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.

HML, Volume I Issue IV

I'm the type of person who, upon the sight of a Mariachi band entering my subway car, will stand up defiantly, mumble aloud, "You gotta be fucking kidding me," and will walk to the next subway car while the train is moving. I know, Billy Badass over here WALKS THROUGH CARS WHILE THE TRAIN IS MOVING! But I'd rather risk death than have to hear the music of what I imagine the intercom plays in the supermarket of Hell. So as I lie awake in my bed in the early morning hours of Monday, October 12th, I am greeted by Bushwick's answer to the early morning bugle of a new day at sleep-away camp: Mariachi music. Fuck you, Bushwick and your ironic sense of humor.

I have a new friend. He's really loud, he's fat, he'll only ride on a bus because he's afraid of flying, he constantly pats himself on the back, and I'm prrrreeeetttty sure he has a touch of autism. No, it's not my neighbor...it's John Madden! Yep, I have this thing that I do where when I can't sleep, I go into the living room and play my roommate's Madden 2010 for Wii...alone...in the dark...without my shirt on. The good thing about it is that I totally know every lyric to Slipknot's hit "Duality" since it's pretty much the only song that Madden 2010 features.

When money is a constant concern, you often start to think of ways to get it as quickly as possible. Since selling drugs is out of the question, I've decided to try a different form of whoring myself out. It's called auditioning for game shows. This past week, I did this thing for Fuse and got paid $75 to answer a few questions about music. The shoot was at Buffalo Wild Wings on Flatbush Avenue and boy was it fulfilling! While I sat at the bar with my back turned to the camera, waiting for my turn to be quizzed, the bartender made this remark:

Bartender Who Looks Like He Should Work At Chotchkies: So...you guys extras?

Me: No, we're just "Customers" who "Unknowingly" will be a part of an impromptu game show

BWLLHSWAC: (With a smirk on his face) So, did you have to hand in a "back-of-your-headshot?" Heh Heh.

He walked away before I could tell him that now that he works at Buffalo Wild Wings, he doesn't have to act like Chach-bag who worked at Chotchkies. Anyway, I won and got the following gifts: a Fuse backpack, a Fuse water bottle, a Buffalo Wild Wings t-shirt and a $25 Buffalo Wild Wings gift certificate. Too bad I'm a pescetarian.

I also signed up for Wheel of Fortune and I actually have a 1st Round audition for Who Wants To Be A Millionaire on Tuesday. I'll let you know when I lose.

HML Volume I, Issue III

I've discovered something far worse than a summer camp run by teenagers. It's a nursing home run by old people. I'll explain. My grandmother has not been well for a while and for the last few months, she has stayed at Mary Manning Nursing Home over on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. She's had a tough life and she deserves the best care possible. But when I walked into that place the other day with my mom and we had learned that my grandmother had to be rushed to the hospital, we were greeted not by a staff of nurses or an attending physician. No, we were greeted by a woman who is slightly doing better than my grandma. Basically, there were old people running the lobby. Here's a little bit of what the conversation looked like:

MOM: Hi, do you know what hospital my mother, Barbara Dunn, has been brought to?
OLD WOMAN #1: (Shuffles papers in a vain attempt to look occupied and looks over the slightly younger woman's should who is sitting underneath her answering a call) Who?
MOM: My mother, Barbara Dunn, was just rushed to a hospital. Do you know which one?
OLD WOMAN #2: (On the phone) Just hold one moment
OW #1: What you...shhh...do you...have....who...you need? (Inaudible squeaks)
OW #2: (More confusion...) What's your mother's name?
MOM: Barabara Dunn. Room 206.
OW #1: (Still looking at papers with nothing on them)
OW #2: Let me see...she went to Cornell Hospital.
MOM: Do you know if she's been admitted or still in the emergency room or what?
OW #2: I believe the emergency room

Now, imagine that last line being repeated by another person at the same time who has no idea what they're saying. It's like your friend is speaking Spanish, trying to help someone out. But you don't know too much Spanish. But to make it seem like you're helping that someone out, you try to say everything your friend is saying at the same time. Think of it like an echo that occasionally gets it wrong.

With the help of a security guard, we were able to make it over to the ER on 68th St in relatively fast time. Thanks for your help, old ladies. You're useless. Sit down and watch another pathetic musician come in for a sing-along.

Let's see what other shitty things have happened lately...Friday saw the arrival of SIX (6) men into the somewhat small 2 bedroom apartment I share with my best bud, Geoff and his girlfriend Ashley. They stayed just for two nights and they were cool to hang with. But I swear to god, our living room smelled like what I would imagine a maggot infested asshole of a dead homeless man would smell like. These kids are in a band and for whatever reason, being in a band means you have to smell like shit.

I did a walk for a charity called Farm Sanctuary (an animal rights group) that campaigns for more humane practices on farms and slaughterhouses across America. It's a great cause but I had to walk for 45 minutes, not protesting, just holding a sign with a cow on it, and all the while, I had SIBS the entire time. What is SIBS, you say? Sweaty Itchy Butt Syndrome. It's awful. And then after the walk, we got Vegan Lunches. It was, underwhelming to say the least. I thought the savior of the meal might be the fake Slim Jim. Although it tried to be "meat", it tasted more like a bandaid dipped in prune juice. Oh, and my Fantasy Football team lost by 60 points. I'm a loser in my own fantasy.

HML, Volume 1 Issue 2

I always keep my Blackberry in a leather case. My friends made fun of me for it. Well guess what motherfuckers, when I took it out of it's case yesterday, it slipped out of my hands like a well lubricated dick (c'mon, I'm talking about girls who suck at handjobs) and it fell to the floor. I picked up and much like Piggy from "Lord of the Flies" said, "You broke my glatthes." The face of the Blackberry looks like the telephone booth in Hitchcock's "The Birds".

I spent much of my day on Tuesday applying to jobs as I do pretty much everyday. I actually got two interview offers, one from a temp agency and one to be a PA on a film. The film person seemed really excited to have me come interview. Here is what our correspondence looked like:

L: Hi Andrew, Would love to meet with you this Friday. Any time works for us

ME: Hi Laura, Anytime on Friday would be great for me. How does 12:30 sound to you?

Laura: Sounds Great! I look forward to meeting you!

SECONDS LATER

Laura: Sorry! We're located @

29 N Main St

Norwalk, CT 06854-2702

(203) 853-****

ME: I'm sorry to do this, but I'm based out of Brooklyn so the commute would be a bit too much to handle.

Laura: that's fine - thanks for the heads-up. good luck on future endeavors.

Connecticut. Who the fuck bases their film out of offices in Connecticut and advertises on listings for New York City? Oh, and while writing this, one of the places that I was supposed to interview at called to cancel our meeting for today and to reschedule next week.

I just found out via www.familywatchdog.us that I have 2 sex offenders living next door to me.

Here is my weekly rant:

It's become clear to me that breast-feeding in public is an epidemic. An epidemic that isn't confined merely to Manhattan, but situated primarily in Brooklyn. This new generation of parents want their children to grow up in an urban/suburban environment with, "tons of culture" and other douche-bag parents who believe their children will succeed in life as long as their sons don't get circumcised and their daughters wear the same clothing that their moms were made to wear when they, too, were little. It's not that I hate Brooklyn. I hate Park Slope. And Cobble Hill. And pretty much anywhere in Brooklyn where parents are rearing their kids. Who the fuck names their kid Byron and George? And those are just girls names. What about crayon colors like Cyon and Maybe? White people make fun of all those wacky names that black people give their children. Kevlar, Travonius, DeBrickawshaw (and those are just the names of Kimbo Slice's kids). White people are just as bad. No, sorry, worse. They bring back names from the dead. They were dead for a reason. At least black people have originality to come up with new names. Shine on, UrHeinous.

These Brooklyn parents suck. And I'll tell you why. I sat in on my aunt's class for parents who want their babies to learn sign-language. It really is a great idea and the class was actually kind of entertaining. Kids were waltzing around, dancing to music, being kinda cute. For a bit, I thought I liked children. But that notion turned sour like the milk that pours from their mother's teet. A perfect segway into the horror that befell me yesterday. As the sing-along was well underway, I noticed across from me a child began breast-feeding. Now, he was probably 18 months old. Perfectly normal but nonetheless distracting. I thought it was all over when I turned next to me and to my horror, I found a woman with her breast flopping out of her shirt with her 9 month old daughter hanging on for dear life. My problem is not necessarily breast-feeding in public. My problem is that it should be illegal to breast feed if you have Sloppy Boloneys as breasts. If your feedbags are hanging out there, go to the fuckin bathroom and shield the world from your googily-eyed monsters. You should be fined if you're ugly/have ugly boobs and you feed in public. Suck on that, hipster mom and dad.

Hate My Life or HML, Volume 1, Issue 1

Hi Guys,

Two years ago, several of my friends had talked about creating "The Tony Times", a bi-monthly newsletter devoted to Tony, a college buddy, and his daily dealings...or lack thereof. Unfortunately, nothing became of it. Today, in an effort to vent, to entertain and to also make you guys realize that your lives ain't so bad, I have decided to write a daily newsletter that summarizes the sadness of my life. I'm not at the point of being insane or suicidal. To me, this is a buffer to avoid any of those latter traits. Feel free to comment and pass this along. Because frankly, I just don't give a shit.

It has now been two months and 4 days since I have had a full-time job. Since July 24th, I have earned a living via the glory of government handouts ($435 a week on unemployment) and random gigs. On August 10th, I sauntered down to Umphrey Soldier's in Manhattan at 9AM to do an 8 hour shoot for Touch Tunes. I served as an Extra. The pay? $75. I basically stood around a bar, eating donuts and talking to pathetic actors and actresses looking to make an extra buck to pay for their room at the YMCA. I made a friend, though. His name was Darold. He was the first black person I had truly developed a bond with. My first true black friend. I probably should have tried to stay in touch. Maybe it's not too late. Touch Tunes is that stupid game thing that you see on the end of a bar that barflys play on until they are kicked out like Barney Gumble. By the way, I had to contact the accounting department for the company that sent me out on the job. I haven't been paid yet.

I spent the week of August 17th back at my old place, Picture Shack Entertainment, temping for the girl who took my job. $800 was my pay and it was actually slightly more than my weekly salary while working for the company full-time. It's a lot like this: You date a girl. She breaks up with you. She gets a new boyfriend. He decides to take a week off. Your now ex-girlfriend calls you up and says, "Hey, I'll pay you some money to do shit that I wouldn't want to ever do. Oh, it's a week later? My boyfriend is coming back. Get the fuck out...faggot." Okay, so maybe Picture Shack didn't call me a faggot, but it kind of felt like it.

From September 16th to September 23rd, I worked at Rockpit.com. They're a company that streams live concerts in HD on the web. Not a bad idea. Well, sort of...Especially when your first concert is Creed and Staind. Yes, I spent a week of my life, promoting Creed all across the internet via social network sites. I sold my soul for $90 a day (Cash, mind you...not bad) to say, "Guess what, Creed is back! And they're performing live in Houston, Texas on September 25th. Can't go? No problem! Rockpit.com is streaming the concert LIVE in high definition!" Suck my fucking balls. In all fairness, I really liked the people I worked with. By the way, I haven't been paid for the last 3 days I worked there!

Jobs are hard to come by. I don't understand why that is the case in NYC. I've had a bunch of interviews (Office Manager at Club Monaco's Corporate Office, Data Entry Clerk at Yodle (not the snack cake), Personal Assistant positions for a photographer and business-woman, Social Networking Site Consultant for Frontier Financial Advisors (I wrote up a proposal to help out there company that used mostly info I had found right off the internet...), Freelance Producer for Strickman Rips (they do those stupid testimonials like Tylenol and Bayer), Videographer for AOL and only had one job offer as the Client Services Coordinator for a Post-Production House. I turned it down because I'd be getting more money on Unemployment. That's how fucked up the economy is...and my life.

Today, I went food shopping in my new sleeping-quarters of Bushwick, Brooklyn. I've learned to spend $75 every 10 days on food. Produce is surprisingly expensive considering the fact that all these people seem to eat here are rice, beans, pollo, hot dogs, soda, Ramen and anything remotely unhealthy. Or, it could be because the fuckers who provide the produce don't offer the food at a reasonable price so these poor people who can't afford it have to settle for shitty foods which are affordable.

Here are some fun facts: I speak better Spanish than English now. I got made fun of by two giggling 10 year-olds the other night because they said I was wearing Sketchers. Apparently, at their local P.S. (which kids don't seem to go to as there are children running around at all hours of the day here), they don't teach them to read. I was wearing DC Shoes. Sketchers are for Vanessa Hudgens fans and I am an Ashley Tisdale fan.

My brother was trying to hook me up with this cute Asian girl. Her response: "Ur brother is 23 years old!!!!!!" You know what else is 23 years old? The anniversary of Chernobyl. Which resembles much of Bushwick...and my life.

One positive thing that did happen today is my aunt Andrea asked me and will pay for me to shoot and edit a music video for her children's educational thing called Sign-A-Song, which teaches kids sign language. I agreed to sit in on a class on Wednesday. I fucking hate kids. Wait, I think I meant this was a negative thing.

A degree in theatre means a lifetime of questioning one's decisions between the ages of 18 to 22. If I were smart, I'd have majored in education so at least I could get a job as a history teacher which would actually make me happy.

Lastly, some of you may know that I was featured in the September 2nd issue of Time Out New York's "Most Pathetic Losers Whose Friends/Family Knew Someone At Time Out In Order To Be Featured In There Monthly" I mean, "Most Eligible Bachelors." I got some responses and ended up following through with 2 girls. One was a sweetheart whose body resembled a drawing that a 7 year-old would make of a girl (you know, a stick figure with a triangular body) and a face that, as my brother so kindly put was, "KIIIIIIIIIIIINDA Busted." She took me to a reception to see President Obama and Hilary Clinton. Pretty damn cool but she was not my type...at all...ever....not even if I was hammered with roofies in my system. The second girl fucked me over an hour before we were to meet when she, "Got a lot of work in at the last minute" and then had a change of heart an hour later. Don't ever let a girl control your plans. I don't care if she's a super-model. Put yourself in the drivers seat because as we all know, women can't drive.

I hate my life. And you should, too. Not yours, of course, because as Michael Scott (AKA Prison Mike says) "You got a good life! You got a good life..."

Sincerely,

HML