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".