Dean has no soul

On January 27th, 2010, I lost my grandmother after a 4 year battle of recurring brain tumors. Barbara Dunn spent the last nine months of her life resembling her very own father's final days. In my mom's eulogy of her own mother, she expressed the irony in her slow demise. My grandmother's parents were both deaf-mute. My great-grandfather lived his last days paralyzed after a fall down a flight of stairs. His already silenced world became physically motionless and he died locked into a body that prevented his lone source of communication, his hands, from ever moving again. My grandmother endured a similar fate.

People get old and people die. It's life and it sucks, but it happens. However, my grandmother's death took far too long and a woman who provided so much love should never have had to suffer the way she did. We all expected her death and it was welcomed with a sense of relief. Her suffering was over and we would thus be able to begin the healing process. I called my boss, Dean, that morning to inform him that I would not be coming into work that particular Wednesday. Business needed to be taken care of and family comes first. I told Dean that I would be in Thursday and would have to take off that Friday due to the funeral. I wanted to work that Thursday in order to keep my mind off things and also to give my co-workers the chance to not have to cover for me for three straight days.

Upon arriving to work, I was greeted by a disciple of Dean, Molly, who quickly sent her condolences. A steady flow of co-workers followed and I was truly touched. Dean acted as though nothing had happened. I didn't arrive to work expecting or even wanting sympathy. Everyone loses their grandparents but it's customary to express sympathy towards someone who may have just lost a loved one. He provided none of that. You see, this is because Dean has no soul. He lacks typical human emotions that most of us have. When something goes missing, an accusatory tone will eminate from his pie-hole and he will assume the worst until he realizes the missing object was with someone else or simply in one of his fat folds. He will not apologize for his actions because he is not wrong. He made what he deemed was an educated guess and thus, if the answer is incorrect, he will not assume responsibility for it. Perhaps this is the reason why he never finished college. Or succeeded in life. At 47, he is alone in this world with little family and friends. In fact, if it were not for work, I believe he'd have nothing to live for. Perhaps this is the reason why he is so dedicated to a job that he takes far too seriously.

In reality, he works very hard, consistently going above the call of duty to provide clients with services and run an office efficiently. Too bad those clients could give a shit about him or his thoughtfulness to provide fresh dates on a snack platter and he treats his underlings like shit!

Why do I speak this way about him? Why do I feel it's necessary to publicly announce my disdain for this man? The reason is simple: 1) It's cathartic for me. 2) It's amusing to think how such a pathetic man could take such thankless job and treat it as though he is a social worker.

When someone thinks that they're making a difference by getting someone a glass of Pinot Grigio over Chardonay, they have truly lost sight of what is important in this world. Of course it's important to take pride in your job. But, fuck, this isn't brain surgery. You're not making your mark in this lifetime and once your dead, no one's going to give a shit about how good your lattes were.

So, as I was saying, after I arrived to work, Dean pulled me aside into a private room to talk to me about something. I will re-create the conversation as best I can below. This is all true:

Me: What's up

Dean: I need to tell you, you're on one month's probation.

Me: What? Why?

Dean: According to Graham*, your session didn't go very well on Monday.

*Now, let me quickly pause to explain. Graham is a producer and he had a late night session that I was informed about 30 minutes prior to my scheduled shift ending. It was my responsibility to take care of the client's and producer's demands, etc.

Me: How so?

Dean: Well first off, you acted like you were annoyed to have to stay late.

Me: It's just as I'm preparing to leave, being told I need to stay another three hours...it's not something I was expecting.

Dean: Well that's not the point! You're job is to stay until the session's over.

Me: Ok--

Dean: And then apparently when the clients asked for Jamba Juice, you told them it wasn't possible.

Me: Dean, the ingredients they were asking for weren't available at Jamba Juice so I had to improvise.

Dean: So you went to Smiler's?!? That alone is a fireable offense!*

*Okay, first, Smiler's is a deli up the street from the office that makes juices. Second, this shit ACTUALLY was said to me.

Me: (Speechless)

Dean: Why would you ever go there? You should have just gone over to Jamba Juice and seen if they could make it.

Me: But they didn't have--

Dean: No excuses! And then, you didn't seem to know the protocol for getting the client's a car. You handed them the wrong slip!*

*For all clients who want a car to drive them home via our car service, they are required to keep a slip. There are three colors, pink, white and yellow. I didn't know if it was the yellow or pink slip that they were supposed to receive. This is because I was never taught and this is actually a job meant for the receptionist. Whatever.

Me: I apologize for that, I didn't know. Won't happen again.

The rest of this is kinda of hazy so I don't want to continue saying anything if it's not accurate. Basically, Dean continued to berate me. My emotions ran from fury to laughter to depressed. How the fuck could I let myself be spoken to like this. If I was 19, maybe I'd take a swing or, at the very least, have a very public shouting match. But no, I needed a job and bit the pill rather than bit his tongue.

This is merely an example of the bullshit I put up with while working at my office. Don't get me wrong, the very wide majority of people there are awesome. I would even regard some as friends who I plan to see in the near future. But there will always be shitty people you work with that will make your life less than ideal. And you know what the saying is: "Where there are shitty people at work, there are classic stories to be told."

Fuck you, Dean. Seriously, fuck you.

I Hate My Life 2.0

Hello. It's been a long time since I have written on this blog. This is due in part to a lack of interest, lack of motivation and simple laziness. I've been spending these past months trying to get my life back in order and rather than focusing on the negative aspects of my life, I chose to live and let live and see where the wind takes me. This blog was meant to be a form of catharsis; a free therapy session where the only responses came from those who found my findings and stories enlightening or simply amusing. I started it when I lived in Bushwick and I truly hated my life.

I stopped for a long time because things got better and I felt that writing only about my misgivings led to a greater sense of dispair. But moreso, I think I also stopped writing because I felt I would slip up, say something stupid and end up getting fired from my job. Well, seven months after I started my job, I'm done. My hours have been cut back to part-time status and I can longer justify staying at a company where I'm not good enough to keep full-time. And with that, I can now retell the stories that I wish I could have told...or rather, was too pussy to tell. My life is fine right now, but no one wants to read about how you found $20 on the street or how a beautiful woman sucked your dick. No, we want to read about how that $20 was actually counterfeit and when you tried to buy weed with it, you got your ass handed to you by a drug dealer. Or perhaps, that beautiful woman who sucked your dick turned out to be a dude with herpes. Those are the things I want to read about and I hope that you want to read about them, too. So please enjoy, I Hate My Life 2.0.

HML, Volume I Issue IX

Jim Halpert (Jon Krasinski's character in "The Office") once said in regards to his job at Dunder Mifflin, "Right now, this is a job. If I advance any higher, this would be my career. And if this were my career, I'd have to throw myself in front of a train."

Such is the case with my life at the moment. I've been fortunate enough to find a full-time position in the working world. But if anything, it has only made me crave my dreams ten times more. I've heard of people being fired for things they wrote about their jobs on the internet. But, after careful deliberation, I have decided to stop being a pussy and just write.

I am a glorified waiter. A concierge, host, server, chef, of sorts who caters to my company's client's every want and desire. From the expected to the ridiculous, I deal with it. All the while, I keep a smile on my face while being forced to swallow the same shit that makes most people go postal. Let me begin.

I applied for this position over three months ago and was pleasantly surprised that I was offered the job. I had to turn it down, however, since another job seemed to be on the horizon and I was making more on unemployment than what the job would actually pay me. Three months later, I re-applied to the same job and with more money on the table and longer hours, I took the position.

There was really no time to "settle in." My boss, Harold, an over-weight, effeminate Phil Collins look-alike sat me down alongside his assistant, Jesse, a gorgeous girl who you just want to grab by the shoulders and tell her that she's too good for this shit and that she needs to get the fuck out of this dead-end job while she still can. They told me to jump in and pretty much learn by watching. It's a pretty straight-forward position: provide snack trays for clients, offer beverages, make caffeinated drinks, order food and place it on a plate in a pleasing manner, decide on a menu for Friday lunches, grow fruits and vegetables, slaughter cattle, write a cook-book, re-write a cook book, provide clients with massages, entertain them with the musical stylings of Rodgers and Hammerstein and of course, get them a new snack basket.

For anyone who has read Survivor by Chuck Palahniuk, my job is kind of like that of Tender Branson. Not simply one job, but a 1,000 irritating odd jobs. And those 1,000 odd jobs are taken seriously...very seriously.

The other day, Harold pulled me outside to discuss a problem with the dishes. Yes, I wash dishes AND dry them! Well, apparently some of the spoons were a little too streaky. He said, and I quote, "Not just you, but everyone has been having problems with cleaning dishes. So this is what I'm going to do. The next time it happens, I'm going to have to give you a strike. The time after that, you get a formal warning. If it happens again, you can find a new job washing dishes."

I was speechless. Outside, I was stoic. Inside, I was hysterically laughing. A threat to be fired based on dish-washing performance is like saying if I fuck up mowing the lawn twice, I get one of fingers severed.

Within the first week, I was pulled aside two other times. Once, because two of the editors were unhappy with how I approached the job. The first guy didn't like my, "sense of humor". In fact, my boss Harold thought it would be a good idea to refer to my "improv" background as being the reason for my "sense of humor." I was actually more offended and angered by that comment than anything else. A lifelong loser who lives in a windowless apartment in Crown Heights has no place belittling a passion of mine. Sorry to get so self-righteous but if I had nothing to lose, EMS would still be using the jaws of life to remove my shoe from his vag.

Apparently I was over-enthusiastic and engaged the clients too much. To that I say, SUCK MY FUCKING DICK YOU FAT PIECE OF SHIT! I didn't know who to get more angry at, my boss for even making a big deal out of it, or the douche-bag, Ron, who attempted to get me in trouble. I mean, it's shocking to be scolded for "over-enthusiasm". The other editor who had a problem with me, Teddy, didn't like the way I reacted to an open Pepsi can being placed right next to thousands of dollars of equipment. It's my job, no matter how trivial, to make sure people don't put expensive equipment in danger. I was frustrated that someone could be so callous. So Teddy tells on me. Because that's what you do when a co-worker shows concern for expensive equipment potentially being ruined. Fuck you, Teddy. Suck my balls.

I was also pulled aside because Douche-Bag Ron didn't like that I asked his clients if they would like dinner. Dinner is normally on the house for clients unless otherwise noted. I was never informed of the protocol based on providing dinner for clients. But thanks, DBR, for making me look bad again. You're a dick. I hope you die in a fire.

The stories continue and I will be sure to update you all sooner than later. Well, it's 1:30. Time to go to hell...I mean work. I mean hell.

HML, Volume I, Issue VII - PART II

Iowa is a land of simple settings, simple people and simple values. Never did I think that arriving in Iowa would be so damned difficult. Exiting the plane and entering the terminal of Chicago's massive O'Hare Airport, I looked and felt as though I had been taken hostage by the P.L.O. I was shaking and miserable. My grandpa and I walked over to see when our plane would be leaving for Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Next to our flight number, a simple phrase was written, "Cancelled."

BAM! A surge of nausea filled my body and I ran to the bathroom. A line of two other men greeted me so I curled up into a ball in the corner of the room and awaited my turn. As a man exited a stall, the two men in front of me ushered me in like angels at the gates of Heaven. I heaved several times before I purged myself of liquid and bile.

Soon after, Gramps and I found our way over to the information desk at United and I lay down in a corner. My grandpa yelled to me, "I'm getting you a wheelchair!" I responded, "I don't want a wheelchair!" And then, like a chariot guided by yet another angel (who just so happened to be an obese black woman), I hopped aboard a cart and passed out.

When I awoke, I was in a different terminal, over one mile away. Two hours later, we arrived in Cedar Rapids. I hoped that as my Grandfather drove his rented Subaru Forrester down the flattest roads in America, I would be saved. But no, grandpa did what I like to call, "The Boca Raton Drift." It's much like "The Tokyo Drift," only it's not cool to watch, it's not intentional and there's no prize for doing spin outs that lead into a miraculous parking job. Perhaps he's going blind or perhaps he had never ridden in a vehicle designed for lesbians, but Grandpa drove that car like we were in an earthquake.

We finally found our way to the Hampton Inn located in Iowa City. Once in the room, I lay on the bed, waiting for the world to stop spinning. I got up slowly and entered the bathroom to pee. Something then happened that I had never experienced before. I believe it to be a phenomenon, much like the Aurora Borealis or a well acted film starring Vince Vaughn. I pissed...and threw up. I didn't think the two could actually happen at the same time, but they did. For the first time in nine hours, I laughed. When I was done, I went back to my bed.

Grandpa wanted to visit his campus, so after 45 minutes of rest we stopped off at a Perkins Restaurant, had some soup, and found our way around University of Iowa. The remainder of the trip went rather smoothly, despite the occasional hiccup here and there. Namely my grandfather's insistence that he does not snore (I videotaped him doing so), crippling depression on Halloween night as I spent the holiday in a Hampton Inn room and the T.S.A. taking away the jellies I purchased in Amana, Iowa (Amish country) on my way from Cedar Rapids to Chicago.

Overall, it was a great trip and I will look back years from now and truly appreciate its significance. Now if I only I can get the puke stains out of my sweatshirt...

HML, Volume I, Issue VII - PART I

Iowa City is located in the middle of nowhere. It's a small town based around the University of Iowa. It's quaint, it's pleasant and the spirit for college footballs rivals that of any other Big Ten school. But in order to get there, one needs to take a plane...two planes, actually. And a car...driven by an 84 year-old man. The trip seems rather simple. A 2 hour plane ride from NYC to Chicago, a short stop over, followed by a 45 minute plane ride to Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Add a 25 minute car ride to that equation, and you have a little over 3 hours of travel. But tack on a sinus infection and you have yourself a formula for disaster. Let me explain.

I awoke in my grandfather's Columbus Circle apartment, after 30 minutes of sleep, at 3:30 AM on Friday, October 30th. I made eggs while he got ready. Initially, I turned down the idea of having eggs since they do have a tendency to give me stomach pains. But he insisted and I obliged.

We arrived at La Guardia at aroun 4:45 AM for our 6 AM flight. Just moments before take off, I administered several drops of Affrin, a nasal decongestant, into my nostrils. I had a strange feel that I might have OD'd on the medicine since the sensation was stronger on the left side. But, I brushed the notion away quickly and within moments, we were off.

25 minutes into the flight, pressure began building up inside my life nostril. We were gaining altitude rather quickly, but I knew what was about to come. Seconds later, a searing pain gripped the left side of my head. I ripped off my sweat shirt and immediately felt a surge of cold sweat down my temple. And just like that, a 9 FUCKING HOUR MIGRAINE began. Lightning bolts shot across the left side of my face. Even my mouth became a hotbed for these strikes. It felt as though Nikita Khrushchev replaced his shoe with a Soviet Sickle. And all the while, my grandfather gave me this advice:

Grandpa: Try yawning. It'll help. Try yawning.

Fuck yawning. Fuck everything. A gremlin is tap dancing in my head and your suggestion is YAWN?

And before I knew it, I felt the nausea. I felt what I believe pregnant women feel while there's a little person draining the life from them within their womb. I often feel nausea when I get too little sleep or when I am woken up before I finish a few R.E.M. cycles. I looked to my grandfather: comatose. Obviously not very concerned with the situation at hand. I marched down the aisle, opened that lavatory door, and threw up. Eggs, eggs, and more eggs. It was a fucking abortion--no pun intended. I hear a knock at the door. Perhaps most embarrassing, the vomit was still sticking to the sides of the inside of the bowl. I kept flushing to no avail. I turned on the water and began heaving it into the toilet. I did the best I could, tooth-pasted my mouth as best I could and walked back to my seat.

The headache still remained. My grandfather made another suggestion:

Grandpa: You should yawn. Try yawning.

Alright, I know that we should respect our elders. I get it. But if there was ever a time I wanted to launch a big fat juicy "Fuck You", it was then. Even when I keeled over in my seat, the nausea slowed down somewhat, but the blood rushed so fast in my head that the pain became unbearable. And then it happened. Turbulence. Back to the bathroom.

This time, it was House Green Salad, courtesy of Wild Ginger Restaurant. Best salad in the world going on, but the worst salad coming out. Same problem as last time, I heaved water into the toilet. I reached for my toothpaste. It was gone. I had no defense against the smell of bullimia.

After returning to my seat, the "Fasten Seatbelts" sign came on. With my Grandpa playing Sudoku or as he calls he, "Suduko", I was truly on my own. The turbulence came this time with avengence. The pilot informed us that we were entering serious rain and that the flight would be lasting an extra 25 minutes. Like a call and response...it happened. I heaved. I heaved again.
And by the grace of God, I...

Now before I continue, I warn you, it gets gruesome here. It gets REALLY gruesome. Stop reading now if you have a weak stomach...or you're a pussy.

Okay, I heaved and something came up. A familiar taste. Ahhhh, yes...Pan Pan Noodles, courtesy of Wild Ginger. But with no bag, I did the unthinkable. I swallowed. I swallowed like Jenna Jameson on a good day. And that only made me want to throw up more! So I barreled down the aisle, like a terrorist acting on his Jihad, and made a break for the bathroom. The flight attendants yelled, "Sit down! We're in turbulence!" I turned to them and they saw that that was no Jawbreaker in my mouth. I made a move to the "trash can". "NO!!!," said the attendants. One attendant reached for the door, swung it open and I launched into a heaving of epic proportions. Pan Pan Noodles, bodily fluids, water...It was a scene from "Saving Private Ryan". I lay on the cramped floor of the lavatory and had a moment of clarity. Then I threw up, again. 10 minutes went by and the attendants had had enough. They opened the door, kicked me out, handed me two bags and told me to sit down. 20 minutes later, we landed, and I looked like the guy from "Powder".

HML, Volume I Issue VI

As a high schooler, I founded a band called D.C.'s Finest. Why did I want it to be called that? Because I'm an idiot. And I also thought it would be cool to be "ironic" since D.C. just so happened to be the murder capital of America. Get it? Cool. One of the lyrics I came up with was, "Life without love is like a cold hand without a glove." Kay better watch her ass because this motherfucker is about to become the new poet laureate of the United States. What's sad is this: those lyrics were the first words that came to mind when I lost my Blackberry case on Tuesday. Just another thorn in my side.

In the time I last wrote an entry, quite a bit has gone down. I've been denied two jobs and offered one. Figures that the one which I was offered is a position that doesn't pay. Slavery is alive and well in America and it seems anyone who can post an ad on a jobsite is willing to offer "experience, credit and a written recommendation" Fuck that. I can't pay rent on stipend of $10 per day and a slice of pizza with a medium fountain soda.

I volunteered this past week at the CMJ Music and Film Festival. I got to see some cool movies and even sat next to Smashing Pumpkins guitarist James Iha. We talked about mellophones. He's boring.

But I had a "Curb Your Enthusiasm" moment while working at the Festival. A girl approached my booth with a purse that she had found in the women's bathroom. I decided to do some detective work and after a period of time, I found the woman's business card. I called her and she came right away. She thanked me and walked away. Now, wait a minute. What happened to my handshake? What about a hug? Fuck, what about a reward of $10 (which I would never accept)? I raised the question, "Should I approach her about these things? I mean, doesn't she at least owe me a hug?" Which brings to mind a moral quandry: Is it our duty as human beings to call people out on their lack of appreciation? I say, yes. Yes we do. But before I could act on my impulse, she was gone...like a fart in the wind.

Yesterday, I felt like Arnold Schwarzenegar in "Kindergarten Cop" Minus the kindergartners, of course. I had a headache so bad that I thought it might be a tumor. No, it was not a tumor. A sinus infection as confirmed by my doctor. But this headache actually caused me to miss an interview. I'm in a race against time to cure this ailment before I fly to Iowa to see the Hawkeyes take on Indiana in a battle of Big Ten football rivals. More on that to come...

A woman called me today in response to my response for an ad she had posted on Craigslist. My relationship with Craigslist is starting to look like DontEvenReply.com. Here's the quick background. I saw an ad for a focus group that lasts two hours. I figured it would be a quick way to make some cash. The conversation:

Fern: Hi, I saw that you were interested in taking part of the focus group

Me: Yes, I am.

(For the next 5 minutes, Fern asked me some questions and proceeded to tell me that a life coach would speak to us. There'd be free pizza and beer!)

Me: So what's the pay?

Fern: Well, you get some great advice, free pizza and beer!

(Pause)

Me: I can't pay my rent with free pizza and beer.

Fern: (Inaudible fumfering)

Me: Bye. (Click)

I'm sorry if I was rude, but I just don't give a shit if I hurt someone's feelings. Call Fern and fuck with her. Her number is 212-961-1769.

I lost in the first round of Millionaire auditions. I needed a 27. I got a 25. If I had gotten on, I swear that I would have told Meridith Viera that I'd trade winning a million dollars in order to smell her vag.

I've had double vision all day. That means I have to see twice as many ugly people as I normally do. Or twice as many hot chicks. Eh, there's nothing hot about a woman with 4 boobs.

HML, Volume I, Issue V

If there is a God, he or she hates me. Or, God just has a really fucked up sense of humor. Yesterday, I spoke with a man named Oliver from GETTRY MARCUS STERN & LEHRER, CPA, P.C. Oliver spoke with me in regards to a sales assistant position that had opened and I told him I was only interested in an administrative assistant position. He responded, "Well, we actually have two openings in that capacity." He told me the job had a, "...highly competitive salary, to say the least..." and to come in for an interview on Friday at noon. When I awoke this morning, I groomed myself as one would groom a Westminster Show-Dog. I put on my $950 John Varvatos suit, walked out the door and headed into Manhattan for my hour long journey. Upon arriving at my destination, I was greeted by Oliver and he had me sit down in his office along with one of the firm's partners, Stephen, whose back was turned to us. Here is what transpired:

Oliver: So, you're interested in the Sales position?

Me: No, I'm actually interviewing for the administrative assistant position--

Without missing a beat, Stephen turned his chair around and chimed in:

Stephen: We already filled that position.

For what seemed like a minute, the two scum-bags fumbled through an awkward exchange reminiscent of an Abbot and Costello routine gone horribly wrong.

Oliver stared at me as though he realized he had farted in an elevator shared by him and a supermodel. I stared back in disbelief, waiting for Ashton to slide through the door and tell me that i was "Punked!" I was not "punked."

Oliver: I'm...so...sorry. I didn't realize....We must have filled it in the last few hours.

And all I could say was,

Me: It's okay. These things happen. If anything opens up, let me know.

It was as though my penis had retracted into my body. I had become a pussy. I easily could have gone postal. I could have picked up a chair and proven my manhood. And yes, I would be writing this from jail, but at least I would have gone down in a blaze of glory. I would be a legend...in my own mind. A psychotic nutcase in most people's eyes, but a hero to all those who have been repeatedly raped by Craigslist and business operations whose promises failed to live up to expectations.

I shook Oliver's fat hand and seemingly blacked out. Before I knew it, I was on the 6 train, headed uptown to my parents' place to grab lunch. I never performed in Arthur Miller's classic, "Death of a Salesman," but that moment was the closest I've ever come to feeling like Willy Loman. I didn't even care about the job. It wasn't like it was anything special. In fact, I have no idea what the job entailed or how much money they were willing to offer me. Perhaps it was a "bait and switch" situation and it was planned all along. But at least it makes for a good entry. So maybe I should just be grateful for that.

I just realized there's a hair stuck behind the broken plastic face of my Blackberry. I think it's a pube.