Thanks MTA!

Your subway fare at work:


Thanks for all the help. God, I hope this corrupt and poorly run company gets burnt to the ground. I'm buying a bike.

It's hot

Real hot (click to enlarge):

Laborious

Part of the fun of unemployment is trudging through the painful and wonderfully inefficient bureaucracy behind it all. For instance, telephone directories for most major companies can be convoluted, but government help lines take automation to an almost cartoonish extreme. After about fifteen minutes of the usual choose-your-own-demise style menu system, the New York Department of Labor hotline prompted me, at long last, to press 3 if I would like to ask a question. I was convinced that the next command heard would be:

"If you have an easy question, press "1." If you have a hard question, press "2." If you would like to ask your question in a high-pitched voice, press 3.""

And so on.

Finally getting through to an operator didn't help anything. I was immediately placed on hold for another ten minutes while being told by the robot voice that there was a "high volume" of other out of work suckers waiting to be gravely disappointed by their state government. So, when I did get through to a questionably live person, she suggested I write a letter.

ME: A what?

HER: A letter.

ME: On paper?

You see, this is why people jump at the chance to cheat the government out of ANYTHING because if you do play by the rules, which in this case I was trying to do, you go through so much more of a hassle than if you simply break the law. It is actually easier and less time consuming to go to jail than to spend weeks, months, and years attempting to file the appropriate paperwork for any given task in this country. Seriously. WRITE A LETTER? WHO WRITES A FUCKING LETTER EVER ANYMORE? I'll tell you who: Grandmothers and people trapped on an ISLAND.

Bullshit.

All of the above

My staggering depression last week erased from my memory a little blurb on steroid abuse I saw on either ESPN or MLB.com. It was an interactive poll which asked the fans "who is responsible for the steroid scandal in baseball?" The options were something like (I hate that I didn't write this on the day):

A. The players who took the steroids.
B. MLB management
C. The players who knew about the steroid abuse but didn't say anything


And some fourth option I can't remember, but I can tell you what the fourth option WASN'T. It wasn't "the fans." Now, I know neither MLB nor ESPN would attack sports fans on their sites, so the absence of this option isn't surprising. However, the fans are the number one reason steroid abuse is so rampant in Major League Baseball, not to mention professional wrestling, other major sports, and the film industry (the FILM INDUSTRY??? Yeah, stupid, the film industry). Regular folk want to see the big plays, the monster homeruns, the impossible feats. The subtle intricacies of ALL popular entertainment are victims of the crowd's thirst for extraordinary experiences. No one wants to see a well placed sacrifice bunt anymore. They want to see the long ball.

I read an article somewhere about up-and-coming ballplayers in the Dominican Republic, and each of the guys interviewed confirmed that the popular consensus on making it in the big leagues is that one MUST hit homeruns. MUST. Because you will not be asked to join the majors otherwise. Sure, that's what team owners and GMs are looking for, but they're in search of power because that's what the fans want. That's the marketable commodity.

Fans are impossibly jaded and have always harbored an oppressive hero worship. The pressure on the player is this: do the impossible or go home. That effect on the players isn't just about steroids, either. Baseball professionals are ten times more muscular than they used to be even 15 years ago. And that's not all substance abuse, it's strenuous exercise routines and fitness regimens. So, in an environment when every guy in the clubhouse is the size of a barn, why wouldn't you look for alternate means to get that edge?

It may have been lost along the way, but the fans asked for this shit. The same beery dildo who calls in to sports talk shows complaining about "cheaters" like A-Rod is the same obnoxious shithead who jiggles delightedly at each homer Jeter hits. It's more "natural," he figures. Is it?

Dark days indeed

I'm pretty sure the initial panic I felt coursing through my veins after being laid off has been absorbed and diluted by my body and has resolved itself into a constant dread. It's no longer a stab, it's an ache. When this all went down almost two months ago, I was overwhelmed with the urge to fix it, to reenter the workforce come Hell or high water. The meager responses from employers have trickled down to absolutely nothing and an eerie dark silence has oozed in to my days. It all seems impossibly futile.

While talking to my beloved Mandrake, I likened it to tossing copy after copy of my resume down a well. As each sheet is swallowed by the blackness, I'm puzzled by my insistence on sending them down the well in the first place. I've spent seven years working in a place that has offered me no marketable talents. I have more than a half dozen years experience in idling. In busywork.

And one would think that the length of my stay at my now defunct position would stand as a testament to some sort of industriousness, of loyalty, but that's not how it works in New York. You're considered a fool if you stay at any one place for more than two years. The focus of the workforce here is always upward. Of course, that's assuming you're actually in the profession of your choice. Then one's focus is on the clock and the long hours remaining until happy hour.

What I'm saying is that I've painted myself into a corner. After college, I had to work at a pointless, mindless job in order to pay the bills so that I could act. But working left no time for acting, and I feel as if that ship has sailed (hell, I'm not sure if I was ever even near the dock). It's funny that the now curiously absent actors' "manager" from a few months ago and the corporate headhunter told me essentially the same thing: I'm too old and I have nothing to offer. I can't act, apparently, because I wasn't around in my twenties to build the relationships I needed to succeed because I was too busy working at a job which endowed me with absolutely no hope for a future in any other field. It's horribly perfect.

But, this is all narcissistic tripe. I'm just crying the blues into the void. I suppose I'm just glum because it was a little overcast this morning. It looks to be clearing up though.

You gotta have heroes

Continuing the screen-cap goodness, I ran across this on WWE.com:



This speaks for itself I feel.

Subtle

Someone want to check that copy before it goes out? Cool.



Unless this ad is supposed to tug on all of our racist heartstrings...

No no no...not Toby KEITH

I just finished, at long last, Toby Young's memoir entitled "How to Lose Friends and Alienate People," and I have to admit I enjoyed it. The book is larded with seemingly impossible tales of ignorance and audacity, many at the expense of celebrities, which makes me grateful and happy. As a bonus, somewhere between the obligatory personal accounts there lies a really wonderful and accurate criticism of America, specifically New York and it's obsession with status, fame, and wealth.

Kind of makes me want to move to London.

New things, new problems

The problem with the sheer quantity and quality of various technologies we all enjoy is that the people who make and install each item, whatever it is, can handle only their product and their product alone. Strangely enough, this rash of specialization spreads even within the same company.

For instance, Time Warner, apparently, doesn't install their own wiring. It's contracted out to cheapish nincompoops who end up spending more time slapping each other in the ass with the cables than worrying where any of said cables actually go. Because, who cares, right? It's not MY apartment building. Months later, when people sign up for cable service, befuddled installation specialists stare at the jack, throw up their hands, and say "looks like you're fucked."

Indeed. Indeed I am fucked. So, what's the next step? Well, the befuddled installer makes a call to his foreman, who he doesn't know, by the way ("Clarice, who is my foreman? Can you patch me through to him?"). All the while you wait for the foreman to call back, the installer puts on a jaded, frustrated tone as he complains about the foreman.

Time Warner Guy: Make sure you tell him that it came on for a minute and then went out.

Me: It didn't do that, though.

TWG: Yeah, but you have to tell him lies or he'll try to reschedule.

M: Uh...ok?

TWG: I mean, as far as I'm concerned, it went on (WINK WINK).

Then, you're regaled with stories about how all foremen suck and THIS GUY is the cog that REALLY makes this shit spin. He leaves with an air of "good luck," and you're left wondering if you'll ever see television again.

By now, the foreman, in your head, has reached mythical proportions. You begin to wonder "is he a criminal?" and "if he's as useless as this man said, will my apartment be on fire by the end of this day?"

Of course, the foreman strode in and fixed the problem in two minutes. TWO MINUTES. The problem? The original guy hooked up the wrong cable. YUP. After you personally watched the guy check, double-check, and TRIPLE-check the wire, it turns out, he wasn't even looking at the right one to begin with.

Tomorrow, my thoughts on my new gas and electric accounts, which according to their respective companies, do not exist in this realm.

Your daily asskicking

You know what Jack Burton always says...

Stamp out hunger

I'm not sure if any of you fellow citizens of the United States have tried finding the price of one standard U.S. postage stamp, but it seems that this simple question can't be answered online. You'd think that on USPS.com, there'd be a big box surrounding strong, red type reading "your current standard U.S. postage is: blumpty blump cents." Sadly, their "Pricing Calculator" gives you the option of sorting out every non-standard option that isn't the simple base price. It's a perfect existential puzzle. It's sort of like going to the car dealer and hearing:

SALESMAN: Airbags cost $80 each to install.

YOU: Great. How much is the car/

SALESMAN: Also, automatic steering will be an additional $200.

YOU: Fine. How much is the car?

SALESMAN: $15 a month will get you satellite radio.

YOU: How. Much. Is. The. Car?

SALESMAN: Let's talk about seat warmers.

YOU: Let's talk about your impending funeral.

Just mad, I tells ya.

Forgive me for curbing my enthusiasm

I understand that economy stinks on ice right now, but do employers really have to take THAT big an advantage of it? Every job posting is like:

Looking for hard-working, dedicated individuals who are detail-oriented, friendly, self-starters, and can think on their feet. This position may include heavy lifting and other rigorous manual labor, so all interested applicants should be willing to dead-lift 250 lbs of hot steel every ten minutes. Also, this is a professional environment, so it is preferred that all applicants, both male and female, dress in a full tuxedo replete with top hat and monocle. This position answers to the President, Vice President, Assistant Vice President, Assistant to the Deputy, the Deputy to the Bursar, John J. Google, Cap'n Crunch, Mayor McCheese, Doctor Strange, Vlad the Impaler, and L'il Timmy. Compensation: $10 an hour

Alternate Headline Anyone?

Ricardo Montalban, early Latino leading man, dies

or, my version:

Ricardo Montalban, early Latino leading man, now late Latino leading man

Our house...

Mandrake and I are moving to Brooklyn! We found a really awesome apartment at a very reasonable price (of course, Mango put the screws to them to lower it. Seriously, she was like a shark. A SHARK!!!) and we can't wait to move in. In honor of the occasion, I give you a song by Madness about an English family living in a cramped house somewhere (not sure how's it's applicable, but it seems this song pops up whenever folks close a real estate deal):

But it's gonna take money

This song reminds me of almost every morning I got up to go to school in sixth grade. I'm not sure about the rest of the country, but on WSBG in Stroudsburg, it was insanely popular and must have been played at the exact same time every day because my alarm clock almost invariably switched on in the middle of the tune. Like fucking Groundhog Day. In fact, I heard the song so much I never bothered to learn who the artist was. Turns out it's George Harrison. Weird.

Juggling chainsaws

I don't recommend looking for an apartment and a job at the same time. Especially when using Monster.com for the latter. It's like a reverse search engine. It gives me perfect listings of jobs I'm either not qualified for or don't want. And it doesn't seem to have a middle ground between titles. You're either vying for "Chief Grand Marshall of Internal and External Operations for all of Eastern Pennsyltucky" or "car washer...no experience necessary." I don't like it too much.

Also, what is it with America's fascination with cliches and "buzzwords?" Are folks so bereft of imagination that as soon as some dildo concocts a cute phrase or term, everybody's using it? Right now, it's "bailout." Everybody's getting bailed out, or wants a bailout, or is asking for a bailout. "Journalists" are applying it to incongruous stories and I'm sure somewhere there's a terrible poet talking about "emotional bailout." Put these words down. They're not for you. They are, as Carlin used to say, lazy language. Like "downsizing." For awhile there, everyone and everything was being downsized (in fact, spellcheck doesn't even highlight that word). I don't mind the words themselves. What I dislike is how they exemplify the rabidly and rapidly virulent nature of pop culture. When something gets popular, it spreads like wildfire (he wrote, using a cliche) and everyone uses and misuses the phrase or word until it becomes a totally benign collection of letters. These words are the Hollywood stars of language. They wait for fame, they are wildly popular for a year or two, and then they end up burnt-out hulks at the bottom of a river somewhere. Can you imagine saying "Where's the beef" to someone today? They'd slap you in your stupid face. Because that phrase is done. It's over.

And speaking of virulent, doesn't it anger anyone else that the strongest trend in commercial advertising right now is "viral videos?" These people are actually using terminology reserved for ILLNESS as a viable marketing strategy. In essence, they want you to get infected by their campaign. When exactly did the public decide that not only would the nefarious machinations of advertising companies NOT be hidden from them, but they'd actually EMBRACE the cold, calculated indoctrination of materialism? So, now we LIKE this shit? I think it was in the book Fast Food Nation in which internal memos from the McDonalds corporation were printed illustrating their meticulously laid out plans to lure children into addiction to their product. It seems like nowadays, advertising companies are screaming from the hilltops "we're here to fuck you, folks" and we're lining up to take it.

I really really really need a job.

I'm going off the rails on a crazy train

I knew the bus ride would be eventful when I heard, as I tossed my quarters into the coin bucket, the turbaned black lady argue, to no one in particular, that "this ain't no thirty-fo'th street, y'hear? This ain't no thirty-fo'th!" Bear in mind, we were stopped just south of 79th street and any expectations of 34th would be a little on the premature side. Always game to watch lunatics, I grabbed a seat with a decent angle on the woman, who I now noticed was sporting a plastic bag tied to each ankle (either to ineffectively keep her socks from getting dirty slush on them or to stop aliens from biting her shins) and glistening, cherry-red lipstick. I can only assume the lipstick was meant to twinkle because the corners of her mouth were moist with that special kind of spittle that only real maniacs don't realize is there. Needless to say, she continued to squirm in her seat and talk to the air until she got off at 59th street (which I should point out to the reader is still nowhere near 34th Street. It doesn't even have a fucking 3 or 4 in it). As we pulled away, I realized I could still hear her voice because, sadly, she was walking along side of the bus and screaming at it as it rolled out of sight.

At the next stop, what appeared to be Rainbow Brite's grandmother got on, in that she was a seventy-something light skinned black lady wearing a giant blue hat (really. GIANT) and matching vest (with a bizarro-world red, black, and green American flag sewn into it, like, I don't know, she was a citizen of negative-space America) and a fire engine red shirt. She looked like the mayor of Nutsville as she bopped along to her iPod that I would bet good money wasn't even switched on.

Trying to not laugh out loud, I glanced over at this other woman who looked awfully familiar. While I was trying to figure out who she was, I read that the title of the book she had in her hands was "Booty Call" and figured that meant I probably didn't know her after all.

Guess the Nazi!

"Why, of course, the people don't want war. Why would some poor slob on a farm want to risk his life in a war when the best that he can get out of it is to come back to his farm in one piece. Naturally, the common people don't want war; neither in Russia nor in England nor in America, nor for that matter in Germany. That is understood. But, after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy or a fascist dictatorship or a Parliament or a Communist dictatorship...but, voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same way in any country."

-Hermann Goring


The Nazis sure were evil people. Imagine instilling fear and hatred in a people in order to control them! Hey...wait a second...

Godspeed

If this idea of being buried with your Blackberry appeals to you, I would be happy to help expedite your journey to the hereafter. With a ball-peen hammer.

Blogging Bank Shot

I saw a link to this blog on ol' Johnny Ness's virtual periodical defending journalist Malcolm Gladwell's book Outliers. In it, Yglesias cites one of the leading points of detraction:

"I’ve seen a few people express the notion that Gladwell’s conclusion — that success is determined largely by luck rather than one’s powers of awesomeness — is somehow too banal to waste one’s time with."

This conclusion has apparently caused a flap. Now, I haven't read the book yet (haven't even opened the fucking front cover), but I'm certain I agree with Gladwell. And, of course, the notion that most "great" people simply happen upon their success is by no means banal. And I'm sure it's unsettling. To successful people. You see, successful individuals like to think that their hard work and personal worth somehow managed to get them where they are today. When, in reality, they are simply lucky. Lucky to have gone to certain schools, attended certain churches, met certain helpful others, and been present when certain cosmic machinations allowed them to step into whatever position of power they now hold. Don't talk to me about drive, ambition, intelligence, and elbow grease. None of that means shit when you don't have opportunity and opportunity comes down to luck. Sure, you can increase your luck by making yourself more available, but that's the end of the road for the human potential movement. For every Bill Gates, there are a thousand folks of equal intelligence, drive, and "worth" who currently work at Radio Shack wishing they were Bill Gates.

Just think about yourself for a moment. You. The reader. Can you do your boss's job? Chances are, you can. Just as well, if not better. The only thing that separates you is chance.