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.

Back In Business

I sit here writing this entry at the local internet cafe, as my free 3-month membership to AOL expired over the weekend. I thought it was a free 6-month membership. Alas, I was proven wrong.

Got a call from A. Agency yesterday: I'm back at C.B. on Friday for a final look-see at their project. Then I have a catering gig that same night, so I will head over to east 98th for what is supposed to be a party for 900 people, with the waitstaff dressed up in togas. That's all I know about it at the moment. But it was good to hear from C.B., because I was beginning to think that I had done something wrong. Imagine!

The Internet cafe charges a buck for 15 minutes online. Yesterday I wrote the blog at home offline, saved it on a disk, then brought it to the Internet cafe and, voila, another blog entry. then I left the disk here, but I called and they saved it for me. Exciting, hah?

Well, I'm gonna make this short because I'm writing it live, so to speak. Have to check my email again and then hit craigslist and mediabistro at least. I'll report back tomorrow. I have a lot that I want to say and some of it is not totally about me. Soon come.

Cherishing The Moments

Well, in the catering business they say you gotta take the work when it’s there, and there it was, three events in 30 hours. First came a Latin Heritage luncheon at an Elite Private School on East 77^th street, then came an alumni cocktail party at another Elite Private School on East 92^nd street, followed by another early alumni lunch at, you guessed it, another Elite Private Institution Of Higher Learning. So on Friday I worked what is known as a Double in the catering biz, with no break in-between and you eat what you can on the go. And oh yeah, it was my birthday on Friday, so me and the Trixter went out for a few cocktails at a few upper east side Institutes Of Mass Imbibing, sometimes known as bars or pubs in the vernacular.

So if you can picture me scooping out bowls of corn & chicken & rice & cous-cous (don’t ask) to a line full of hungry First & Second Graders and then doling out beef pies & yellow rice & yuca something-or-others to Seventh & Eighth & Tenth & Eleventh Graders, on and on, they kept coming, you get an idea of how my birthday went. The panic attacks were severe this time, I wish I could tell you different. I am happy for the work, don’t get me wrong, but the accompanying anxiety is chronic. Chronic. The stress is unbelievable, although I have become quite adept at masking it so that you would almost mistake me for a happy-go-lucky guy. That’s just my defense mechanism at work.

Luckily the cocktail party Friday night was, to use another catering term, a relative piece of cake; we even did some setting up for the following day’s lunch, which was to be at the same school. The luncheon was a more elaborate affair, with about eight tables occupied by about 10 rich elderly dames, with a few attractive younger rich dames sprinkled in. Hey, I keed, I keed. It was a buffet, and part of what I had to do, a small part, was parceling out filet mignon with mushrooms & what are known as crispy onions in the biz along with salmon with orange-something-glaze sauce. Then when the ladies were finished eatin’ we bussed the tables, took everything to what is known as the sanit station then broke everything down, folding all the chairs up and putting them back in their sacks in groups of fours, then doing the thousand little things that are done after a party is over.

The proofreading jobs seem to have dried up again. It’s been 10 days since my last one.

Today is pouring raining again, putting a literal damper on Greek Easter. I’m heading over to my Aunt Vickie’s house in a little while, where a sacrificial lamb is literally roasting on a spit over a barbeque pit in the backyard, and where friends & family will gather over holiday food & spirits. It’s times like these of course when we most miss Mom, who’s been gone just over two years now. My Aunt is the closest thing I have left to my mom, along with my sister and the kids and my brother, so you cherish the moments that much more.

The Week That Was

Looks like every week is gonna be different. Today is Friday, last worked on Wednesday, but let’s back up to last Friday, the first of four days of work in a row, two proofreading jobs, two catering gigs. I was back at C.B. to go over their educational calendar once again, checking to make sure all the questions and answers match, the days of the week are right, all the holidays are in the right place. It’s boring but the time somehow goes quick. Saturday I had to go up to Fordham Prep in the Bronx for some kind of alumni dinner. I was dreading this job, it was pouring outside when I was set to leave, and I was having my usual panic attack. But I sucked it up. Got there by 5 and was out of there shortly before 11, took the Metro North to Grand Central, the 4 train uptown, and then waited a full half-hour for the N train to show up at 59th Street, by the time I got home it was 1 am.

The Saturday job was at St. Bernard’s School on 98th and Madison, 2:30. I didn’t know anything about this gig, but I was hoping for an easy gig this time. It was not to be. It was a fancy sit down dinner with 10 tables, so all the tables had to be rolled out and set up, all the chairs taken out of their little sacks, then all the plates & glasses & silverware & saucers & cups & napkins put out, the water glasses have to be iced and then filled with water, there’s a lot of stuff to do before the “guests” arrive. Then you’re busy busing & filling & cleaning, and then you break it all down. There’s a lot of stuff to do. After two straight days you’re exhausted. We got out of there at a little after 9, home by around 10:30, and I had to be at College Board again by 9:30 the next day, but I was glad to be working.

I was also the beneficiary of what’s called the 24-hour rule in catering. I was set to work Tuesday, but because the party wasn’t canceled more than 24 hours ahead of time, we still got paid. So when I walked out last Sunday night, I had a check in my hand for three parties, a total of 18 hours at 20 bucks per. Not bad, although there are times when I’m working when I really can’t stand it. I’m constantly making mistakes, well, maybe not constantly, but at least two or three times per party I screw something up. I’ve never dropped a dish or broken a plate or glass, but there’s a lot to learn that I don’t know. I don’t even know what I don’t know.

At C.B. I went over the same calendar again, the same questions. It’s good money, even more than catering. C. said she may have me back later in the week. However, on Wednesday morning, I got a call from the agency saying S. Communications needs someone later that day. So I jumped at the chance and worked on about five catalogs from 2 to 6 in the afternoon. They also said there may be more work for me soon. What I need to do is find at least one more agency that can get me work in proofreading or copy editing. I looked yesterday online but couldn’t find any. I need about 3 days worth of work, and then about an average of one catering gig per week. That would do it; anything else would be a bonus.

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.

Yet Another Anti-Bush Screed

The most disgusting moment in the State Of The Union address Tuesday was when Bush announced he was cutting some $40 billion out of the budget, saying the programs were not performing efficiently or some equally Orwellian phrase employed by his conscience-less speechifyers. Of course, these were cuts in Medicaid and student loans and crop subsidies and other non-essential services. After all, we have to make those tax cuts for the very wealthy permanent.
The Bush administration inherited a record surplus and systematically and methodically proceeded with their strategy to starve the beast (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Starve-the-beast), government being the beast, until you could flush what’s left down the tub. Not my words, but their own words. Grover Norquist (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grover_Norquist) is one of the bigger villains in the picture.
This Bush Crime Family is made up of over-privileged white men, with a few token exceptions, who got every break in the book, took advantage of corporate welfare at every turn, who see government as the enemy even as they benefit obscenely from its largesse. They see a helping hand as a handout, and if it doesn’t benefit them or their contributors they’re just not interested. The Republicans of course are the party who revere Jesus enough that he is part of every campaign, yet who is left to fight for the poor and the sick and the old after these budget cuts go into effect?
Our Leader also spoke of funding the search for alternative energy. Is there any doubt that the money allocated for this will eventually end up in the hands of Big Oil in the form of Department of Energy research subsidies?
One last thing. Let’s look up fascism in the dictionary. Okay, here's the definition: "A philosophy or system of government that advocates or exercises a dictatorship of the extreme right, typically through the merging of state and business leadership, together with an ideology of belligerent nationalism.”
Does that sound familiar?

Just Funny Looking In A General Kind Of Way

Steve Buscemi. Criminally underrated actor. Don’t give me that character actor bullshit. That’s condescending crap. This is a guy who makes every movie more interesting just by being in it, who usually ends up stealing the movie, as film insiders say. Just took out IN THE SOUP (1992) from the library (which incidentally cost me six bucks because I returned it two days late, thereby defeating the whole purpose of using the library as opposed to Blockbuster), and again was blown away by the sheer watchability and likability of his performance. Just off the top of my head, there’s Ghost World, Fargo, Reservoir Dogs, Trees Lounge… okay, now I’m looking him up in a film book … and Living in Oblivion – all among my favorite flicks and largely if not solely because of the acting chops and charisma of the ex-NYC fireman. That’s right, you read it right. Although let’s be honest, if you’re trapped in a burning building, is Steve Buscemi’s goofy mug the first thing you wanna see climbing your fire escape to rescue you?

Some little known Buscemi factoids: Auditioned for the part of George Costanza on Seinfeld; volunteered at his old firehouse after 9/11 and worked 12-hour shifts searching for lost firemen; graciously helped out my friend John with his short film festival several years ago.

No Dalai Lamas Were Harmed In The Making Of This Motion Picture

Some shallow observations upon finally seeing Kundun, Marty Scorcese's swingin' Dalai Lama biopic. Can you imagine the casting call for this movie, what with actors needed for the 2-year-old Lama, the 5-year-old Lama, the 12-year-old Lama and then the adult Dalai! You know, like 500 Dalai Lamas hanging around the studio waiting to be called in. With all the leftover Lamas, you had the chance for some great reality shows: Tibet's Next Top Lama, Amazing Race: Buddha Edition, Dalai Lama: The Apprentice Buddha... Of course, with all those aspiring Dalai Lamas, I'm sure Marty was tempted to remake some of his more successful pictures. For instance, "Goodlamas," where three Dalai Lama hopefuls aspire to get made; "Raging Buddha," in which the 14th Dalai Lama singlehandedly drives the Red Army out of Tibet; and of course "Cape Tibet," whereby the Buddha of Compassion gets his revenge on Mao Tse-tung. That's all, I'm done.

Malloy off Air America

Do you believe this shit? Just found out that the Mike Malloy show is off WLIB, which is the NewYork station for Air America. So now if you wanna listen it's either XM or the Internet. That sucks. They're replacing it with the Satellite Sisters, which is even lamer than it sounds. I mean, first they take Marc Maron off the morning show, which forces me to listen to Imus to the point of diminishing returns. Imus was funny when he was a drunk cokehead before he became the political Imus, the brand Imus, who gives Rick Santorum and David Brooks and Bill O'Reilly valuable airtime.
That's two strikes against Air America in my book, getting rid of Marc Maron and now, at least temporarily, no more Mike Malloy raving against Bush & Company. That's substantial fucking with stuff I grew to like. It's kind of like when Au Bon Pan discontinued their chicken pot pies and, ultimately, their spinach and cheese croissant, but obviously on a deeper, more gut-wrenching level.
You don't miss your water till your well runs dry. I think Shakespeare said that. Or maybe Hank Williams.

The Best Music Show for People Without Cable...

IN THE EARLY TO MID-1980s I used to tune into staticky UHF channel 68 for their music video show, which featured mostly novelty rap with the occasional Replacements or REM tune throw in for good measure. This was before rap showed its vicious & violent vicarious gangster side, or was just beginning to "celebrate" this side of the relatively new genre. So you had groups like 3rd Base, Young MC and Digital Underground with its Humpty Dance and the Roxanne answer records, your RUN-DMCs and Kurtis Blows and Grandmaster Flashes the exception more than the rule. Then MTV institutionalized the whole thing and did its best to ruin good music much the same way ESPN has fucked up sports for those purists who can do without all the self-referentialty and self-congratulation.
Which in a roundabout way brings us to the closest thing in spirit to that below-the-radar experience, NewYork Noise on Channel 25. I catch it like 3 or 4 times a month without really looking for it, but it's on Fridays and I think Tuesdays and Sundays also. It's progressed from showing exclusively NYC bands but now that's just kind of a guiding principle. The bands? Well, they're usually arty in a willfully playful kind of way, if that makes any sense...
Here's the playlist from a recent show. I don't know if it's the same show all 3 nights in the same week. This was from Friday the 20th:

The Magic Numbers - Forever Lost. I have this tune on my 'Pod, so I was amazed when they kicked the show off with this. It's that kind of serendipitous coincidence that happens in music that makes you feel you're on the right track somehow. I found the song on a dollar compilation I picked up a few weeks ago and know absolutely nothing about the band except this shiny, catchy song.
Ramones - Rock & Roll Radio. Ah, the NewYork connection. I never liked this song really. Too polished and radio-friendly bland. Phil Spector's to blame.
Danielson Famile - Rubbernecker. The video and the song nothing to write home about. Anyway I'm home already, so it would be a waste of a stamp.
The Shins - Pink Bullets. Haunting and elegaic song, and a very inventive video, as only a video about two talking paper-mache cows can be. But I'm not telling you anything you don't already know.
33Hz - Hot Flashes. Passable punk-funk tune. Computer generated video seems old hat by now.
Cut Copy - Hot Flashes. Two tunes in a row called Hot Flashes. That's never a good thing. I don't remember anything about the video or the song, and it's only been about an hour. I don't know if hat says something about me or the group.
Pixies - Here Comes Your Man. I don't see any New York connection, except I'm sure the band was here at least once. It's the video where their heads are freakily elongated. I don't have a problem with that.
Langhourne Slim - In the Midnight. This was a very cool video. The guy's riding in a cab at night around NYC, soaking it all in. It captured that feeling you get when your'e out in the City and it's around, well, midnight and you're kind of really glad you're out tonight and in the soup and not sitting home on the couch. Yeah.
Mum - Green Grass of Tunnel. I think they put a lot of thought into the song title. Maybe too much.

And that was it, except for the lame-ass anti-drug PSA ads. It's nice to see how creative and oroginal videos can be when it's not all about mindless bling posturing and gratuitous grinding and gun glamorizing. As opposed to forced alliteration.

Free Dailies Revisited

Just finished reading today's amNewYork and I realize I may have been unduly harsh. Today's issue was a full 38 pages, making it over twice the size of the flimsy metro. A full 3 pages of sports, and more hard news than metro, albeit mostly AP wire stories. So my verdict is am is hands-down a better read than its sister publication.

New York's Free Dailies

Part of my daily routine since being laid off is grabbing one or both of the free papers, amNewYork and metro, and going for my morning bagel and Earl Gray. If a free paper can be overpriced, then both these rags fit the bill. I realize that at 45 years old, I am several decades past their target audience, but I can still bitch, can't I?

Let's take metro first. Besides being horribly copy-edited, the paper features an array of mind-numbingly moronic features. On its op-ed page, metro features something called TODAY'S DEBATE, which is basically the old inquiring photographer gimmick, whereby they stop four people each day and ask them about a current event. Notable for their uncanny ability to corral the four dumbest, uninformed people on any given day, it never fails to amaze me how clueless these responses are. Today the question was, "What do you think about Hillary Clinton's comparison of Congress to a plantation?" Let's hear from someone called Mabel Minier, a 19-year-old Sales consultant (whatever the fuck that is) from Manhattan: "I didn't know anything about it," she responds. "I don't care, to be honest. It doesn't affect me." Well, excuuuuse me for asking. On so many levels this is disturbing. Another genius, Jackie Carroll, a 26-year-old from Brooklyn, you guessed it, another Sales consultant, says, "That sounds ignorant to me. I don't know why she said that. Congress makes the laws; that's a big thing." Yikes! I really blame the "reporter" for wasting everyone's time by jotting down their "thoughts" and sharing them with us. How about interviewing more than four people and picking out the quality ones?

But my least favorite, or more accurately the most pathetic waste of space, is the feature called PLAYING THE FIELD, written by a pitiful ass named Jason Raj McIntyre. His chosen bailiwick is pro athletes and who they're dating or fucking or whatever at any given time. This sniveling sycophant is immersed in the club world and performs the great public service of telling us who, for instance, Derek Jeter was seen with last night. I'm not making this up. Today he offered us this gem: he is rooting for the Carolina Panthers and Pittsburgh Steelers to prevail in this coming weekend's plaoyff games because, as he puts it, they represent "the cooler party animals"!
The rest of the paper includes the requisite celebrity worship and mindless designer brand name consumerism. On the cover is a picture of Eva Longoria. Why is this overexposed, talentless bimbo newsworthy today? Well, because she was seen kissing another overexposed celebrity at some L.A. club. That's what passes for news these days at metro. God help us.