Maybe I Won't Have To Kill Myself After All

AS BAD AS LAST WEEK WAS, that’s how good this one began and ended. I don’t remember what I did on Monday, but I know I didn’t go to the market research gig. But Tuesday I picked up my check from the one-day temp gig I did at Cornell Medical last Wednesday, cashed it and paid off my 55 dollar Con Ed bill and the 25 bucks I have to send to the IRS every month -- ad infinitum & time immemorial, so it shall ever be. Then as I was walking uptown to catch the Steinway bus and thus save the 2 beans on the Metrocard, I get a call from one of the freelance agencies, and K. says she’s got a proofing gig for me the very next day, paying 24 bucks an hour. So I show up the next day to S. Communications downtown on Varick Street, fortified by a toasted corn muffin and tea just before I report. I’m nervous of course and really feel like grubbing a cigarette before I go up but I fight the temptation, and it’s up to the 11th floor. Finally something in my field! It turns out to be a fashion catalog with very little text, but I catch some errors and I go over it again and again, then report back to the guy who gave me the assignment, and I meet some other people who worked on the thing and we go over it a few more times after corrections have been made. I’m cool with everything, everybody’s really nice, I’m just glad to help. In fact, the office is kind of like a huge loft where everyone is really attractive and generally between 20 and 25 years old – kind of like the cast of Friends writ large. Then someone finds another catalog for me to go over, not really a catalog as much as an in-house style guide for one of their clients, but there’s a lot to chew on and that’s great, I take my time with it, about two hours, then go over it with Philip, and he’s genuinely glad that I caught the stuff I did. And that’s it. I’m a freelancer! It really felt good to get something in my field, and 24 bucks an hour makes it sweeter.

That was Wednesday. Thursday I get a call from someone else at the same agency, and she has another gig for me on Friday, might even be 3 days, at C. B., editing and proofing... She didn’t mention the rate but of course I immediately said yes, she sent them my resume, and an hour later she called back and said it’s all set up, show up tomorrow at their office on 61st & Broadway. You can imagine how pumped I am now!

I got up extra early today so I’d have plenty of time to catch a cup of tea and not have to rush, and that’s exactly how it worked. In fact, my bathtub drain, which for the last, oh, three months has been stopped up no matter what I did, miraculously picked today to work normally; what a relief it was to see the water go down the drain as I showered, what a pain in the ass it was to have to dump all the fucking water out with a plastic pitcher every time I took a shower. It’s the little things, people, the little things that drive us slowly crazy. I didn’t wanna bother the landlord, for numerous reasons. One, if he has to get a plumber for a couple of hundred dollars, don’t you think his mind is gonna start wrapping itself around the idea of a rent increase, which is the last thing I need at this point.

So I got to 57th Street at 8:30 and so I had an hour to sit and meditate and watch all the good looking office girls go by as I sip my Earl Grey. Wasn’t at all nervous today, though, because after all this is something I am qualified for. I’m nervous with catering gigs because I really still don’t know what to expect for the most part, I just try to anticipate what’s needed or emulate what the others are doing. But I know I’m a good proofreader and copy editor, and there’s a certain quiet nobility in what I do that I take pride in.

Anyway, I got up to the 9th floor and reported to C., who was just my type, unashamedly cerebral but confidently attractive, the sexy librarian type, if you know what I mean, nudge-nudge wink-wink. But I am wholly professional, flashing my killer smile whenever I get a chance to ingratiate myself. My job, should I choose to accept it, is to go over an SAT desk calendar where each date has a question of the day, either math or verbal, and I’m looking for discrepancies of course but also matching the print version against the online version. That’s really the gist of it. But as I’m working I see this also is really a one-day job, no matter how deliberate a pace I set. I methodically work my through June by lunchtime, catching a few choice errors, so I take a break and circulate among my fellow co-workers on Broadway on this fine spring day, choosing a thoroughly mediocre chicken noodle soup as my lunchtime sustenance. I finish up in the afternoon. I had to call the agency for something and (let's call her Kelly) told me this job also pays 24 an hour. Unfortunately, by 5:00 I seem to be all finished. I go over the stuff with C. and ask about Monday. She checks her calendar and says Monday probably not but it looks like Wednesday or Thursday she could use me to proof something else. Excellent, I say, call the agency and I’ll be here with bells on, or something like that.

Just before lunch I get a call from Tony, who asks me if I can work a catering gig on Tuesday. Claro, I answer, and he says there are parties also on Friday and Sunday of next week. So that really sets me up nice for the future.

I could really take to the life of a freelance itinerant, get business cards printed up with the words Master Proofer At Large, At Your Service, At Your Disposal Even. I could build up a portfolio or a resume or a reputation; some proofing/copy editing, some catering, mixed in with some wacky odd one-day temp gigs. But I think I am done with the night job. Done as in finito. You know what kind of place it is? The last time I was there the men’s room key was tied to a large pot. That’s right, the fucking men’s room key was fucking attached to a rather large fucking cooking pot – I guess so no one will steal it or leave it in the men’s room or put it in their pocket and take it home. I will keep that surreal image burned in my mind so that I can return to it whenever I forget how degrading a job can sometimes be. The last few weeks I saw the flip side of that equation: how work can uplift the spirit and reward one’s sense of self.

Wondering Aloud

Does anyone else but me miss the wonderfulness that was the Spice Girls? One of them was in the news the other day, which jogged me memory of the long-lost quintet. I was a big Posh Spice fan! Ah, what might have been! …Watched the PBS piece on Eugene O’Neill. I couldn’t help feeling that the Ken Burns doc should have been better than it was. Of course, the bar has been set high for anything Ken Burns does. But the main problem I had with this one was twofold: it did a lot more telling than showing the first hour, and because 90 plus percent of the audience, a guess obviously, really did not know that his true masterpieces – Iceman, Journey – came at the very end of his long career; and because of that, Burns et al felt the need to establish this point first before going in-depth on the works themselves. In his other films, because of an assumed familiarity with at least the rudiments of the narrative (Civil War, Baseball, etc) Burns had the luxury to meander his way thru a subject, which made the journey feel all the more relaxed & definitive. That said, the roots behind some of the most emotionally harrowing and wrenching scenes in the history of theater are established in ways that are unexpected and unforgettable … You should hunt down the version of Iceman Cometh from around 1960 that was produced for TV starring Jason Robards as Hickey and a very young Robert Redford. That was when television had not yet become so cynical that it had altogether given up on appealing to people’s better natures. Channel 25 was running it about a year ago … Finally got around to Monster’s Ball last week when I took it out of the library. It is an incredibly human film, where the absolute sympathy for the plight of every character drips through every frame in a not un-O’Neill-ian way. it reminded me of Requiem for a Dream in that way -- a film which also leaves you emotionally drained by the level of hopeless despair to which its characters sink. As good as Billie Bob and Haile are, and the poor little fat black kid who, well, plays that poor little fat black kid, how feeble is Peter Boyle's attempt at a southern accent? Yikes. Something like that can sometimes ruin a movie for you … Just finished one book, started another. The one I finished was The Last Voyage of Columbus, about his 4th & final little jaunt across the sea. Let's say this one went even worse than the other three. It's amazing to consider that Columbus' exploits in the new world were exclipsed by other explorers even in his lifetime. Also impressive was just how fearless and driven Columbus and the explorers who followed him are, the astronauts of their time and then some. Of course the Spaniards and other Europeans exploited the natives they encountered and were guilty of crimes against humanity, but what I took away from the book was that a day honoring Columbus is about right, even if he didn't know exactly where he was a good deal of the time ... Started a book called Great Riots of New York, featuring eyewitness accounts of massive 19th century civil disturbances and popular revolts like the draft riots of 1863 and the so-called negro riots of 1741. The book was written in 1873 and is wholly sympathetic to the law enforcement and police personnel who put down the riots, which is put in context by a great introduction by Pete Hamill and an even greater afterword by two scholars that I read before starting the actual book by JT Headley. I wan-na be ... an-ar-chy! ... Can't remember the last piece of fiction I was able to finish. That's why I've been reading history and biography; if you don't finish the whole book at least you've still learned something. Not so with a novel. I started a 600 page book recently and got halfway thru before it was due back to the library. It was The Cold Six Thousand by James Ellroy and get this, it was about, at least tangentially, the JFK assassination, the Bay of Pigs, etc. I mean, it was right up my alley and featured characters based on real FBI guys, mobsters, CIA guys, J Edgar is in there, Jack Ruby. But as I said only got halfway thru. I guess it's still there in the library if I need it, but as I said, I'm sticking with nonfiction for a while. Thought you'd like to know.

Regarding The Further Misadventures Of Our Unlucky Narrator As He Unsteadily Traipses Through The Unforgiving Vagaries Of The Employment Market

TODAY I WAS INFORMED that I didn’t get three jobs. That’s right, I was informed by three separate organizations that they “were going in another direction” so “good luck in your job search” & “thanks for” blah blah blah…Try not taking that news personally. If you do you’re a better man or woman than me, your hero. I mean, I know people are getting jobs & being hired. Is it possible I’m not as alluring, attractive and dynamic a job candidate as I’ve been led to believe? C'mon, let's be serious. So has the world just gone absolutely stark raving loco? That’s probably a closer approximation of the truth. But I digress.

Let’s start at the beginning, or rather the end of last week. Get a call from the agency woman, who leaves a message on my cell telling me she might have a big break for me in the medical field, so I call back & she gives me the details: it’s a 4-day gig, you call doctors offices & pretend to make appointments, rating the people you speak to on phone manner, response time, professionalism, etc. You’ll be starting with 4 other new people, it’s so & so an hour, etc. So I say, great, & I hang up thinking, indeed, that is a good break, because I really had made up my worried mind not to go back to the dreaded market research job that very afternoon. So you’re saying, what’s so bad about that? O you, my naïve reader; do you really think anything is to stay positive for long? Have you not been following along?

I hear the distinct melodic tones of my cell ring and note that it’s the agency woman calling back. Sorry, Barry, she says, my mistake: it’s not 4 days of work for you, it’s one day each for the 4 of you. Iit’s one day, Wednesday, sorry about that. Oh well, I think, we’ll carry on, move past it, stay positive; at least it’s a paycheck down the road. But by now it’s too late to go to my lousy night job. Fuck it anyway…

Get the Daily News on Sunday, which doesn’t have a bad help wanted section when you compare it to the Times section, which is thin & paltry & contains mostly jobs that, shall we say, are not a good fit for me. I pick a telemarketing gig that promises 15 an hour plus bonuses, part time. I call on Monday & leave a message & the guy calls back & leaves a message & then I call back again just before 5 & this time leave my cell number & a short time later I get a call & he wants me to come in Tuesday for an interview. So at 2 I go in & meet Doug & fill out an application then meet with Doug. It’s the usual interview bullshit & he seems like a nice enuf guy, it’s just him & some older guy in the office & he’s only looking to hire one person to make appointments for him to meet clients & if he gets the business you get a bonus. Then he tells me to sit behind his desk & he wants me to get on the phone & he’ll pretend to be a client & he goes out & closes the door & I’m on the phone not knowing what the hell I’m supposed to say or do or what this Doug guy expects me to say not knowing fuck about his business. But I guess it’s a test & I haltingly throw out some bullshit, totally winging it & then the Doug guy comes back & says I did okay, he’ll call me in for a second interview if I make it that far, he’s got interviews all day today & tomorrow & so I leave not thinking I made a great impression but not totally blowing it either.

The interview was just blocks away from where I used to work down on Wall Street & it brings back all sorts of memories from those days. I go down to the corner of John & William Street & sure enuf there’s my Uncle George’s hot dog cart & so I get a free dog with saurkraut & wolf that bad-boy down, then I run into someone from the Transcript who asks me what happened -- I didn’t see you for a few weeks & I asked someone where’s Barry, I thought you were sick or something & then I found out what happened, that sucks. Yeah it sucks, I say, & then I move on, walking the long way home to the Whitehall Street station.

The next day Wednesday I get up extra early to go to my 1-day temp gig at Cornell Medical Center on York Avenue & 69th Street. I get off at my old stop, Hunter College, which brings back a flood of memories from the six or so years I spent there. Can’t believe how many people get off at my stop & it takes me what seems like 10 minutes to get out of the friggin’ station. But I still have plenty of time to find a place to get my requisite Earl Grey & Croissant before I start at 9.

I get there & find the office & I’m still 15 minutes early, so I sit there and then about 10 after 9 the guy starts explaining what the hell I’m supposed to do. I’m to pretend that me or my wife or son or daughter or mother or father needs an appointment because they have swollen glands, cancer, sagging breasts, tonsillitis, a bad back, migraine, whatever applies, using a phony name, while I fill in the right boxes on the form in front of me. I get a panic attack, which have been coming all too frequently whenever I’m confronted with a new job situation, & think of fleeing the premises. Seriously. But then I figure how bad could I fuck up to the point where I wouldn’t be paid & I get started with a fake call to real urologists office about how I want to come in & get my prostate checked because there’s a history in my family of such & such and then I start getting into it & I make about 20 calls before I take a break & get out of the office & take a mental break as Ross suggested, & who am I to question Ross.

I get thru the day taking two more short breaks & I start talking to one of the girls in the office who by the way was attractive & she’s from Chicago & so I bring up my Chicago trip from March 2001 which I do whenever appropriate & she asks me if I want to check my email while I wait for Ross to get back & I say sure & we talk some more while she turns on the Internet & I’m real close to asking her out when somehow Greek food & Astoria comes up & she says she always wanted to try good Greek food but I stop short thinking it might be unprofessional, realizing that my life is littered with such missed opportunities & blown chances.

Thursday I was sitting around not knowing if I was gonna go to my nite job when I decided to at least head into the City & then I decided as long as I was going near the Village, why not try to sell a few of my albums. I knew a place where I had sold back some DVDs & gotten a decent if not totally fair price for them & so I selected about 20 or 25 LPs that weren’t my absolute favorites but that still might fetch something, and the guy gave me 36 bucks. I should have pushed him for 40 but I wasn’t in the mood. I decided then not to go to work, so to at least cover my ass I call the guy who hired me there, Anthony, & tell him I am still having a family emergency & could I come back next week and start anew & to my surprise he seems genuinely concerned & tells me not to worry about it. I start the long walk uptown to 59th & Second to catch the 101 bus home over the Bridge & down Steinway, that way I could save 2 bucks on my metrocard as you get 2 hours to make the transfer & not get charged another fare. Didn’t know that, didya?

Then my cell rang but I didn’t recognize the number. I had a good feeling about it even before I knew who it was. It turned out to be Tim from the agency who has actually been helpful & he had heard from Fred Freundlick, who wanted me to come back in for a second interview & meet his wife & it looks good & again he mentioned that he needs someone to start right away & can I make a 3:00 interview tomorrow Friday & I said of course I’m there & that really buoyed my mood as you can imagine & even though I had to wait a half-hour for the bus & then the rush hour ride was a traffic nightmare, I was looking forward to the interview big-time.
It was just after 6 & I thought I could still get a badly needed haircut if my hair gal was still open & sure enuf I made it & got a good-looking ‘do, feeling even mo’ better. I would wear the dark suit this time instead of the blue pinstripe, with a crisp new white shirt I bought last week for catering & I guess the red power tie & the black shoes because last time I wore the maroon Bostonians & who knows the guy seemed eccentric enuf to remember & perhaps hold it against me. Stranger things have happened & the longer you live the more you realize that such Seinfeld moments in the workplace are far more the rule than the exception.

While I was laying in bed Friday morning contemplating & collecting myself the phone rang & I hear the answering machine in the other room & it’s Tim saying Fred can’t make it, it’s tax season & he’s busy with a client, he’s sorry but it’s not coming from the agency end. Bummer. I get up, play the message back; it’s Tim saying the same thing & it’s a bill collector saying Mr. Ward this is Tyrone & you’ve got 24 hours to call us back before it’s too late & we can’t help you anymore & I’m giving the finger to the phone & saying fuck you Tyrone you can suck my dick.

I turn on my IntraLink computer & go online & check my email. There’s a message from Penthouse, a message from Doug & a message from Tim. I know it’s bad news because people call with good news & email the unpleasant stuff they don’t wanna tell you live. I know the drill. I open Tim’s message & it’s basically a repeat of the phone message. Then I open the Penthouse message: Barry: I just wanted to let you know that we have filled the copy editing position.I appreciate your interest in working at Penthouse, and thank you for taking our copy test.Good luck in the future, Barbara

The message from Doug is entitled Interview Feedback.
Barry,
Thank you for taking the time to interview with us this week.
We received over 100 phone calls as a result of the ad we put in the paper on Sunday and interviewed fifteen of those people.
Based on our criteria, we have chosen another applicant for the position.
We would like to wish you success in your job search.
Sincerely,
Doug

So it was basically your average 0-3 day. Even the greatest hitters of all time strike out three times in a game sometimes.

The Ones Who Must Rescue The Country From Themselves

***Boo-Yah! Garrison Keillor’s piece in the Chicago Tribune - Day of Reckoning for the Current Occupant - Go to Original was as succinct and cutting a denunciation of the Bush Death Cult as I’ve seen in a while. Calling him the Chief Occupant, he states the case in a devastating way: Bush "has been cruelly exposed over and over"for his stunning incompetence and lack of leadership. But Keillor saves the biggest slice of blame for those behind the scenes who chose this bumbling small-minded smirking little dictator in the first place, despite his singular and obvious lack of qualification for the office. He ends with this stinging dismissal: “Let's send this man back to Texas and see what sort of work he is capable of and let him start making a contribution to the world.”

***I have been thinking of a way to work my dislike of Bono into the framework of this blog for some time. What better day than St. Patty's? I remember buying then-unknown U2's first single when it came out in 1980, that tremendously haunting portent of things to come, I Will Follow, bw Boy/Girl. Even in those halcion days, they stood out among the tidal wave of good new New Wave bands that seemingly came out of nowhere just about every week, and the first album confirmed their original vision. I'm not arguing they haven't made some tremendous music over the years. But at some point U2 stopped being a rock band and became Show Business Entertainers and Bono morphed into an insufferable blowhard in wraparound shades pontificating on world issues. When I saw that photo of him with Bush (Bono meets Bozo), I had to wonder not only who had the bigger messianic complex, but just who was giving the greater amount of legitimacy to the other.

***These thoughts were stirred when Jessica Simpson thought better of politicizing her charity and canceled her meeting with Resident Bush, something which never occurred to the little Irish Blowhard. Can you imagine Joe Strummer meeting with Maggie Thatcher or Ronald Reagan to discuss world hunger or El Salvador? At least Springsteen and other like-minded musicians used their energy and talent in a concerted attempt to keep the Bush Crime Family from pushing us four years closer to Corporate Fascism.

Digital Miracles, Long-Ass Parties, Malcolm X & My Friend Billy J's New Band

Call it a miracle. Call it what you will. But my mp-3 player has resurrected itself. For like the month or so it was dormant, I would play with it for 5 or 10 minutes every day trying to get it going. Then Monday it came on, all the music saved. Turns out it was the play button, so I can switch it on but can’t turn it off without loosening the battery. And it still takes like 100 tries sometimes before the button engages and the sweet sight of a blue screen. But that’s okay. The motherfucker works and I feel not only reconnected, but I’m calling it a good omen. Got a problem with that? Hey, I’m trying to tap into my inner optimist and I can't afford a life coach.

Two catering gigs this week, first one worked 6 hours, last night 8 and a half. That’s a long-ass party, and I worked my ass off. Well, not all of it. After all, I'm sitting as I write this. But I walked out with a check for the two nights of close to 300 large, plus a 15 buck tip. That was my fifth gig in the last month or so, and guess what? Last night was the first night I can say I felt part of the crew. So I paid off the rent in full, paid off the cell phone bill. Now we start working on the landline, con ed, next month’s rent, haircut…little things like that. I feel a yard sale coming. Soon.

I knew there was always gonna be a price for being a true existentialist, never planning ahead, living in the moment, ignoring potential consequences for my behavior, remaining willfully impractical into middle age, etc. Now, to quote the immortal Malcolm X, the mo’fuckin’ chickens be comin’ home intendin’ to roost. Now what roost means, this city boy can’t precisely say. But it’s probably a bad thing. And when you consider that Malcolm X, who once lived in a part of Queens not all that far from where I sit writing this, was referring to the JFK assassination when he uttered that phrase, well, that’s profound. He was closer to the mark than all the conspiracy scoffers, who in their way are much more unstable than We Who Know More Than One Shooter Was Involved. Read a fucking book on the subject before you shoot down my every point. The people who that applies to will know who I’m talking about. Nuff said.

My friend Billy J's band Rezidu is playing in Brooklyn, April 8. It's the best band he's been in, and he's been in many and I've seen them all play live at least once. The CD they put out was very listenable. And that's not damning them with faint praise. Or even feint praise. Now, his last band, Blake, was a much punkier band & had a very, very hot blonde chick as their lead singer, and thus their little 4-song EP is more to my taste. But this band live is a much stronger unit, lack of eye candy notwithstanding. The gig is at someplace called The Hook in Red Hook. It's a Saturday night.

Take This Job

I walked. I had just received my first check for my first week and it was obscenely small. By my calculations they had shorted me about 3 hours, and I was pissed. I talked to the payroll guy and he said I should keep track of my hours and if I was short he’d put it on my next check. Well, I thought that’s what he was supposed to do.
I was sitting in my cubicle and it was 5 minutes before the shift was supposed to start. They had us doing like a 30-minute survey on personal income and we were supposed to do 1.5 an hour. I couldn’t face another 6 hours of this shit and so I put my coat on and walked. I don’t know if I quit. I don’t know if I’m ever going back.
The place is a sorry collection of misfits & weirdos and I just don’t wanna become one of them. So I walked. Was it a smart thing to do? Time will tell.
I have a catering gig tomorrow. My rent is paid for next month. I’ll find something or something will find me.

The Most Perfect Human Ever

Leave it to Billy Bob Thornton to nail it. It seems Thornton's favorite actor of all time is Don Knotts, the 6-time Emmy winner for his portrayal of Barney Fife on "The Andy Griffith Show" who passed away last week. "Don Knotts gave us the best character, the most clearly drawn, most perfect American, most perfect human ever," he says. Damn! But ya know, is that really so far off the mark? Was there a more authentic geek on television in the 1960s than the bug-eyed, rail-thin, twitchy, blustering Barney Fife? Then find me one.

Deputy Fife was always the last to know he was a fool, but that was how he earned our sympathy and empathy. Knotts also was the voice of the dolphin in a series of goofy animated movies, Mr. Limpet I think it was, and also regained a measure of fame as the sex-obsessed landlord in late period "Three's Company," but the perfect melding of actor and character was Barney Fife. He brought a lot of joy to a lot of people. Not a bad legacy.

See also:

Bruno Kirby
Steve Irwin
CBGBs
Gerald Ford, James Brown
Belson, O'Neil & Fender
Saddam Hussein
Dad
Larry Melman
Sean Taylor
Anthony Tortora
George Carlin
Bo Diddley
Yankee Stadium
Bush Presidency
Lux Interior
300,000 Egyptian Pigs
Jay Bennett
Carradine, Butera & Taylor
Farrah, Jacko
Lead Seed

I Know Things Are Gonna Change, But I Can't Say Bad Or Good

That's a line from Neil Young's "Look Out For My Love" and it's been running thru my head a lot the past few days. It's funny, I kind of started this blog so that I could pontificate on things political, musical... but it's hard to find the peace of mind needed to, well, look outside myself. They say the only thing worse than a bad job is no job at all. I guess I should consider myself fortunate, because this Central Research gig really sucks. You're calling people at home and asking them to respond to a bunch of questions and then typing in the answers, some multiple choice, some you have to type in their putrid responses. Of course, there are no headsets, so you scrunch the phone between your neck and shoulder while all around you hums the background noise of your fellow workers doing the same thing. There's no place to even hang your coat so you hang it off the chair and people are constantly bumping your chair going past. You get one 5-minute break an hour. The bathrooms are locked and you have to sign in for the fucking key! How petty! You take solace in the fact that your next job can't be as bad. You feel like your life is in a downward spiral because you now realize how entwined your outlook and your employment situation is. You realize people are probably tired by now of you complaining about your plight. You're pissed off at some of your friends who not only aren't helping but sometimes say the most spiteful, hurtful stuff, maybe without realizing it, I don't know. One "friend" left a message the other week wondering if you were on Skid Row yet! That's fucking helpful! But what goes around comes around. And I'm not supposed to be bitter, of course. You realize now that your life mirrors that of Gordon Comstock from Orwell's "Keep The Aspidistra Flying" whereby you have to count each penny while trying to work your way out. I guess that's what they call irony in action. Well, that's enough for now. I'm depressing myself, and I have to go to work and do some more meaningless bullshit surveys. Oh boy!

Cracking Up

So... I am currently working a telemarketing sort of market research gig. The office is on Irving Plaza, and I am one of like 100 people perched in cubicles conducting surveys. Last night was my first night and it went okay, I got the most completed surveys of all the new people. Yippee! The pay is low, working nights 5 to 11. At least it keeps my days open ... Had an interview for copy editor last week at Penthouse magazine, thought it went well, took home a copy editing test and returned it last Friday, haven't heard back from them yet, keeping my fingers crossed ... For about a week and a half I had a job doing the shipping & handling for my "friend's" business. She sells novelty bookmarks & cufflinks & cards. I was basically in a freezing garage making boxes, putting stuff in them, taping them shut & slapping labels on them. I was working by myself & the time passed glacially. Then she said it wasn't working out & let me go. This after I did a mass mailing of a thousand catalogs where she basically left me at the post office to fend for myself. The catalogs were SUPPOSED to have already been sorted by four different classifications based on zip codes, then broken down into packs of 15, labeled, rubber banded & then bagged and labeled again! She knew all this but didn't give a shit! The post office guys were freaking out. I had to take half the catalogs home & sort them out. She was like, well, I'm running a business here & I can't be expected to take the time out & explain stuff to you! You know, fuck her & her trinket business, that's just the way I feel ... I've been doing some catering work with a real friend, Tony, who uses me whenever he can. Last party was 4 hours & I went home with 100 bucks. I need more work like that ... The agencies have been worse than useless, either getting my hopes up with false promises or ignoring me totally. Fuck G.S. at L.P. in particular. Gets me one interview in six months. & then I get this email from another useless "recruiter" or whatever they call themselves. This is what is known as total insanity: "Dear Bob, Barry, Terry-Ann, Rowena, Jimmy, Lenette, Bruce, Cristina, and Heather, Not much notice, but I want to invite you to the Millionaire Mind Intensive intro (I attended last Dec) this Weds eve. It's free at the Javits Center. The website is www.peakpotentials.com It's based on a book called The Millionaire Mind: Secret Psychology of Wealth by T. Harv Eker. It is presently on the NYT bestseller list. I was introduced by a particpant in the Self _Expression and Leadership Program at Landmark Education last October. After this intro I was so inspired, I attended their 3-day seminar in Seacucus, NJ. I applied some of their teachings, like a money magnet song I would sing around the office. It attracted a biotech firm I had been working with, but in a very limited capacity, and it developed in flying colors. There is a lot of music, dancing and games to show how many of us have negative beliefs about becoming rich. The exercises peel away the many layers of insecurity we have about money. For me it was a weekend of joy and inspiration because fundamental to Harv Eker's philosophy is to donate and share with others. Enuf said. Hope you can come. Sending my best, Birdie" ... Ya know, just get me a fucking job, get me an interview, work with me here... I've applied to jobs online that I thought were perfect for me in terms of my experience, etc., only to hear nothing back. I am hanging in there, because all I need is one good job. I am operating under the premise that someday I will look back at all this &, if not laugh out loud, then at least chuckle knowingly ... One thing I am not laughing about: the day the music died. My freaking MP3 player went dead 2 weeks ago! All my songs lost. Fucking piece of crap! I mean, check out my playlist. You tell me if this is not a tragedy. If I ever buy another one, it will not be an iRiver player, my friends.