Monthly Archives: January 2013

I wish I didn’t have to shave every day

I’m sick of shaving for work everyday. When I first started being a grownup, it would always hurt, every time I shaved. I had a ton of acne, so you know, that didn’t help. And so I never liked shaving. And I wouldn’t. I always had some sort of a Shaggy from Scooby-Do look going on. But the years started to accumulate and various bosses and managers started to insist a little bit more ardently each time that I seriously shave for work every day. Every single day.

And for my first few jobs I would complain. Sometimes I would shave but most of the time I wouldn’t. Sometimes I would just ignore them and grow out a huge beard. And at that point it was like, whatever, he has a beard. A beard is better, well, not really better, but it’s slightly more acceptable, just ever so slightly more professional than scruff, which suggests that you just got out of bed and were running so late for work that you didn’t bother to actually go about the grooming process in a hundred percent kind of way. And then it’s like, what else did this guy not bother to do this morning?

But I didn’t really care. I just wouldn’t shave, and when somebody talked to me about shaving, I’d get all defensive and start talking really fast, really loud, unnecessarily fast and loud, that I hate shaving, that I hate being told what to do, that I hate being told to shave. That it hurt my face and gave me razor burn.

This actually used to be true. But now I’m on like my fourth job out of college, and I guess if I want to keep working where I’m working right now I have to shave every single day. And I wish I could still complain that it hurts, but it doesn’t even hurt anymore. I can shave in like two seconds. It doesn’t even take any time out of my day anymore. The world has gotten to me, calloused my skin, numbed the nerve endings in my face to the point where I can get up and run a five-bladed razor across the entirety of my face in less time than it takes me to brush my teeth, and I never cut myself anymore, I never even get any actual razor burn, something that, would I even try to complain about, I’d have nothing to point to, nothing to lift my chin and show the underside of my neck to.

And right now I’m drinking a beer. It’s some craft beer made in some craft brewery by two craft brewers, two guys that decided to include on the bottle an illustration of themselves, one of those pictures of a photo that’s run through an editing program so that it comes out looking like a pencil drawing. And this one guy looks kind of regular, just wearing a t-shirt and he’s got that whatever haircut. And the other guy, yeah he’s wearing a t-shirt also, but what really counts here is that this guy has a giant beard.

And I don’t even know which came first, me writing this whole piece about beards and shaving, or me looking at this bottle and noticing this computer rendered illustration of what this craftman’s beard would look like had it been drawn with a pencil. Have I been looking at it, staring at it for a while, and then, without really thinking about it, I started writing all about how much I hate shaving? Maybe. But I’d like to think that I independently came up with this idea, got really animated, which I am, I’m really very aggrieved right now, thinking about how I have to shave, every day, and how much I hate it, because when I’m especially steamed, I’ll write sentences illustrating how steamed I am, which is how this often works, I’ll rile myself up just by thinking about getting riled up, and then I went to take a sip of my beer, and I aw this beard drawing, and it threw me over the edge, it was the inspiration for the previous two paragraphs, the universe’s way of just taking my baby-faced rage to the next level.

Man, once I’m done waiting tables, I’m going to grow the biggest beard imaginable. Or, I guess I could just grow a moustache, right now. The restaurant where I work at, the only type of facial hair permitted, it’s moustaches. Which, I don’t know, do I really want a moustache? It’s kind of a really obscure way to buck the system. And the system’s not even being bucked, because it’s all within the realm of acceptable rules and regulations. No, what I need to do it just leave like one spot on my face, and not shave that one area, and when the bosses ask me what’s up, I’ll just be like, I don’t know, it’s crazy, it’s just a random spot that refuses to be shaved. Like a growth maybe.

No, that sounds nuts, a terrible idea.

I’m going to get to the bottom of this

Listen, I understand most of you are upset about what went down last week. And while I’ve already offered my sincerest of apologies – they were sincere, I wasn’t being sarcastic, I was just smiling to be friendly – I get now that words alone won’t be enough to make up for what I did, for what I said, for all of those garbage cans thrown down the street. But I’m kind of not sorry, because most of what happened wasn’t my fault, didn’t have anything to do with me at all. Seriously. Which is why I’m announcing a full investigation into what really happened that night.

Fine, yeah, I see where you’re coming from, how my heading the full investigation might be some sort of a conflict of interest. But I was just kidding. I wasn’t really going to investigate myself. No, because I’d just close the case and say, nothing to see here folks. I’m kidding. That was supposed to be a joke, funny. But I’m actually serious here. Which is why I’m announcing right here that I’m naming a five-person committee to select the person who’s going to be in charge of leading the charge into finding out all of those missing details of that crazy night a week ago, like just who ordered thirty-five pizzas to Andre’s house in the middle of the night, the same night he was with his mom in the hospital, the same night he left his phone in his car, or so he says, so he claims, like, what, somebody took the phone out of his car? And the pizza place has his number on record as having ordered those pies? And that’s why they refuse to let him off the hook, even though the hospital logbook shows him as being upstairs with his mom the whole night? This, and all other questions, they’re all going to be sorted out. All of these details. And more details. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.

Well, who else would get to pick who gets to be on the five-person committee? Not even three of them? Two? Couldn’t anybody have an ulterior motive? Yes, I suppose I could have a clear motive, but so could anybody else. So could Andre. Really? They’re burying her tomorrow? So he’s not going to be picking anybody. No, what we really need here is a task force. One task force with one task: to quickly and efficiently select five honorable people who will then get together and choose one even more honorable person to lead this investigation. I’d like to add, also, that once this investigation is underway, and yes, I understand that I shouldn’t be talking about matters under investigation, or matter about to be under investigation, or, you shouldn’t be bringing up topics currently in the process of being about to be under investigation, I’d like to point out that, I didn’t do anything here, I’m just throwing that out here, again, that it would take some sort of a sociopath to pour an entire gallon of spoiled milk into a new gallon container and then put it back in the fridge. And come on, wouldn’t you expect the overwhelming smell of putrid milk to be an obvious enough clue that somebody had pranked your refrigerator?

Yes, true, all entirely beside the point. No, that’s what I mean, irrelevant. No, right, I mean we’ll wait for the investigation. Can’t we just have Bill lead the investigation? I mean, I know he’s one of my good friends, but why do you think we’re so tight? I only pick friends that give it to me straight, that aren’t ever afraid to tell it to me how it really is. Just pick Bill. Yeah he owes me a bunch of money, but that would give him even more of a motive to look for some really incriminating evidence against me, so that way he’d be able to hold it up in front of my face behind closed doors and try to extract from me some blackmail. No I would never pay any blackmail. No, there’s nothing that Bill would ever find anyway. But he would if there were. Come on.

Fine, you know how we’ll get to the bottom of this? I’m officially commissioning a joint case study. We’re all way out of our league here. I think we need to consult with some professionals, people who’ve been through this before, taskforces, investigations, committees. We’ve got to do it and we’ve got to do it right, not just for me. No, I meant not just for Andre, but for me. And for Bill also. He’s been feeling really left out lately guys. I just … yeah, he is a little slow. Well just don’t let him get up in your face like that. Well just get out of there when you see him clearly that agitated. I’m just saying that maybe he wouldn’t get so upset if we let him head an investigation every now and then. Well I feel bad for him. It’s obvious he needs a solid group of friends. No I didn’t bring him in here to intimidate everybody. But yeah, he is kind of intimidating, right? That constantly clenched jaw. Maybe he threw those garbage cans down the street. You ever see him lift stuff up? Just imagine him, picking up a can, full of trash, and spinning it around like four or five times before launching it any direction. Guys, I mean, put me in charge of the investigation. I’m pretty sure it was Bill.

That’s a Nonstarter

That’s a nonstarter. Making me get up earlier than I want to? Sorry, that’s another nonstarter. Don’t like the way I dress? Telling me to wear something more appropriate for work? Asking me to stop taking so many breaks? One, two, three, every one of them a nonstarter. Of course I want health benefits. Of course I don’t want to pay a cent for them. Nonstarter. You guys give out bonuses? Big ones? A couple times a year? Cash? Nope? Yep, nonstarter.

I’d say dealbreaker, but we’re not even close to a deal that might get broken. We haven’t ever started. Hence the whole nonstarter. Let’s talk lunch breaks. How many are we talking about? One? I’m going to need a little more than one. Two? You’re asking me? Keep sweetening that pot. That’s a potsweetener by the way. We’re going in the right direction, so keep throwing out numbers, let’s go three, four. Yeah I’m hungry baby. Nope. Nope? Nope. Dealbrea … I mean, nonstarter.

I’m not wearing a tie. I’d wear two ties, but only if it were Halloween, and only if I were dressing up as future Marty McFly from Back to the Future Part II. But I haven’t even decided on my Halloween costume for next year, that’s still a ways off. Do you guys dress up for Halloween? Do you have a contest for best costume? Do you give away any prizes? Like a cash prize? Or a prize where you don’t have to come in to work for a few days? Or maybe an extra lunch break? No, thank you. No, I’ll be in touch. No, I decided to go with somebody who better meets my needs and qualifications.

Why do I have to ask them if they want their sandwich toasted every time? Won’t they just tell me to toast it if they want it toasted? Why are you trying to make so much extra work for me? And I seriously have to wear these gloves all the time? What if I have an itch on my face? Will you at least itch my nose if I ask you to? You know what you should change the name of this sandwich shop to? Nonstar … I already told you about that? Well, it was true then, it’s true now. I don’t care if this was only a trial period. Well it’s not a lunch break if I’m eating while I’m working. And what was I supposed to just throw it away? Well if you want this hat and apron back you’re going to have to do a lot more than just tell me to hand it over.

Look, it’s my body. Because I don’t like needles. Because I’d much rather if you just squirted it in my mouth. Well can’t I be the judge of whether it works or it doesn’t? You’re not even a real doctor. What the hell is a technician anyway? What is that like a fake nurse? There’s no way you’re sticking that needle in my arm. It’s a nons … get your hands off of me! Ow! Hey! I told you not to stick that it my arm! Who the hell do you think you are! Who are you? Don’t touch me! No you stay out of Rite-Aid!

Well I’d like a little bit more unemployment. Because I didn’t stand here on line all day for this. What am I supposed to do with this … this pittance? I didn’t push you. I didn’t. You pushed me. Come on, those cameras are fake, you’re not pulling any of that garbage with me. So what … what are you saying you can’t doctor the footage? Big government agency pushing me around? Just give me some money. No, you calm down. That’s a n … ow! What the hell, did you just stick me with a needle? No, I don’t need to calm down! No, this will help you relax! No, you stop struggling! No, you’ve gone ahead and soiled yourself. No, maybe the dosage was too weak. No, I should be swallowing my own tongue. I’ll do the opposite! Don’t tell me what to do! That’s a nonsta …

Career Day

Tightrope walking? That doesn’t sound so hard. Oh, wow, look at me everybody, I’m walking over a wire and I’m holding a big stick. Please. I don’t think it’s that hard to walk in a straight line. I do stuff like that all the time. I always walk on the curb, you know, if I’m on a really big sidewalk. It’s basically the same idea. I already said this but, it’s just walking in a straight line. I don’t see why tightrope walkers get to be famous and I don’t. Well, I guess tightrope walkers don’t really get to be all that famous, not super famous. There’s that one documentary that got popular a few years ago, the one about that guy who tightrope walked over the Twin Towers in the 1970s. But even him, I don’t even remember his name. He was French. He had a French name. Something like, Frederique or Dominique, or Filipique. I don’t know. I don’t get French. But yeah, I can’t remember anything about that guy at all, and I actually watched the movie, and I liked it, I thought it was inspirational, something that was going to stick with me. But I guess it didn’t. Being French, that doesn’t sound so hard either. You just have to smoke a lot of cigarettes and not tip your waiter anything at all.

Archeology? Come on. That doesn’t sound very hard at all. I can’t believe that’s even a real job. I could be an archeologist. I could be a pro archeologist. Step one. Find some field somewhere in the middle of nowhere, preferably in a foreign country (except France – see above.) Step two. Pitch a tent, buy a khaki vest, one with a lot of pockets, and a big floppy khaki hat. Get some khaki pants while you’re at it. Oh and hiking boots. Something tough, something rugged. Something you can only buy at hiking stores. Something khaki. Step three. Start digging. That’s basically it. You dig. When you don’t feel like digging anymore, or when you only feel like digging some of the time, while still getting all of the credit that goes with being a pro archeologist, go to some university, solicit a bunch of interns, make them do all of the digging, and while you’re at it, have them make you a tall glass of freshly squeezed lemonade, lots of ice, in a big glass pitcher, extra credit for those little umbrellas.

When they’re not digging for you, complain about how they don’t spend enough time digging, how if you want to go pro, you have to keep digging, that this is a digging man’s job. Or woman’s job. Pro archeology is one of the few professions that totally destroys the gender gap. When they are digging, get in their faces, complain about their lack of finesse, make them dig slower, give them comically small shovels, even tinier brushes. Make them stop digging for an entire day and switch entirely to brushing. When they complain that they aren’t moving any of the dirt with the brushes, throw your hands in the air and proclaim that maybe they don’t have what it takes for this profession, for this field.

Step four. When, after years of digging, after countless hours spent in that hole you’ve dug up, with no dinosaur bones, not even one arrow head to point to, when the university starts inquiring as to what exactly you’re doing out there, out in the field, when they threaten to start withholding interns unless you can show some results, a paper maybe, some sort of academic something, go to their offices and throw your hands in the air, the same way you did with the interns. Tell them archeology is a slow business. That you need patience. That you need more interns, with more floppy hats, with even more khaki.

Chiropractors? Jesus. Let me tell you a story about a little boy who dreamed about being a masseuse. All he wanted to do was to grow up to give massages for a living, to run his hands across the backs and necks and legs and arms of everybody in the world, easing their physical tension, soothing their aches and pains, making the world a better place, one muscle knot at a time. But he was terrible. Everybody that he touched winced in pain. He just couldn’t get it right. And just as he was about to give up completely, to look in the mirror and say, enough, it’s time for a new dream, he was approached by a chiropractor. And the chiropractor said, “Wait! You! The boy who wants to be a masseuse, the boy who hurts and scars everybody he touches. You don’t have to give up your dream. You just have to call yourself a chiropractor. You get to do all of the stuff you already do, and people will pay you. Plus, you get to call yourself a doctor without having to sit through even one hour of medical school!”

What am I doing wrong? There’s a whole world out there. A whole world of bullshit professions that I could probably master in my sleep. Anesthesiologist. Interior decorator. Comptroller. Certified public accountant. I just have do it. I just have to get out there and start walking on straight lines and smoking cigarettes or digging big holes and wearing khaki or cracking people’s backs and taking x-rays. I’ve got to spend less time writing about how easy all of this stuff is and more time actually doing it. But I’d probably get bored. Because none of this stuff sounds very hard at all. And when would I get to play XBOX? Or Wii? Or enjoy a glass of wine? Or a bottle of wine? Or a bottle of bourbon? There has to be some bullshit job that incorporates all of this nonsense into one livable profession. I’ve got to find it. I’ve got to do it.

A bunch of movie reviews

I really don’t like Forrest Gump. I think it’s such a cheap trick, making basically this giant nostalgia video montage of pop culture and Americana. Look everybody, it’s the sixties! And now over here, it’s the seventies! And the eighties! Remember that? Remember the Beatles? Yeah? Remember Vietnam?

I didn’t lake Saving Private Ryan either. Come on. And then what, he’s an old man at the end? Like the whole thing was a dream? Please. How do I know that it ever really happened? Old people have notoriously bad memories. You don’t think that he didn’t spice it up over the years for dramatic effect? I do stuff like that all the time. I think about something that happened to me two years ago, and then I’ll think of it again, and I’ll be bored. It’s like watching the same episode of TV over and over again. So I add new stuff. That’s what’s going on in Saving Private Ryan. Or he could have been crazy.

I hated Toy Story. What kind of a parent gets their kid some lame-o cowboy action figure? When I was a little kid, it was WWF action figures, or Ghostbusters action figures, or superheroes. Not just some generic cowboy. And then you pull that rope and he’s like “Yee-haw!” right? What kind of a name is Woody? At least Buzz Lightyear had some sort of a back story, a cool marketing trick that made me believe kids would actually want to own one. But a cowboy? I already said it. Lame.

You know which other three hours of my life I’ll never get back? That time I went to see Castaway. Honestly, I thought the volleyball was the best part of that whole movie. It was definitely the best actor. You could actually see the pain on its face as it was forced to endure all of those mind numbingly boring years stranded on the island. It got to the point where the ball finally killed itself, drifted off to the sea, just to get away from that wacko. I actually would have much preferred a movie with just the volleyball, sitting there, no other actors, no dialogue, nothing. That would have been better than Castaway.

Hold on. I just started thinking about Apollo 13 and I had to suppress the vomit sensation growing in the back of my mouth. It’s just lazy, you’re going to make a movie about space, about space travel, about the moon, and you pick the one mission where they screw it up so badly they don’t even get to land. What’s next, a movie about the Challenger explosion? Way to applaud failure. It’s like that whole film should have been condensed to a blooper reel that played at the end of a real movie about a space flight that actually succeeded. And why go historical? What’s wrong with sci-fi? I probably would’ve much rather just seen another Star Trek movie. Is it too late to call up the movie theater and demand a refund?

You ever see that movie Big? Do me a favor. Do yourself a favor. If you haven’t seen it, don’t. It’s two hours of a grown man acting like he’s a little kid. Talk about boring. It’s just encouraging everyone to act like an idiot. They should make movies about little kids that act like adults. That way there’s no screaming or crying or throwing temper tantrums or being spoiled little babies. And we should force our children to watch this movie, so they learn how to behave.

The other day I was channel surfing, and this one channel was playing Splash. Mermaid movies? Give me a break. So I flipped the channel. The Money Pit. Fantastic. Let’s watch some stupid married couple bicker over home-improvement projects gone bad. Flipped the channel again. I didn’t even wait for the image to pop up. The cable box told me it was some movie called Joe vs. the Volcano. Nice try cable TV. Trying to get me to watch the unwatchable.

I thought, forget it, I’ll just watch a sitcom, something classic, a sure thing. I turned on one of those repeat channels and Taxi was on. Perfect. The episode had some larger story, but this one scene revolved around Jim, the coked out bum that … well, did that guy drive taxis? That seems a little dangerous. Anyway, they did a flashback to his college days, how he was really smart, a genius, but then some idiot roommate made him eat a pot brownie and he instantly turned into a junkie. It was the worst. Not the story, but the actor, the nobody that they got to play the roommate. What a terrible casting decision. I know it was only a one minute role, if that, but come on, have some respect for the show. That no talent hack ruined an otherwise great episode.