Human Downers

Ran into an old "friend" from the Transcript today, N., after picking up my check from A. Took the 101 bus over the 59th Bridge, and walked from East 58th down to West 20th. Well, N. really managed to piss me off in the space of about 5 minutes. It was just his condescending tone, which I'm actually used to by now. Everyone wants to give advice, nobody wants to help, you dig? Well, this guy took it a step further, dispensing useless borderline insulting crap disguised as advice, in his know it all way. This is a guy who really got my hopes up back in, oh, January or February. He works for a big publishing company, and if he didn't promise me a job, he did say things looked good, why didn't you call me sooner, yada yada yada. Now I run into him and he's telling me I should have health coverage, I should have a better resume, I should invest in a good suit, I should go to the Lynne Palmer agency, I should take a job in the mailroom, I should go on monster.com, I should dress better -- should should should.

Okay, last off, I was picking up my check today, I wasn't going on an interview, so corduroys and a short-sleeve button-down shirt and Rockports are fucking wholly appropriate: take the shit out of your ears, asshole. Excuse me, I wasn't aware of your keen perspicacity into all matters sartorial and your insight into our changing social mores. I guess I should ignore your rather large stomach overhanging your untucked, disheveled looking blue polo shirt. Good thing I ran into you, man, otherwise I would show up to my next job interview in fucking overalls and a straw hat. I should really be writing down your every word. Next, I used to write resumes for a living, you child you. And am I so isolated that you feel the need to tell me about something like monster.com nine months into my job search.

As for the suits, yes, I wish I had a fucking thousand-dollar suit, but as it goes I have two suits from Moe Ginsburg, one of them a Jones New York, you fairy you. And no, I cannot afford Cobra or any of the other health plans for the poor and underemployed. Should I spend my every waking moment bemoaning that fact; should I seal myself up in my apartment to lessen my exposure to germs? That guy really pissed me off. Obviously. To think he's a Cowboy fan. But the totally negative kind of fan who can never enjoy the team.

(I just lost part of this fucking post, the brilliant part.)

Since losing my job I've discovered there are two kinds of people, those who try to make you feel better when you're down, and those who somehow make you feel worse. Some people are just like human tuinals, as Lou Reed so aptly put it in New Sensations.

In other news, I worked a catering gig last night, a cocktail party for about 250 people. Someone was retiring from the school. We had a staff of around 15, and it went quickly. I have 3 or 4 gigs lined up thru next week, which is good. I also found out that S.C. has been calling for my services repeatedly, but the agency has not been able to match me up. Bad timing can be a bitch.

The Pink Lemonade Blues

Let's go over the week that was, shall we. Last Monday all I knew was that night I had a cocktail party. The rest of the week was wide open, read: I had nothing scheduled. Monday night turned out to be an easy gig, about 20 elderly women sitting around a big conference table. I was dressed up as usual in my monkey suit -- white shirt, black pants, black tie and vest. At the end of the night the woman who was running the meeting walked over to me and handed me some cash, which I stuffed in my pocket without looking while saying thanks. Turned out to be 25 bucks, which always comes in handy.

Raul, who is the head chef at the school where the gig was held and who basically runs all the catering events there, asked me if I could work Thursday night and, possibly, Wednesday morning. Of course, of course, I said, just give me the details. Oh, one other thing: before I left for the Monday night gig, I got a call from Artisan asking me whether I could work that day for Select; they needed a proofreader. I said I was available Tuesday but was already on my way to another commitment. I never heard back from them, which sucks. Anyway, it turned out that Raul did need me for Wednesday, 8 in the morning, a graduation ceremony on the West Side. Basically we set up tables with appetizers & cookies & such, along with iced tea & lemonade. Each iced tea had a mint leaf in it, each glass of pink lemonade had a slice of lemon in it. That didn't stop around 20 supposedly intelligent people from asking which was which! First, have you ever seen pink iced tea? Didn't the floating lemon slice give you a hint?

Thursday night was another cocktail party. We expected around 15 people, four showed up. So I sat behind my makeshift bar for around 2 1/2 hours while the four guests chatted away. You really can't call four people sitting around a party, just as you wouldn't call two old men ambling down the street a parade. But I made 400 bucks for the three gigs, plus a 25-dollar gratuity. Not bad, not bad.

Wednesday afternoon got another call from my agency: C.B. was requesting my expertise for Friday; the wall calendar needed one last going over. It turned out to be only 5 hours of work, but at least it's another paycheck. Paid off my Con Ed bill, along with the phone. Unfortunately, just as I was catching up, it turned out I needed some medication: 20 bucks for antibiotics, 80 bucks for a cream. So there goes 100 bucks which I could have put toward the rent. It's always something, my friends.

The only thing on the horizon is a catering gig on Tuesday night. Hopefully this week will be as busy as last week; I worked 4 out of 5 days and it could have been 5 with a little luck. In fact, for this month so far, out of a possible 20 work days, I worked 11 days (counting one Saturday job), which isn't bad for a freelancer.

The Zoo Crew Review

Okay, let's get right into it. The place, the Internet Cafe, where I sit blogging while shooting glances at the ridiculously attractive Greek girl who manages the place. I called her over once before because I was having trouble with the disk in my hard drive if you will -- nudge nudge, wink wink. But seriously. I was last here a-blogging on Tuesday, and seconds before my 30 minutes were up here at the cafe, at around 12:30, I got a call from my agency saying I was needed that very afternoon at S. Communications, you know, that ad agency down on Varick, could I be there by 2:30? Fuck yeah, I said, paraphrasing slightly, because at 25 beans an hour I am so there, as this generation is all too wont to say. Not my generation, your generation. So that was a four-hour gig and they said they'd need me back there soon for some other catalogs. But so far I no hear from them. I wait with baited breath. I edited a fashion catalog and immediately found three words egregiously misspelled: medaillion, ostritch and incrusted. Earned my money right there!

Speaking of attractive girls, that place is chock full of attractive people. Even the gay guys there are attractive, and I am secure enuf in my staunch hetero role to say that. I mean, sometimes I wish I was gay, or at least bi, because you can double your choices that way and, if the stars are right, you can also double your wardrobe. Hello? Is this mic on?

I don't think I mentioned, for the benefit of the 3 or so people who read this blog, that last Friday I worked at C.B. again, but it looks like that was the end of the project. Their latest calendar 2007 stylee has been published by the time you read this, and that was what I worked on for, oh, about 7 or 8 different days. So if you find anything wrong, I have to take at least partial blame. Oh the humanity! I hope they call me back for some other project. We shall see what we shall see, as my old 11th grade English teacher Sy Syna used to say, a man who defined eccentricity.

The catering front has also been active this week. On Wednesday I reported to an elite, overexpensive upper east side private learning academy for some sort of cocktail party. When I arrived I was surprised to hear that basically I was the staff for that night. It turned out to be me and Luis, but there were only around 60 people, but that didn't stop me from asking for captain's pay, half-jokingly, but only half. The captain basically gets double what everyone else gets. so if you make 20 an hour as a regular staff member, captains get 30 or 40... There was a small bar, with wine and soft drinks, and then we passed out appetizers, blah blah. the easiest party I worked by far. but I had to be back at the same school the next morning at 8 am yesterday for some kind of brunch and then lunch. For some reason I literally could not and did not sleep more than an hour. I kept looking at the alarm -- 1am, 2am, 4am... I think I got an hour in between 4:30 & 5:30, then up at 6 and to the city by 7:30. and I busted my ass too.
It's funny, in the food business the Lingua Franca is Espanol, pure and simple. And it's amazing how much Spanish I retained from the six years I took in school, shit it's gotta be almost 30 years ago now. yesterday the six other people in the kitchen were all Hispanic, and some spoke very little English. But we were all able to communicate. Isn't that special?

Today Friday I am hoping for a last minute call from the Agency sending me back to S.Comm. It's a little after 10 now. Ya never know.

There's a big Astoria reunion being planned for sometime in November. Gat is running the whole show from his estate down in Florida. If you're reading this, my man, I miss you & I look forward to seeing you & the rest of the crew. We were literally like brothers growing up, even called ourselves the Brotherhood, me, Gat, Urb, the Admiral, Trixter, Buddy Bider, Big Mike... We were the Zoo Crew, always Zooing, throwing abuse, going egging, just for the Zoo of it, you understand. Hanging out in the busses, the trailers, the big park, the little park, meeting at Pop's candy store for pinball & egg creams, cruising down AP, breaking day, playing the box game in the hallway on cold nights, pitching quarters, playing stoopball, ace king queen, chipping in for nickel bags and smoking the whole thing in B0bby Lopez's blue Buick Fury, heading off for punk nights in the City in Trixter's black and white Skamobile or Urb's father's green monte, or mike's mother's huge blue stationwagon, doing Ludes or black beauties or mesc or mushrooms to enhance the mood. Meeting at Cheer's to hurl abuse at the Muffler Club, burning the flag on the wall in true punk fashion, living only for the now, wearing our leathers, leather weather, going out to Hurrah's or Danceteria or Heat & dancing & sweating, laughing & living.

Sometimes You Get The Croc, Sometimes The Croc Gets You

I was feeling really down the last few days, as evidenced by my last depressing post. But now I'm a little more optimistic. I have four catering gigs on the horizon in May, and hopefully some proofreading jobs will also show up along the way. Every month is a struggle, every week a fight, every man a king... every dog has his day. Bow wow wow! Things could be worse ... somehow. I could have been eaten by a crocodile, or an alligator like the two unfortunate souls this week. Once in Florida a friend and I sat by a lake and watched for hours and hours as crocodiles staked out a group of flamingoes, our very own nature special. But nothing happened. Maybe the crocs weren't hungry that day.
I would like to ride out the next few months doing whatever catering and proofing gigs come my way, then get a full time job sometime during the summer. There is something to be said for having the summer off: going to the beach, bike riding, etc. The weather around here has been so fucking depressing, no sun for days on end, it can't help but affect your mood.
Well, I sit here again at the local Internet Cafe a-bloggin' and my time is about to run out, or rather I can't afford to sit here for hours on end: time is money, money is time. And dollars make no sense. Something like that. (Boy, this entry has sucked.) I have a million ideas but then I let them pass and the inspiration is no longer there. Peace out...

Black Hole Sun

This has not been a good or productive week. I'm trying to remember that every week is going to be different, but I've worked just once since I last blogged. That's not going to cut the mustard, as they say in the food business. And the worst is that there is nothing concrete on the horizon. If I had something to look forward to I could fool myself into thinking things are not that bad. But with nothing at all penciled in, that makes it tough. I applied to a few jobs earlier this week. No Reply, as John Lennon used to sing. This is getting played out. I am losing momentum like an old steam engine at the end of its day. Why is it so hard? I basically have this month's rent put away, and then it all begins again. The bill collectors are amassing at the proverbial door. I have medical situations I can't afford to address, which are likely to worsen without attention. I need a break, and soon.
Boy, this is depressing. If anyone has anything positive to contribute here, I'm all ears and eyes. How about a pep talk telling me things aren't so bad. I await your help. Even my famed sense of black humor has forsaken me today.

Welcome To The Working Week. I Know It Don't Thrill You, I Hope It Don't Kill You...

Coming at you live from the Internet Cafe in the Ditmars Train Station in downtown Astoria, Nueva York, if you wanna know the truth of it all. My home internet connection is in limbo for now, so I blog among what passes for the people.
Whence last we had the time/motivation to write, I had been bemoaning the lack of jobs coming up, dreading a dry spell. Now I am again bemoaning the same thing, only a week later, and after a spurt of activity. To wit...

On Wednesday last, I got a call from the agency informing me that S. Communications, the fashion catalog people, needed me that very day, could I make it, etc. Hells yeah, so I showed up at the prescribed time to their office on Varick Street, went over a few high end jewelry ads & catalogs, a real piece of cake. I met with someone who claimed to be the copy chief, and i had no reason to doubt her, and she said she was glad "they" finally got a proofreader. from talking to her it seemed like she'd be inclined to use me in the future. I've been back there 3 or 4 times so far.

Friday I went back to C.B. to peruse & proof the same desk and wall calendar that I've grown so familiar with, it's the same questions & I've been there like 5 or 6 times. but i have no problem with that. They want me back again late next week to go over the wall calendar one more time as that is very very close to publication. I felt out C. re future work there after this project, very subtly because the agency would likely frown on anything more ... I don't know, pushy. anyway, she said she's very happy with my work and would consider it. I can't remember the precise tone or direction of the conversation right now. so i worked at the old college board from 9:30 in the morning till about 6:15. Then I had a catering gig that same night, so I hoofed it from 61st & Broadway, thru Central Park at 79th Street, then uptown along Fifth to 98th street, where the party for 900 was under way at the school. all the rest of the suckers, er staff, were there from 10:00 that fucking morning! To top it all off, it was a Roman themed party, so when I got there at around 7:00, I had to put on my toga or tunic or whatever the fuck it was supposed to be and proceed to mix in and see what needed to be done.

In short order I was sent to the 7th floor to bus drinks. the 7th floor was the gymnasium turned into a game room for what seemed like hundreds of screaming preppy kids running around and hitting each other with plastic swords. I really just stood there for long periods of time chilling. at one point I thought I saw someone who looked like Cynthia McFadden, the newscaster who is now hosting Nightline. I always really liked her from when she was on Court TV, very pretty with a great sexy voice. So around the third time she passed by I was sure it was her, and I found myself strolling over to her in my white roman thing-ey saying, you guessed it, Is your name Cynthia? Cynthia McFadden? She admitted it and I told her I was not only a big fan, but that I was also in the news business. her husband or whoever was there and I think they both asked where, and I lamely said Wall Street Transcript, then started blubbering about being a freelance proofreader. Turns out her kid goes to the school, so if I see her again I will slip her my resume. That is known as networking, my friends. I made a point of watching my colleague last night on Nightline. I think she's got a future in this little game we call the news business.

I earned my money that night breaking down the party, to use another catering term. Of course, if my boss reads this he may not think I earned it at all. Life is funny like that.

Saturday a wonderful and unexpected thing happened. In that day's mail I noticed what looked like a check peaking out from the window of an envelope with my name on it. And what's more it looked suspiciously like an IRS communique. Of course, I was not expecting anything this year. Au contraire! I am still paying off one of the branches of the IRS from last year or the year before, state or federal, I can't remember. Also, I didn't have taxes taken out of unemployment, something like 7 or 8,ooo fazooms over the 26 weeks. My brother, who did my taxes, told me I owed again. Anyway, to make a long story slightly less tedious, lo & behold I open up the friggin' envelope and it's a refund check for 508 dollars! Oh reader, can you imagine the blessed state of mind this surprise instilled in me. Methinks you can't, but suffice to say it was a big kick in the ass, if that could somehow be considered a good thing.

Monday it was back at the C.B. to finish proofing the desk calendar. Making sure all the questions and answers match, that the answer to yesterday's question is indeed D, or C, whatever the case may be. C. wanted me to spend time researching all the holidays, to determine when Yom Kippur begins and ends, the first day of spring, summer, etc., National Teacher Day. We needed to know whether it's April Fool's Day or April Fools' Day. Stuff like that. Tedious to some, but it's the kind of thing we proofreaders sink our teeth into. Otherwise you're in the wrong biz. KnowhatImean?

Tuesday, another catering gig. this one started at 2:30, lasted till 8:30. It was kind of like a buffet, but with kids and adults, there were around 2oo people, maybe more, at one time or another. Among my many duties was to make sure we were well stocked in Orangina, and we went thru about 10 cases of that foul-tasting yellow liquid with the distinctive ball-shaped bottle. Mainly I bussed glasses and plates and bottles after the folks were done, with the added obstacle of dozens of kids running around throwing stuff while we wait staff weaved in and out of the cute little darlings trying not to spill or drop trays full of stuff. Mission accomplished.

Right now I know I go back to C.B. next week, but with very little else concrete on the horizon. That's not a good feeling. Hopefully that will change in short order. Forthwith, as the kids used to say in medieval days. I guess I can always call my good friend Cynthia. Cynthia McFadden? How soon we forget.