In the midst of an incredibly aggressive alien attack, when all hope is lost, I do a few things.
1) I kiss my grandmother goodbye, I'm clearly never going to see her again.
2) I take some pictures of these incredibly crazy space ships that are destroying everything in sight.
3) I remain (incredibly unreasonably) calm
4) I call a few people and tell them they were cool.
5) I call more than that and tell them they sucked.
6) I proceed to buy a rattlesnake, and name him buffersford waffles. He comes already trained do to cool little snake tricks. I put him in my pocket where he happily hangs out.
7) There are a shitload of people playing drums. I think this might have been the influence of the music store that opens early on Sundays that I live directly above.
Everything remains 'all good.'
Dreams are rad.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Now, I tried to be nice, I tried to put my two weeks in.
Trying for civility only goes so far. You try to be humble and understanding, and do things the right way, but it doesn't quite work out. When an 'executive' refuses to listen and goes out of his way to make you uncomfortable during your last three days of employment, its time to walk.
Walking out mid-shift was incredibly gratifying.
Bike n' roll, fuck you. Most of all, fuck you, Colin the executive. Nobody cares about the fact that you were in special services, help me unload the truck or get out of the way if you're going to talk about the military on your cellphone for forty-five minutes.
Goodbye, bureaucracy bike, and all of your excessive paperwork.
Freedom is grand.
Trying for civility only goes so far. You try to be humble and understanding, and do things the right way, but it doesn't quite work out. When an 'executive' refuses to listen and goes out of his way to make you uncomfortable during your last three days of employment, its time to walk.
Walking out mid-shift was incredibly gratifying.
Bike n' roll, fuck you. Most of all, fuck you, Colin the executive. Nobody cares about the fact that you were in special services, help me unload the truck or get out of the way if you're going to talk about the military on your cellphone for forty-five minutes.
Goodbye, bureaucracy bike, and all of your excessive paperwork.
Freedom is grand.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Perfection perfection perfection.
Every day, he wakes up. He turns, either to the left or the right.
This all depends on which side of the pier he slept on the previous evening.
Be it left or right, he heads for Rosie the Riveter. Rosie the Riveter, in this scenario, is a sign, pointing to a retired warship.
As he approaches the sign, he assesses the placement. It has to be perfect.
He makes sure it is lined up directly with the "Keep" portion of the "Keep Clear" painted on the ground. It has to be perfect.
He repeats this obsessively, every day. After all, it has to be perfect.
He stares down, along the sign. He moves it an inch to the right, an inch to the left, half an inch back to the right, all to make it perfect.
He spends anywhere from three minutes to close to half an hour, perfecting the placement of the sign. Perfection, for this man, knows no time limit. Not within about half an hour at least.
He stands back, surveys his work, and makes sure that it is perfect, as it has to be.
Some people call this insanity, but to this man, his home is the pier. The forty-third-and-a-half pier, and he will keep it perfect for the rest of his days.
He'll keep it perfect for the rest of his days, or until the manager of the retired warship tour finally gets sick of denying him 'his rightful paycheck.'
Some people call this obsession, but it seems to be all he has.
That, and cigarette butts he picks up on the ground.
This all depends on which side of the pier he slept on the previous evening.
Be it left or right, he heads for Rosie the Riveter. Rosie the Riveter, in this scenario, is a sign, pointing to a retired warship.
As he approaches the sign, he assesses the placement. It has to be perfect.
He makes sure it is lined up directly with the "Keep" portion of the "Keep Clear" painted on the ground. It has to be perfect.
He repeats this obsessively, every day. After all, it has to be perfect.
He stares down, along the sign. He moves it an inch to the right, an inch to the left, half an inch back to the right, all to make it perfect.
He spends anywhere from three minutes to close to half an hour, perfecting the placement of the sign. Perfection, for this man, knows no time limit. Not within about half an hour at least.
He stands back, surveys his work, and makes sure that it is perfect, as it has to be.
Some people call this insanity, but to this man, his home is the pier. The forty-third-and-a-half pier, and he will keep it perfect for the rest of his days.
He'll keep it perfect for the rest of his days, or until the manager of the retired warship tour finally gets sick of denying him 'his rightful paycheck.'
Some people call this obsession, but it seems to be all he has.
That, and cigarette butts he picks up on the ground.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Oh, the collector.
"Give to me." She motioned towards the can.
He nodded his head, he hadn't finished it yet.
She tried to add a pause to her sentence, "Give... to me."
Still, he declined.
She changed her tone of voice, "Give to... me?"
"Listen lady, I'm not done drinking it. Come back in ten minutes."
"Give to me."
He wagged his finger. She stepped slightly out of his peripheral vision, though he knew she was watching him.
Can hunting is like looking for a parking spot in a crowded lot. You look until you find a car that seems like it is about to leave, and you wait.
You know that there might be a spot twenty feet ahead that is readily available, but you wait. Patience is the mentality of the can-collector.
She waited, and it made him slightly uneasy. Not that he feared this toothless old woman with a sun hat and a bag full of crushed cans, he just didn't appreciate being rushed. After all, consuming alcohol in public in the middle of the day is tedious as it is. He didn't want to be rushed. Unlike the can collector, patience isn't one of his strong points.
He turned to look at her, and raised his arms above his head.
She walked off to where another can collector had laid down her can collection at the moment, and began to rifle through it for the most desirable of crushed aluminum.
As he watched her, she looked over, smiled, and gave him a thumbs up.
He walked over, crushed the can, and handed it to her.
"Tank jew."
"You're welcome."
Thus concluding his interaction with this particular can collector, but there will be more. So many more.
Unrelated:
He nodded his head, he hadn't finished it yet.
She tried to add a pause to her sentence, "Give... to me."
Still, he declined.
She changed her tone of voice, "Give to... me?"
"Listen lady, I'm not done drinking it. Come back in ten minutes."
"Give to me."
He wagged his finger. She stepped slightly out of his peripheral vision, though he knew she was watching him.
Can hunting is like looking for a parking spot in a crowded lot. You look until you find a car that seems like it is about to leave, and you wait.
You know that there might be a spot twenty feet ahead that is readily available, but you wait. Patience is the mentality of the can-collector.
She waited, and it made him slightly uneasy. Not that he feared this toothless old woman with a sun hat and a bag full of crushed cans, he just didn't appreciate being rushed. After all, consuming alcohol in public in the middle of the day is tedious as it is. He didn't want to be rushed. Unlike the can collector, patience isn't one of his strong points.
He turned to look at her, and raised his arms above his head.
She walked off to where another can collector had laid down her can collection at the moment, and began to rifle through it for the most desirable of crushed aluminum.
As he watched her, she looked over, smiled, and gave him a thumbs up.
He walked over, crushed the can, and handed it to her.
"Tank jew."
"You're welcome."
Thus concluding his interaction with this particular can collector, but there will be more. So many more.
Unrelated:
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Week
So, the past week has been interesting.
I'll start with the cab driver.
This cab driver was taking me from one interview to another, and we started chatting.
Religion came up, somehow. He went on to tell me that Muslims were 'my enemy,' and only 'trying to deceive me.'
Being Jewish myself, I told him that when I go out for drinks with Muslim friends, we don't talk about plotting the death of the nation. We usually talk about girls and motorcycles and beer.
He responds, "Your friend, 'Mohammed', I guess, is trying to deceive you! I am a historian! Trust me, throughout history Muslims have been trying to take over the world!"
I told him, "no, you're a cab driver. I wish you would re-think your entire existence."
The way I see it, nobody is the 'enemy,' per se, except for individuals like this cab driver, people that can't look at the September 11th incident, and realize that it was individuals, not a religion, responsible.
I mentioned the slaughter of the crusades. He responded with, "If it wasn't for the crusades, the entire world would be Muslim! What do you think about that, son?"
The next fifteen minutes were incomprehensible yelling. As I was leaving, he tried to shake my hand. I asked him quite politely to have an incredibly awful day.
Anyway, I got a job! Except, this job sucks ass!
Every shift, I get there at 7:30. I load a truck full of bicycles. We drive about 40 yards, and I unload the bicycles. We repeat this process three or four times. Then I get to stand around, all day, waiting for tourists. Only tourists. My job is to look at them, determine what size bike they need, and place it in front of them. Upon return, I take the bike from them, (detail) clean it, and put it back on the bike rack.
I do this for around 10 hours. It is horrifically boring. In the interim between tourists, I generally play with my yo-yo, or ride a child's bike around in circles.
Today, I yelled "I AM HAVING SO MUCH FUN!" for a good 15 minutes while cleaning a bicycle. I spend the majority of my time, however, staring at the ground with my mouth open. Seven thirty in the morning to six thirty in the evening. Spending all this time in the sun has left me incredibly fucking sunburned. Great.
Then, it is time to close. I repeat the morning's process, except in reverse. Then I get to take a bus home. It seems a bit redundant.
Anybody know of anywhere that is hiring?
Thanks.
On top of that, holy shit, today is the worst cigarette craving day I've had since I quit. It's been over a week now.
Fuck.
I'll start with the cab driver.
This cab driver was taking me from one interview to another, and we started chatting.
Religion came up, somehow. He went on to tell me that Muslims were 'my enemy,' and only 'trying to deceive me.'
Being Jewish myself, I told him that when I go out for drinks with Muslim friends, we don't talk about plotting the death of the nation. We usually talk about girls and motorcycles and beer.
He responds, "Your friend, 'Mohammed', I guess, is trying to deceive you! I am a historian! Trust me, throughout history Muslims have been trying to take over the world!"
I told him, "no, you're a cab driver. I wish you would re-think your entire existence."
The way I see it, nobody is the 'enemy,' per se, except for individuals like this cab driver, people that can't look at the September 11th incident, and realize that it was individuals, not a religion, responsible.
I mentioned the slaughter of the crusades. He responded with, "If it wasn't for the crusades, the entire world would be Muslim! What do you think about that, son?"
The next fifteen minutes were incomprehensible yelling. As I was leaving, he tried to shake my hand. I asked him quite politely to have an incredibly awful day.
Anyway, I got a job! Except, this job sucks ass!
Every shift, I get there at 7:30. I load a truck full of bicycles. We drive about 40 yards, and I unload the bicycles. We repeat this process three or four times. Then I get to stand around, all day, waiting for tourists. Only tourists. My job is to look at them, determine what size bike they need, and place it in front of them. Upon return, I take the bike from them, (detail) clean it, and put it back on the bike rack.
I do this for around 10 hours. It is horrifically boring. In the interim between tourists, I generally play with my yo-yo, or ride a child's bike around in circles.
Today, I yelled "I AM HAVING SO MUCH FUN!" for a good 15 minutes while cleaning a bicycle. I spend the majority of my time, however, staring at the ground with my mouth open. Seven thirty in the morning to six thirty in the evening. Spending all this time in the sun has left me incredibly fucking sunburned. Great.
Then, it is time to close. I repeat the morning's process, except in reverse. Then I get to take a bus home. It seems a bit redundant.
Anybody know of anywhere that is hiring?
Thanks.
On top of that, holy shit, today is the worst cigarette craving day I've had since I quit. It's been over a week now.
Fuck.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
