

What's in Your Envelope?

I'm unemployed. That means that I should never be forced to get out of bed until I damn well feel like it.
So why does the temp agency keep waking me up with low-paying and grossly mis-represented jobs? Can I get to Crapital One by 9 a.m.? They need a mail-room clerk, pronto.

Well, that depends. If there's two or more beers in the fridge, it'll suffice to take the edge off my hangover enough for me to actually make it to work on time.

Hold on a sec, let me check something.

I go downstairs. Two Buds left in the ice-box. Damnit! Never thought I'd hate seeing beer in the fridge.

Yeah, I'll be in at nine.

Being pressed for time, I down the first Bud while I shower. Then, while dressing, it occurs to me that showing up smelling of beer on the first day of work may be a reckless move. I drink the second beer to help calm my nerves.

But why worry? It's a mail-room job. Call me crazy, but some of my best temp assignments have been mail-roomers-it's usually easy and intermittent work with long stretches of boredom. Like any blogger worth their salt, I have a very advanced ability to amuse myself. Gimme a book, gimme some DSL, leave me the hell alone and everything will be fine. If I get bored, I'll grab a stack of blank envelopes and wander aimlessly around the office.

Office tip: If you stride purposefully while you meander about, you can kill hours - days if you carry a clipboard while you make your crop-circlesque rounds. Bonus points if no one else really understands your job duties(usually a safe bet).

But this job wasn't like that.

I'm ushered into a small, windowless room. On a large table is a huuugggee pile of letters and several cases of UPS envelopes. I momentarily forget my atheistic ways and pray, please goddess, don't let this be what I think it is.

Briefly, I consider telling the Mail Boss that I'm way too drunk to do this, but quickly realize that I don't think you can get too fucked-up to stuff envelopes; at least not without needing a spur-o'-the- moment ER stomach-pump, or just plain dying.

So meet my fellow temps:

-Mrs. Not Understood: Middle-aged cross between Woodstock veteran and shopping-cart Bag Lady. Everything she says sounds like it's created using the exquisite corpse method. Eight hours I spent with this woman and didn't understand one single sentence she said- and I had a lot to choose from.
Her job?
Peel a UPS label of a sheet and stick it on an envelope and pass it to-

Playa': 22-year old father of three, husband of none. He knows his football- even though he likes the Cowboys. He explains a lot of rap music politics to me, little of which I understand. One thing we have in common is that most of our favorite musicians are dead.
His job?
Make sure the name on the letter matches the name on the envelope. This is by far the most demanding task in our little assembly line. (Everytime someone said' assembly line' Mrs. NU would clap her hands and chirp, 'assembly line' Fuckin' bizarre).

Me? I insert the document into the envelope. This is not as interesting as it sounds. I pass it on to -

Queen LaTeetha: She's my age and just got laid-off after three years at the same temp job. She's got the most incredible smile-in fact she is all-around beautiful. Playa' waits about ten minutes before he hits on her-I'm sitting in between them while he does this- So, do you like goin' out? How 'bout I take you clubbin'? She tells him she never goes out-ever. I can tell she's used to this. She reminds him that her son is almost as old as he is. To Playa's credit, he was able to take the hint.
This lovely woman's talents are wasted sealing envelopes.

For the tenth time in as many thoughts I reflect on the lack of justice in this world.

But we worked pretty well together-even though by the end of the shift we were all starting to sound like Mrs. NU. When Mail Boss asked us if we could work this weekend it was like a barbershop quartet- NOOO000000ooooooooooooooo!

I get home and find out I've got a call from a friend-of- friend who's trying to establish a politically progressive AM station in town. I'm going to see the studio tomorrow-I have no idea if this is a viable project (read:financed) or just a nice beer-soaked idea. I hope it's for real-if it is I can do tech stuff and produce content, in fact I can't think of anything I'd be better suited for.
And-I can sell him all my dust-collecting studio electronics, declare myself a contractor and we can both write them off on taxes.

He says he's got the transmitter and the FCC permit is on the way. We'll see.

I think the idea is commercial suicide, but if I can get space to set up a production studio maybe we'd be able to roll in enough business to get off the runway. I've got the gear, just nowhere to set up. Quid pro quo, eh?

Interview With the Vapid

Had a job interview this a.m.
Cleaned up really good-looking sharp! Gathered all my documents and letters and set out.

I was lead to believe I was applying for a temp-to-hire 'supervisory document specialist' (boss file clerk). That's cool-last job started that way and within months I got promoted into claims (that's when I started blogging, by the way), so I figured I'd give it a shot.

I'm an impeccable ten minutes early. A security guy walks me back to a conference room, where I'm greeted by three interviewers- a white guy, a black guy and an Asian woman.
Believe it or not ,this is an often-used tactic when interviewing applicants,it's used to gauge the applicant's reaction to different genders and races. (Hint: If you get one of this interrogations, the best way to respond is to directly respond to the person who asks the question, while making eye contact once,but no more than twice, with the others. -This is the kinda shit they teach you in Government Supervisor School-really).

Well, Mr C, what sort of managerial style do you prefer?

I give my spiel about first assessing the goals desired and the resources available to work with-establishing workflow, consistent, yet flexible, blah, blah blah. I'm pretty good at this pitch.

And relevant experience?

I was directly responsible for all the out-going and incoming Census 2000 field assignments. The same for over 10,000 property claims after Hurricane Isabel et. al.
Here are letters from my last three bosses, and a certificate of recognition from the Census for my superior efficiency rating.

Gotta admit-it's a pretty nice spread.

They say they're very impressed, but that the position has been filled. They are , however prepared to offer me a position in shipping/recieving:loading and unloading for $9 an hour. Fuck! Unemployment pays more.

Thank god I put on my application that I cannot perform lengthy heavy lifting (bad arm), otherwise I might have had to accept this job.
Hmm...don't they read these applications?
Maybe they did, saw I can't do heavy labor, and made the offer -knowing full well I couldn't take it.
I bet they did a background check.
Fuck!

Stuffs and Things

I found this link on Nick's page.
For those of you fence-sitters, it'll help you decide between joining the Peace Corps or the Latin Kings.
My web-site was scored 23% evil/73% good. Seems implausible.
My resume? 55%/45%. Sounds about right.

I doubt there's a shred of scientific credibility here, but at least it was amusing.


**********

My local ABC station decided not to play "Private Ryan" tonight. They feel that the FCC will impose fines for the violence and language. It's been shown un-cut on broadcast twice already-with FCC approval-but it would seem that the Powers That Be don't wan't anything shown that evokes the reality of war. Like the getting killed part.

Fuckers'll probably have a 'Hogan's Heroes' marathon instead.

Or 'Gomer Pyle: The Movie.' Starring Jim Carrey.

Goll-ee.

Broken News

"A little patience, and we shall see the reign of witches pass over, their spells dissolve, and the people, recovering their true sight, restore their government to its true principles. It is true that in the meantime we are suffering deeply in spirit, and incurring the horrors of a war and long oppressions of enormous public debt... If the game runs sometimes against us at home we must have patience till luck turns, and then we shall have an opportunity of winning back the principles we have lost, for this is a game where principles are at stake."
- Thomas Jefferson, 1798, after the passage of the Sedition Act.

I sure hope he was right.

Flash!
Hot Damn! Ashcroft resigned! Let Rummy, Kindasleeza and Wolfie be next. Please!


(Thanks to MoPJ fer the TJ quote)

Outliving A Thousand Rockers

Rock est mort! Vive le Rock!
Fuck that. There's too many guitars for Rock to die. I don't care if 99.9% of them are wasted,er, I mean languishing unused, not stumble-fuck wasted. That's for humans.

Do you remember the great L.A. punk band 'X'? From 1980?

My god. What a great band. Hard chords on the car radio-short songs that told long stories; squalid , sordid ,low-rent tales of decadance and despair. Addiction and nihilism! My kinda people! My kinda music!
(And Billy Zoom. Billy Zoom could play the mother-flickin' hell out of a guitar)

It's bands like X , the Clash, the Stranglers etc. that changed my frothy teenage head from a Grateful Dead noodle depository into an extremely angry and intense free-fire zone.

Wasting valuable petrol, this a.m. I went driving into the splendid Virginia autumn country-side. It was an odd juxtaposition of idyllic farmland and early '80's punk. It helped me think.

Listening to X's first LP, I started thinking about the Doors. Ray Manzarek, the Doors' keyboard player, produced that album. He plays on it. This is the guy that out-lived Jim Morrison. He produced one of punks' seminal bands. He recorded their first album in 1980. I bought it. Hooked.

That's 24 freakin' years ago. Damn, I'm old.

I'm taking turns too fast for a car that's duct-taped together. I'm beating the dashboard like a drum. I'm wailing away with Exene while she yells and tells about Nausea.

Outside, the air smells like freshly cut hay.

I listen to some Snakefinger. One of the best guitarists who has ever lived. He played at a dingy local club I used to play/work at. I grabbed two beers and walked to the front of the stage. And I watched. And listened. And learned. In awe.

Afterwards, I'm hanging in the dressing room with Snakefinger and his awesome band. (I used to be cool) I'm gushing about Snake being my fave guitarist and even got him to sign my Snakefinger LP's (I've always been a nerd). We got way high and giggled all stoopid and happy. He was genuine and straight-up; one of the nicest strangers who ever changed my life. He told me to 'never let go of my guitar'. He was going to Europe on tour, and I was going to Texas for the same reason.

Things didn't go well in Texas. I came home.

Snakefinger died in Austria. 1987. He was 38.

I don't know where people go after they die, but if Snake is there, it's a good place.

Group Therapy

Since I'm still in a state of denial, I thought I'd go on for a bit about our Correctional System.
I got caught with way less than a joint years ago-while I was carrying a Federal Badge- but I was on Federal property at the time. That meant Federal charges.

Until then, I didn't realize a burnt-up crumb of rolling paper was Narcotics Paraphenalia. Or that it was worth five years in club Fed. I got an official DoJ summons addressing the case of Allan VS. The United States of America. That's a depressing document to receive.

Being white and employed (by the same Government that was prosecuting me) I hired a very pricey lawyer. My high-powered boss wrote a nice letter about my invaluable national service and I got off on a plea and probation.

And outpatient therapy. Three times a week-sometimes four. Three hours at a time.
My first meeting was with my probation officer.
Her first question to me?

Why are you in such trouble?

I thought this was standard interrogation, but she seemed a bit perplexed.

You were caught with .3 grams of pot?

Yes Ma'am. In my ashtray. I was changing a tire...

(cuts me off) I see all that. Are you employed at the moment? (Yes-see? My Fed badge)

Well, I'm going to need a urine sample.

Of course, I failed.

(Sidebar: I've done everything you can without using a needle-but I'd put all but herb and beer behind me by this point. Years behind me-on my own, thank you very much)

So they send me to roomfuls of crack-heads and junkies.

There was the guy who spent his paycheck on crack, spent the weekends in his truck-which was parked in the work lot- and got fucked up until it was Monday morning.
"Never late to work ", he said, until a nail-gun he was repairing put out his eye. He failed a tox-screen at the ER. Back to jail for him. No disability.

Crazy Shirley? She got really wired and hit her husband with a frying pan full of bacon. She told funny stories about domestic violence until, one day, she came in all fucked-up and threatened a counselor with a folding chair. That'll violate your probation in a heartbeat.

One of the most fucked-up things was the 'Faces and Feelings' chart. It was a chart of cartoon faces that were supposed to represent 'Feelings'. Pick a feeling and tell the group about why you chose that feeling.

Pick a face? How about I pick all these faces-the ones that surround me, the ones that want to help me with my marijuana problem? How about you- you're a beaten-down old crack-head and you're ten years younger than me. You want some? I'm slapping your face and and you're too smacked-down to do anything but nod off, you pitiful piece of junkie trash.

So the rage vents on Mr. Counselor. How long did you use until you found Jesus? Are you validated by the ineffectual effort you make to salvage this room-full of human detritus?
Are you better than them? Did your god tell you that? Did you know that your wife fucks swans?

Ahhh, it's not his fault. In reality, I just kept my mouth shut and did my time. Same as Mr. Counselor.

FBI Comes a' Knockin'

The only thing more depressing than the present is the potential future, so I will not waste time agonizing over a fate I can't control. Instead , I will do something more productive- like dwelling on the past.

There's the time the FBI came to my apartment (circa 1986) while I was weighing 8-balls of blow. They wanted to ask some questions about my upstairs neighbor. My mullet neighbor, who liked listening to the Scorpions at 3 a.m. and really enjoyed the sound of breaking glass. Seems he wanted to be a Feeb.
I didn't want to risk having these agents come into my apartment, so I asked them to follow me upstairs-point at neighbor's door-see those dents?

Yes, sir ,I do. What is your point?

I put those there with a sledgehammer last weekend. They were having a raging party and started throwing furniture out of the window and into the alley. I tried to get them to stop, but the music was so loud they couldn't hear me knocking-even with the hammer.
Check it out-the sofa's still in the alley. Be careful though- one of 'em had a pet Boa Constrictor that got loose. (all true)

FBI guys are furiously taking notes as my coke-addled brain shifts into overdrive.

Would you characterize this behavior as normal?

Hell, NO! Those guys upstairs are crazy!

Sir, I meant is this sort of activity normal for Joe **** in apt. #6?

Pretty much. Except when it smells like marijuana-then they're quieter.

I see. Thank you for your time.

They probably hired him that same day.

Not More

I decided to call my doctor and ask him to increase the dosage of my Xanax this morning.
Why?
Because as soon as I leave the house I'm gonna see some headlines-I'm gonna see the headline, that's why.
Fair enough, says doc. Have you thought about not leaving the house?
Yeah, I have.
I've also considered going to Kansas-maybe a tornado will take me to Oz.
If you see a strange bald man poking through your wardrobe, it's just me looking for Narnia.
I'm unarmed-just drink me under the table and toss me into the alley-I won't mind. Or toss me under the table and drink me into the alley-either way. Hmmm... the latter seems preferable.
I get some cough syrup that should help me dream of Xanadu-wish I could travel forward in time until the flu goes away.

With my luck, I'd invent a time machine that only goes back to 1984 .

Pace

Pace , pace, pace. All this pacing would be easier if I picked up some of the shit on the floor, but I don't. By now, I can walk this route blindfolded.

Two steps forward, lead with the right.
Third step, lift the right foot to avoid guitar pedal.
Fourth step, lift left slightly to avoid guitar cable.
Fifth step is tricky-swing and lift right leg-there's a beer bottle right behind the pedal and it's a forty.
Six, Seven , turn around on Eight.

Simple.

Why all this pacing? Waiting for the phone to ring, of course.
Waiting for a woman.
To call about a job. An interview, to be precise. By way of word-of-mouth reference I got a call from another Company as a potential candidate for a cush job.
So I'm waiting for the if and when.

It's a lot like pre-date anxiety, but much worse.
At least when you're gettin' the date jitters, you can reassure yourself that your companion is probably just as nervous as you- at an interview, you don't hold any of the cards. You are being judged by a person who is completely indifferent to you. Not objective-just indifferent.

The friends who annoyingly advise you to "just be yourself" before a date, never give you that same advice before a job interview.

I hate the way our society requires one to have multiple personas-almost forcing multiple personality disorder on us all. What happens when the false faces start over-lapping? Who can tell? They do it all the time, but we never notice. We hope no one else does either.

Don't get me wrong-I can and will bullshit my way through an job inquisition and the job itself.
But on a date? The crazy shows up and drives away all but the other crazies.

**BRING**

Hello? Oh. Well, sure, I understand.

The new job has to wash her hair.