I'm not quite old enough to bellow 'back in myyyy day' and proceed to tell a long and excruiatingly painful story about making soap by hand behind the barn with my brothers and sisters, concluding with a moral or values or something else long forgotten. Not quite yet anyway. I hope. Though I was in Target (I have my standards) the other day and over-heard a boy about 8 whine incessantly about not getting a new Wii game and ultimately fold his arms declaring that he was bored and that there was nothing to do. The parent subsequently caved. Now, aside from being privately flabbergasted and fondly reminiscing about the one time I tried throwing a tantrum in the store (which I am told (and only kinda remember) ended with my bare backside exposed to everyone in aisle 4, followed by a good long uncomfortable sit in a summertime Plymouth with blue vinyl seats), I thought back to what I did do when I was bored as a child. A small treasure trove of childhood memories burst forth, so I thought I would share :). Keep in mind we were a little bit poor, relatively speaking, but that we were far from a bunch of inbred hoochers living on the bayou - despite what you are about to read. So here goes, top 10 childhood memories about what we did when we were bored:
10) Rock fight. Pro: Easy to organize; rocks are cheap and abundant. Con: This always ends rather quickly with someone running home crying, and their mother subsequently shouting obscenities at others from the doorway.
9) Playing with fire. This actually has its own post, so for details on something that does not warrant repeating and probably should never have been posted in the first place, go here.
8) Making home-made radios. No wait! Allow me to explain! If you dig through the garbage (or your neighbor's garbage) you will eventually find an old can or a jar. If it's a jar with a lid, then you are indeed in luck that day - otherwise you'll have to make do with a can and something to cover the open end (tin foil, envelope, block of wood, etc). Mostly we found cans, and although cans had better acoustics than jars, they were also more dangerous. So get your can and follow me, and lets try to capture an unsuspecting flying insect and then we'll compare the sound of an angry yellow jacket vs. an angry hornet buzzing against the inside of your can. If it's a super-lucky day, then you might find a wasp instead - This is a real treat, because wasps have a sound all their own when irritated. How do you irritate them? Easy! Cover up your can and shake it up real hard. Put the metal side up to your ear. Hear all that buzzing? Now it's like you have a real walkman! No, of course no one ever got stung, repeatedly. . . :)
7) Digging. On a more industrious day, it would then turn into mixing the dirt in a pail with water to make mud. If you wanted to be more scientific about it, then you added a bit of sand, wood shavings, or whatever else you could find. Then we poured it back into the hole we dug it out of and smoothed it out like cement. This took hours.
6) Box car derby. This is probably not what you are thinking. Picture a little kid standing at the top of the stairs, a pampers box sitting at his feet. The pampers box is perched precariously at the edge of the first step, and is mostly empty except for a few diapers selectively arranged as a seat, and also inside, sitting upgright, his 9 month old sister. I am happy to report that there were no fatalities.
5) Roller derby. This is also probably not what you are thinking. Picture a slightly larger kid standing at the top of a long sloped driveway, with a cardboard packing barrel turned on its side, and held in place by a block of wood - and inside the barrel, lying on her stomach, his 4 year old sister. Once again, I am happy to report that there were no fatalities.
4) Mii Fit. Take one small water pail, such as only your grandmother would have, and one nasty old yellow tennis ball (also such as only your grandmother would have) and head out into the front yard. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to toss that nasty old tennis ball up on the roof to where it rolls high up, but does not go over to the other side. Now you track its trajectory as it heads back down the roof, anticipate the little bump and rise it gets from the gutter, and catch the ball in the pail. I am sorry to report that I chased that sad yellow ball around for hours at a time.
3) Doorjam magic. Find yourself a doorjam. Stand in it. No wait, there's more! Stand with your arms at your sides, then push up on the door jam with the backs of your hands as hrdasyoupsblycan andthencnt tosxty slwly. When you get to sixty, release, and walk out of the doorjam. Your arms will rise magically into the air for the next few seconds. It's magic! :)
2) What lives under this? If you have played this game, then you already know the appeal. If you haven't, then you probably won't get it anyway. It usually ended with a stomp fest, followed by carefully replacing the object of interest. My friend Rowdy (his real name), however, liked to poke worms and squeeze their brains right out of their little heads - then watch them wiggle uselessly on the ground. I didn't participate.
1) Build a fort. Boys love forts. Forts are everywhere. A fort could be as simple as a blanket draped over a piece of furniture in the house or as complicated as a wooden structure created from spare siding, a few nails, and some tall grass. One time we made a fort by cutting and stacking blocks of (essentially) ice with a snow shovel, after a massive snow-storm was followed by freezing rain in Idaho. A fort is your home away from home. A castle. A sanctuary, where you are free to sit and contemplate your existential state of being. Or perhaps sit clutching your knees, rocking back and forth chewing on your own hair, plotting the demise of all who have ever wronged you - real or imagined.
I was never really one for contemplation. ;)
Happy New Year!!
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Man . . .
I have sometimes wondered whether the dim bulbs who work at the K-Mart are drawn there by a mystical force, or if they are otherwise ordinary people who, little by little, get their brains along with their will to live literally sucked out of them by their environment.
One could reason that, when given a choice to work at, say, Target or K-Mart, a person with more than a room temperature IQ would choose Target every time. In fact, one would think that anyone capable of fogging a mirror would choose Target. This would seem to suggest that either only a select few are choosing to work at the K-Mart freely or there is a hidden and overwhelming factor that tips the scales in favor of the K-Mart employment experience. Perhaps an extra 25 cents an hour?
I bring it up because that's the route I went about 18 months ago. Oh, not literally to the K-Mart, and it certainly wasn't for an extra 25 cents an hour, but chasing dollars is what ultimately led to this blog being virtually abandoned. I'm happy to report that the dollar chasing has ended in favor of, well, having a life - and as a result, for better or for worse, you'll likely be seeing more going on here from now on.
Now, that being said, this having a life thing may be a bit optimistic. All it may really mean is that I can squeeze in the vacuuming every weekend instead of every other weekend. Okay, so really once a month, plus once about an hour before house guests come over. Well, new house guests anyway. I've already shared my thoughts on the vacuum in an earlier post, but I will say that you can have a lot of fun chasing around a toddler with a vacuum though. It's kinda like playing with your child and cleaning the house all at the same time, and as a bonus the whirring of the vacuum drowns out the screaming pretty good too. Yup, father of the year.
Anyhoo, I made a song to celebrate my new found free (house-cleaning) time, and put it over there on the right (Man I Feel Like a Woman). In the original, Shania and pals go out and have a night on the town, and girl power, and maybe they get a fro-yo or something afterwards, I dunno... This song is a parody of that one, and would represent the flip side. I hope you like it.
Cheers!!
One could reason that, when given a choice to work at, say, Target or K-Mart, a person with more than a room temperature IQ would choose Target every time. In fact, one would think that anyone capable of fogging a mirror would choose Target. This would seem to suggest that either only a select few are choosing to work at the K-Mart freely or there is a hidden and overwhelming factor that tips the scales in favor of the K-Mart employment experience. Perhaps an extra 25 cents an hour?
I bring it up because that's the route I went about 18 months ago. Oh, not literally to the K-Mart, and it certainly wasn't for an extra 25 cents an hour, but chasing dollars is what ultimately led to this blog being virtually abandoned. I'm happy to report that the dollar chasing has ended in favor of, well, having a life - and as a result, for better or for worse, you'll likely be seeing more going on here from now on.
Now, that being said, this having a life thing may be a bit optimistic. All it may really mean is that I can squeeze in the vacuuming every weekend instead of every other weekend. Okay, so really once a month, plus once about an hour before house guests come over. Well, new house guests anyway. I've already shared my thoughts on the vacuum in an earlier post, but I will say that you can have a lot of fun chasing around a toddler with a vacuum though. It's kinda like playing with your child and cleaning the house all at the same time, and as a bonus the whirring of the vacuum drowns out the screaming pretty good too. Yup, father of the year.
Anyhoo, I made a song to celebrate my new found free (house-cleaning) time, and put it over there on the right (Man I Feel Like a Woman). In the original, Shania and pals go out and have a night on the town, and girl power, and maybe they get a fro-yo or something afterwards, I dunno... This song is a parody of that one, and would represent the flip side. I hope you like it.
Cheers!!
Sunday, August 17, 2008
The Saga of Larry Long
Today, I would like to talk about Larry. Not soft, cuddly, polo shirt-wearing, burn-your-nut-hair-off Larry, but a different Larry. Larry Long. You see, one of the first jobs that I ever held was working in an independent video store. At this job, I would be expected to check videos in and out, make recommendations for customers, abuse the rent-to-own stereo system, and then vacuum up at the end of the day. Sometimes I got additional tasks to help break up my day, like, you know, like setting up displays to advertise new releases and such. It was while I was setting up one of these displays (a life-sized cardboard image of Cary Elwes, grabbing his nuts(?)) that I was introduced to what would be my most deplorable task at my new job, and his name was Larry Long. I have not changed his name. His name really was Larry Long, and do you know why I haven't changed his name? Because Larry Long was, and probably still is, illiterate - so he won't be reading this anyway. How do I know he's illiterate? Keep reading, brave internet friend, and I will tell you the tale.
The video store owner introduced me to Larry Long one day shortly after I started, and we shook hands. To describe Larry without using cliché' is difficult, but I will try. The first thing I noticed about Larry was that he was kind of yellow. Not yellow in a healthy Chinese sort of way - more yellow in an 'I drink myself to sleep every night, and have never brushed my teeth' kind of way. The pit stains in Larry's wife-beater were quite prominent, and were as yellow as his teeth. Larry's eyes were yellow, his hands were yellow, hell, even his breath was yellow - though it’s hard to say if his hands were yellow because of a liver problem or because he smoked so much that the nicotine stains wouldn't wash off anymore - assuming that he washed at all. Larry was sweaty. Larry was not given to kindness. Larry hadn't eaten a meal out other than 7-11 for years - and he wasn't much of a cook either. Larry's idea of treating a date was squirting a couple extra farts-worth of liquid cheese on the nachos when the store clerk wasn't looking. Larry could have easily been an extra on any episode of COPS, playing the part of 'guy without shirt wearing gold chain' who stands in his front yard screaming 'he done it! he done it!' and pointing deliberately and quite unnecessarily as the COPS tazer and drag off some other unfortunate chap like the lawnmowner man.
Please don't think I am being hard on Larry, or that I have any disdain for those who can't read. I don't. I'm just trying to give you a decent mental picture of what I, at 17, am about to have to deal with on a weekly basis until I grow a pair and quit this stupid job.
As I mentioned, Larry was yellowish, and he was also rather short. Five foot four, I would estimate. Five foot four, but he was all man. Larry would proceed to show up at the video store every other week for the next several months, reeking of beer and cigarettes, and we would begin what would be, by today's standards, a rather inappropriate relationship upon our first meeting. The relationship started like this:
Store owner (Vern): 'Hey, come here, I have a job for you.'
Me (and yes, her name really was Vern): 'Ok.'
Vern: 'See that guy at the counter? That's Larry.'
Me (Looking around, and spying Larry, who is leaning on a thirty-pack of Budweiser that he slung up on the rental counter just a moment ago): 'Ahhh... okay.'
Vern: 'Larry needs help picking out movies.'
Me (having made suggestions for customers a million times before): 'Oh, okay, no problem.'
Vern (lowering her voice): 'Larry can't read.'
Vern (continuing): 'You'll need to print out his rental history, and follow him around. Find some movies that he hasn't seen yet, and...'
Me: 'And? ...'
Vern: 'Just help out, okay?'
Me (hm, this is unusual): 'Erraky, sure....'
So I print out Larry's rental history, and it's one of those old dot-matrix printers that takes forever, and Larry looks to have rented about half the store so far, so I have some time to kill here.
Printer: 'zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzit.'
Me: 'Hey Larry.'
Larry (making a little upwards nod): 'Mnh.'
Me (gesturing towards the intellectually-painful Cary Elwes display I just set up): 'So uhh, have you seen 'Men in Tights?'
Larry: 'I don't do dude movies.'
Me (waiting patiently in slow-printer hell): 'Uh. Okay.'
Printer: 'zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzit!'
Glancing at the list, I could see that Larry loved his ass some porn. Loved it. Lived for it. Loved it, lived for it, rented it, watched it, and copied each and every one into his own personal porn library. Every-other week. Only on paydays. And he never missed a payday either.
About seven hundred zits later we're done, and I follow Larry. Larry heads straight back to the porno section of the store. Now, as a teenager, I had of course watched my share of porn - but never really discussed them in any kind of detail with another guy. 'Cause eww. This one time, over at Desi Fajardo's house (true story), we watched a great porno together while we drank his father's kahlua and smoked his father's camels, but that was four years ago - and we never felt the need to say more than 'oh, that's nice' during certain parts of the movie. It was not really a sharing kind of thing, and after that I was pretty much solo when watching porn - it's a guy thing I think.
Larry had no such inhibitions, and he crashed through the saloon-style swinging doors to the porno section (in which people under 18 - i.e. me are not allowed) with the bravado of someone who owned this section of the store (and in fact, as I was soon to find out, he essentially did, by virtue of somehow managing to afford two VCRs. . . yet still no deodorant). Larry studies the wall intently, and then holds up a video 'I got this one?' he asks.
Me: 'Uh.. Let’s see, Eight is not Enough...'
Me (damning myself for not printing out Larry's list in alphabetical order - it was by date instead): 'Looks like, last September, uhh.. yes.'
Larry, somewhat nonplussed, put the video back on the shelf and kept browsing. He picked up another and popped the question again. 'This?' he asked, holding it up.
Me (mumbling to myself): 'Postman always bangs twice.. Postman.. Bang..'
Me: 'Ah, yup, yup, sorry Larry, you've seen it already.'
And based on the length of the list that I was scanning, I sensed that this would go on forever unless I took the initiative and started pre-finding movies that Larry hadn't already watched. I looked along with Larry and he began recounting some of the movies he had seen and what he liked in rather horrifically fine detail for anyone within earshot, which I judged to be about 50% of the store given that all that was between us and the children's section was a pair of swinging doors and a six-foot section of painted plywood. I listened, involuntarily, as Larry recounted his weekend living room conquests and picked up on his likes and dislikes, and scurried around trying to find a movie with identical twins, in jail, with a billy club-wielding, red-head dominatrix warden on the cover, all the meanwhile looking up titles that Larry was tossing my way. 'This?' 'This?' 'This?' 'This?' he asked, as he flung porno after porno my way faster than I could look up his choices: 'Hannah Does Her Sisters', 'Buffy the Vampire Layer', 'The Great Muppet Raper', no, no, no... Sorry, Larry, - you've seen them all.
Larry: 'Fuuuck.'
Me (in my head): 'Yeah, that pretty much sums up our afternoon here...'
Me (outloud): 'You're living the dream man, what can I say?'
It was looking hopeless, and just then another guy came busting through the swinging doors. Larry looked up.
Guy: 'I got the stuff. Huh huh huh'
Larry: 'Heh heh heh'
Guy (showing Larry something in his pocket (I hope to God)): 'Huh huh huh,'
Larry (big smile, looking in the guys pocket - maybe his pants, I dunno): 'Heh heh heh'
Me (holding up the last video that Larry threw me): 'Hay, you haven't seen this one yet!'
Larry (squinting intently): 'Whadsat?'
Guy: 'That's... Dude. That's a dude movie!!!'
Me (looking again at the title): 'Drill Bill?'
Larry: 'I toll you I ain't into dudes!!'
Larry (quickly): 'Why'd you pick that!?'
Me (thinking that I couldn't get out of this gracefully): 'Oh, sorry...'
Guy: 'Dude.'
Larry: 'Dude.'
So we (Larry) ended up getting 'When Harry Ate Sally', 'Titty Titty Bang Bang', and 'Bonfire of the Panties' - which as it turns out, was actually switched with 'Bonfire of the Vanities' by mistake. Larry objected when I tried to exchange the movie for his chosen title, until I asked if he enjoyed Brian De Palma as much as I did, which sounded enough like a dude movie to Larry that he finally shut up.
So Larry announces rather loudly that he has to 'go have a squirt', and proceeds to weave his way over to the mens room, followed closely by his friend, leaving me to take the videos up to the register solo, and ring them up. And, as I was walking up to the register, hoping that by 'have a squirt' Larry had meant that he needed to pee rather than anything else, I bumped into Kari (who's Kari ) Editorial note: It wasn't really Kari, as I had already moved three times since knowing her - but it just as well could have been, and for the purposes of this story, it shall be.
Kari (staring at the pile of porn in my arms): 'O M G!' <-- she talked in acronyms sometimes.
Kari's Friends (conveniently, and exactly, one foot away): 'O M G!!' <-- So did they, apparently.
Kari and her friends: *whisper whisper -freak- whisper whisper*
Me: .. (Ah, what's the point... Is carrying around a depraved psycho’s porn for him any better than buying it myself?): 'Hi.'
I kept walking. They kept whispering and giggling. I set Larry's porn next to his case-or-more of beer on the counter and waited. Larry came out of the bathroom, followed by his friend, and rather non-chalantly and with a touch of practiced flair, picked up three blank video cassettes on his way to the register. Kari, oblivious to this, pantomimed a guy beating off - just for me, and then she and her friends turned and walked out of the store.
Guy (looking back towards the bathroom): 'I wouldn't go in there if I was you. Heh heh heh.'
Larry (grinning): 'Huh Huh Huh.'
Larry (gesturing to Kari as she walked out the door): 'Nice can on nat one nair.'
Larry: *belch*
Guy (all horned up, and dry-humping the counter): 'Ohh-h-h, she's bang-a-licous! Bang! Bang! Baaang!'
Me (having raised my hands off the counter, 'cause, I mean, hey): 'Yeah, um... She sure is... Yeah, like.. like a screen door in a hurricane, right?' <--I'm trying to fit in here, really.
Larry: ???
Guy: ???
Me: 'You know, like a screen door, when it's really windy and it... You know what, nevermind. Total's $18.50'
Larry pays with a twenty, belches once more for good measure, takes his change, and walks out the door - but not before I hear him mumbling to his friend 'Screen door. . . Must be a dude movie thing, I think he likes dude movies, hell I dunno.'
Kari and friends walk by moments later and make a gesture into the air as they pass by the outside store windows; they look as if they are giving a low-flying midget a hand job as he passes overhead.
I get to re-live this at school on Monday.
I get to clean the video store bathroom later tonight.
As a result, I get so intimately acquainted with Larry's tastes that when new pornos come in that I know he'll like (which is almost all of them), I add them to Larry's watchin' list, which is now duct-taped to the plywood wall inside the porno room - all so that Larry (and me) will never have to spend longer than 5 minutes in the video store picking out porn - hoping, perhaps, that this will spare me whatever small amount of dignity that I have left.
Larry showed up every-other week for nearly a year before I finally left for college. Every meeting presented some new and horrifying glimpse into the private life of a man who lived for nothing but cataloging imaginary poon - despite the 'Larry watchin' list'. This one time though, right before I left for college, I managed to sneak a copy of 'Homo Alone' into his weekend pile. I hope he had friends over that night.
And I never did get a date with Kari... Though, looking back on it now, I don't think that I really wanted one either...
The video store owner introduced me to Larry Long one day shortly after I started, and we shook hands. To describe Larry without using cliché' is difficult, but I will try. The first thing I noticed about Larry was that he was kind of yellow. Not yellow in a healthy Chinese sort of way - more yellow in an 'I drink myself to sleep every night, and have never brushed my teeth' kind of way. The pit stains in Larry's wife-beater were quite prominent, and were as yellow as his teeth. Larry's eyes were yellow, his hands were yellow, hell, even his breath was yellow - though it’s hard to say if his hands were yellow because of a liver problem or because he smoked so much that the nicotine stains wouldn't wash off anymore - assuming that he washed at all. Larry was sweaty. Larry was not given to kindness. Larry hadn't eaten a meal out other than 7-11 for years - and he wasn't much of a cook either. Larry's idea of treating a date was squirting a couple extra farts-worth of liquid cheese on the nachos when the store clerk wasn't looking. Larry could have easily been an extra on any episode of COPS, playing the part of 'guy without shirt wearing gold chain' who stands in his front yard screaming 'he done it! he done it!' and pointing deliberately and quite unnecessarily as the COPS tazer and drag off some other unfortunate chap like the lawnmowner man.
Please don't think I am being hard on Larry, or that I have any disdain for those who can't read. I don't. I'm just trying to give you a decent mental picture of what I, at 17, am about to have to deal with on a weekly basis until I grow a pair and quit this stupid job.
As I mentioned, Larry was yellowish, and he was also rather short. Five foot four, I would estimate. Five foot four, but he was all man. Larry would proceed to show up at the video store every other week for the next several months, reeking of beer and cigarettes, and we would begin what would be, by today's standards, a rather inappropriate relationship upon our first meeting. The relationship started like this:
Store owner (Vern): 'Hey, come here, I have a job for you.'
Me (and yes, her name really was Vern): 'Ok.'
Vern: 'See that guy at the counter? That's Larry.'
Me (Looking around, and spying Larry, who is leaning on a thirty-pack of Budweiser that he slung up on the rental counter just a moment ago): 'Ahhh... okay.'
Vern: 'Larry needs help picking out movies.'
Me (having made suggestions for customers a million times before): 'Oh, okay, no problem.'
Vern (lowering her voice): 'Larry can't read.'
Vern (continuing): 'You'll need to print out his rental history, and follow him around. Find some movies that he hasn't seen yet, and...'
Me: 'And? ...'
Vern: 'Just help out, okay?'
Me (hm, this is unusual): 'Erraky, sure....'
So I print out Larry's rental history, and it's one of those old dot-matrix printers that takes forever, and Larry looks to have rented about half the store so far, so I have some time to kill here.
Printer: 'zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzit.'
Me: 'Hey Larry.'
Larry (making a little upwards nod): 'Mnh.'
Me (gesturing towards the intellectually-painful Cary Elwes display I just set up): 'So uhh, have you seen 'Men in Tights?'
Larry: 'I don't do dude movies.'
Me (waiting patiently in slow-printer hell): 'Uh. Okay.'
Printer: 'zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzit!'
Glancing at the list, I could see that Larry loved his ass some porn. Loved it. Lived for it. Loved it, lived for it, rented it, watched it, and copied each and every one into his own personal porn library. Every-other week. Only on paydays. And he never missed a payday either.
About seven hundred zits later we're done, and I follow Larry. Larry heads straight back to the porno section of the store. Now, as a teenager, I had of course watched my share of porn - but never really discussed them in any kind of detail with another guy. 'Cause eww. This one time, over at Desi Fajardo's house (true story), we watched a great porno together while we drank his father's kahlua and smoked his father's camels, but that was four years ago - and we never felt the need to say more than 'oh, that's nice' during certain parts of the movie. It was not really a sharing kind of thing, and after that I was pretty much solo when watching porn - it's a guy thing I think.
Larry had no such inhibitions, and he crashed through the saloon-style swinging doors to the porno section (in which people under 18 - i.e. me are not allowed) with the bravado of someone who owned this section of the store (and in fact, as I was soon to find out, he essentially did, by virtue of somehow managing to afford two VCRs. . . yet still no deodorant). Larry studies the wall intently, and then holds up a video 'I got this one?' he asks.
Me: 'Uh.. Let’s see, Eight is not Enough...'
Me (damning myself for not printing out Larry's list in alphabetical order - it was by date instead): 'Looks like, last September, uhh.. yes.'
Larry, somewhat nonplussed, put the video back on the shelf and kept browsing. He picked up another and popped the question again. 'This?' he asked, holding it up.
Me (mumbling to myself): 'Postman always bangs twice.. Postman.. Bang..'
Me: 'Ah, yup, yup, sorry Larry, you've seen it already.'
And based on the length of the list that I was scanning, I sensed that this would go on forever unless I took the initiative and started pre-finding movies that Larry hadn't already watched. I looked along with Larry and he began recounting some of the movies he had seen and what he liked in rather horrifically fine detail for anyone within earshot, which I judged to be about 50% of the store given that all that was between us and the children's section was a pair of swinging doors and a six-foot section of painted plywood. I listened, involuntarily, as Larry recounted his weekend living room conquests and picked up on his likes and dislikes, and scurried around trying to find a movie with identical twins, in jail, with a billy club-wielding, red-head dominatrix warden on the cover, all the meanwhile looking up titles that Larry was tossing my way. 'This?' 'This?' 'This?' 'This?' he asked, as he flung porno after porno my way faster than I could look up his choices: 'Hannah Does Her Sisters', 'Buffy the Vampire Layer', 'The Great Muppet Raper', no, no, no... Sorry, Larry, - you've seen them all.
Larry: 'Fuuuck.'
Me (in my head): 'Yeah, that pretty much sums up our afternoon here...'
Me (outloud): 'You're living the dream man, what can I say?'
It was looking hopeless, and just then another guy came busting through the swinging doors. Larry looked up.
Guy: 'I got the stuff. Huh huh huh'
Larry: 'Heh heh heh'
Guy (showing Larry something in his pocket (I hope to God)): 'Huh huh huh,'
Larry (big smile, looking in the guys pocket - maybe his pants, I dunno): 'Heh heh heh'
Me (holding up the last video that Larry threw me): 'Hay, you haven't seen this one yet!'
Larry (squinting intently): 'Whadsat?'
Guy: 'That's... Dude. That's a dude movie!!!'
Me (looking again at the title): 'Drill Bill?'
Larry: 'I toll you I ain't into dudes!!'
Larry (quickly): 'Why'd you pick that!?'
Me (thinking that I couldn't get out of this gracefully): 'Oh, sorry...'
Guy: 'Dude.'
Larry: 'Dude.'
So we (Larry) ended up getting 'When Harry Ate Sally', 'Titty Titty Bang Bang', and 'Bonfire of the Panties' - which as it turns out, was actually switched with 'Bonfire of the Vanities' by mistake. Larry objected when I tried to exchange the movie for his chosen title, until I asked if he enjoyed Brian De Palma as much as I did, which sounded enough like a dude movie to Larry that he finally shut up.
So Larry announces rather loudly that he has to 'go have a squirt', and proceeds to weave his way over to the mens room, followed closely by his friend, leaving me to take the videos up to the register solo, and ring them up. And, as I was walking up to the register, hoping that by 'have a squirt' Larry had meant that he needed to pee rather than anything else, I bumped into Kari (who's Kari ) Editorial note: It wasn't really Kari, as I had already moved three times since knowing her - but it just as well could have been, and for the purposes of this story, it shall be.
Kari (staring at the pile of porn in my arms): 'O M G!' <-- she talked in acronyms sometimes.
Kari's Friends (conveniently, and exactly, one foot away): 'O M G!!' <-- So did they, apparently.
Kari and her friends: *whisper whisper -freak- whisper whisper*
Me: .. (Ah, what's the point... Is carrying around a depraved psycho’s porn for him any better than buying it myself?): 'Hi.'
I kept walking. They kept whispering and giggling. I set Larry's porn next to his case-or-more of beer on the counter and waited. Larry came out of the bathroom, followed by his friend, and rather non-chalantly and with a touch of practiced flair, picked up three blank video cassettes on his way to the register. Kari, oblivious to this, pantomimed a guy beating off - just for me, and then she and her friends turned and walked out of the store.
Guy (looking back towards the bathroom): 'I wouldn't go in there if I was you. Heh heh heh.'
Larry (grinning): 'Huh Huh Huh.'
Larry (gesturing to Kari as she walked out the door): 'Nice can on nat one nair.'
Larry: *belch*
Guy (all horned up, and dry-humping the counter): 'Ohh-h-h, she's bang-a-licous! Bang! Bang! Baaang!'
Me (having raised my hands off the counter, 'cause, I mean, hey): 'Yeah, um... She sure is... Yeah, like.. like a screen door in a hurricane, right?' <--I'm trying to fit in here, really.
Larry: ???
Guy: ???
Me: 'You know, like a screen door, when it's really windy and it... You know what, nevermind. Total's $18.50'
Larry pays with a twenty, belches once more for good measure, takes his change, and walks out the door - but not before I hear him mumbling to his friend 'Screen door. . . Must be a dude movie thing, I think he likes dude movies, hell I dunno.'
Kari and friends walk by moments later and make a gesture into the air as they pass by the outside store windows; they look as if they are giving a low-flying midget a hand job as he passes overhead.
I get to re-live this at school on Monday.
I get to clean the video store bathroom later tonight.
As a result, I get so intimately acquainted with Larry's tastes that when new pornos come in that I know he'll like (which is almost all of them), I add them to Larry's watchin' list, which is now duct-taped to the plywood wall inside the porno room - all so that Larry (and me) will never have to spend longer than 5 minutes in the video store picking out porn - hoping, perhaps, that this will spare me whatever small amount of dignity that I have left.
Larry showed up every-other week for nearly a year before I finally left for college. Every meeting presented some new and horrifying glimpse into the private life of a man who lived for nothing but cataloging imaginary poon - despite the 'Larry watchin' list'. This one time though, right before I left for college, I managed to sneak a copy of 'Homo Alone' into his weekend pile. I hope he had friends over that night.
And I never did get a date with Kari... Though, looking back on it now, I don't think that I really wanted one either...
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Mistakes have been made, others will be blamed. . .
I find myself, as a new parent, regretting some of the decisions that I made during the first couple of years raising the boy. Oh, not the major ones, I got those down: Read to your child 15 minutes a day, don't spike the milk, change their diapers daily, you know - my regrets are rather minor I guess, on a more personal level. Maybe 'regret' is the wrong word, maybe it would be better to say 'knowing what I know now, I wouldn't. . .', yeah, that's it. . . Knowing what I know now, I wouldn't ever be:1) Trying to substitute 'malk' for 'milk' - or really any basement brand food for the real deal. Let's face it, Oaty-o's do not equal Cheerios, and everyone knows it - even the 18 month old - and the perfect time to not discover the emerging pallate of your child is while driving through the middle of the California desert with 72 oz of Oaty-o's strewn across the back seat, 90 minutes away from the next rest stop with something sounding roughly equivalent in pitch and volume to a fire engine's siren coming from your back seat. Buy the damn Cheerios and save yourself the headache. The only potential benefit of buying basement (and I am making a distiction here between so-called bargain brands and basement, btw. Bargain hotdogs, for instance, are just rubbery and kinda nasty. Basement hotdogs turn your tongue magenta.) brands is the amusement of watching the child's face as he or she naively tries the new brand in front of you. The best I got from our 2-yr old was an immediate grimmace, and an audible 'plah', following by a 'da's yucky, papa' - and this was for freezer-o-pops, by the way. Who would have thought that you could screw up frozen sugar-water?
2) Encouraging solid foods too early. I always looked down upon those parents who sat with and fussed over their child during the first several months of solid food - scraping the pureed peas off of their chin back onto the spoon and placing it back in their mouth only to have half of it come back out again along with gurgling, when clearly their must be a better, less time-consuming way. I'll call my method 'the fish-feeding' method. I reasoned that, since this little guy was capable of crawling around and attempting to shove anything in his little mouth that he could find - and I believe that he in fact considered it his job, then the most reasonable method of feeding him would be to go along with a box of Cheerios and shake some out all over the floor in front of him, and wait for him to a) discover and b) eat them. Seriously. My wife nixed this idea, but suggested that we could put some on a paper plate on the ground and wait to see what happened. She expressed some concern that he might get a Cheerio stuck in his mouth and gag, but was willing to give it a shot. I poured the Cheerios on to a paper plate and waited. The discovery phase of the operation went fine - no problem in fact, but as the first Cheerio entered his mouth there was a gagging and wheezing sound, followed shortly by a jar of semi-digested pureed peas errupting from out of nowhere, in a near-perfect arc, showering the floor in a sickly green ooze. My wife had been videotaping at the time, so we have this moment for posterity. I haven't been able to live this one down yet.
3) Trusting the diaper. There will come a time when you rely on the diaper, and it will let your ass down (and often in a spectacular fashion). My time was 2:30 am September 1st, 2005. The kid was awake, in the middle of the night, because he was hungry, or so I had guessed. So I zombie'd my ass out of bed, got the stupid milk bottle, and went to take care of business. We sat, he fussed, but ultimately agreed to the milk. About half way through he seemed to be done, and as I went to sit him up to burp there was a horrendous sound which originiated from his back-end that propelled him skyward, eviscerating the diaper in the process. When he came down, I caught him - and everything else that came along with him. If you had happened on the scene 5 minutes later you would have seen something that looked as if the entire baby food aisle at the grocery store decided to empty itself on some poor chaps floor, a set of footprints leading away from said emptying, and distantly, the sound of running water, a screaming baby, and a cacophony of cuss words which would cling to the bathroom walls like so much baby food for weeks to come - which reminds me, I also wouldn't be:
4) Swearing in front of them. Oh, it's cute when you hit your thumb with a hammer and say 'dammit', and then they look up at you, make a crude attempt at a thumbs up (mimicking you) and say 'dabbit', but sometimes they pick up more than you might think, and will then wait for the perfect time to spring it on you. Like this one:
Grandma: 'Oh, darn-it, I meant to grab some malk at the store.'
Kid (admonishing Grandma, with the gravest of seriousness he can muster, shaking his head): 'We don't say that word Grandma. . . We don't say that fucking word.'
And his pronunciation of 'fucking' was bloody perfect, which was bloody hard to explain!
Why my wife objects to him saying 'darn-it' I'll never know, but whatever. It's better than mispronouncing words sometimes I guess. Right now we're working really hard on 'finger', becuase it comes out 'neeeeger' instead of 'finger' - and since we all hold hands everywhere we go, and since his hand is too small to hold an entire adult-sized hand, he is often heard to ask (in his outside voice, of course): 'Where my [finger]??', 'Okay, got my [finger]!!' as we're crossing the street or whatever. . . We're just waiting for that one to drop at the wrong time . . .
Saturday, July 26, 2008
The Lawnmower Man
http://www.cnn.com/2008/CRIME/07/25/mower.madness.ap/index.html
Now... You might be tempted to look at this guy and think, my God, what a pathetic waste of human life, but I bet that you're not exactly seeing him at his best. At least I hope not. It's my contention that this fellow probably grew up fairly normal (whatever that is these days), and then somewhere along the line from then until now he probably just got jacked with one too many times until he finally snapped. You all know someone on a similar path - that crazy checker at the grocery store, or that co-worker who has put on 40 lbs in the past year and always comes back from lunch smelling like gin, maybe that one old guy who lives on the corner who methodically digs up little squares of his front lawn and sifts through the dirt (but only at night, by floodlight) - you know someone who some day is going to get fucked in the drive-thru one too many times and will go absolutely bug-nutz crazy and plow their car through the drive-thru window and scream 'but it said drive thru!!! It said drive thru!!!' as the cops taser him and carry him off to jail. The point is that this guy was probably relatively normal at some point in his life but that the continual stress of living in our society made him cave in one day and say 'fuck it.'
The idea that some people may be put on this Earth to simply serve as an example for others has crossed my mind more than once, so to that end I suggest using this story for something positive. When you have identified that one person in your life who is going to snap at any time, then email them this story. And then tell them, next time someone readeatedly kicks the back of their chair in the theater, next time they get cut-off in traffic, next time they only hear the second flush, and the sound of running water on the hard wood floor, along with the words 'uh oh' to remember what happened to The Lawnmower Man, and maybe it will make it all better :).
Now... You might be tempted to look at this guy and think, my God, what a pathetic waste of human life, but I bet that you're not exactly seeing him at his best. At least I hope not. It's my contention that this fellow probably grew up fairly normal (whatever that is these days), and then somewhere along the line from then until now he probably just got jacked with one too many times until he finally snapped. You all know someone on a similar path - that crazy checker at the grocery store, or that co-worker who has put on 40 lbs in the past year and always comes back from lunch smelling like gin, maybe that one old guy who lives on the corner who methodically digs up little squares of his front lawn and sifts through the dirt (but only at night, by floodlight) - you know someone who some day is going to get fucked in the drive-thru one too many times and will go absolutely bug-nutz crazy and plow their car through the drive-thru window and scream 'but it said drive thru!!! It said drive thru!!!' as the cops taser him and carry him off to jail. The point is that this guy was probably relatively normal at some point in his life but that the continual stress of living in our society made him cave in one day and say 'fuck it.'
The idea that some people may be put on this Earth to simply serve as an example for others has crossed my mind more than once, so to that end I suggest using this story for something positive. When you have identified that one person in your life who is going to snap at any time, then email them this story. And then tell them, next time someone readeatedly kicks the back of their chair in the theater, next time they get cut-off in traffic, next time they only hear the second flush, and the sound of running water on the hard wood floor, along with the words 'uh oh' to remember what happened to The Lawnmower Man, and maybe it will make it all better :).
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Len and the Art of Interviewing
"Successful job interviews are an artform that is easily learned but which is difficult to master. The successful interview is much like dance where two partners engage each other in a rhythmic pattern of mutual discovery until, at the climax of the music, a mutually beneficial arrangement is achieved" the book read. It sounded like smut then, and it sounds like smut now. The book then rambled on for pages about the virtues of punctuality, picking the right tie, researching the company, and other academic and largely useless interview checklist items. I didn't know how irrelevant most of this would be at the time, so I continued reading and collecting these little droppings until both my pockets were full and something didn't smell too great. I then got a good night sleep, woke bright and early, showered, dressed appropriately, and went on my first ever post-college interview. You know, the big one, the one where you're supposed to land a real job instead of working the teacup ride for a traveling carnival. The one that's supposed to show off that going off to college made sense.
Let's back up a minute. I had just graduated college with a degree in Biochemistry. A good private college too, not one of those wussy state schools where the final exams are multiple choice *cough* UMN *cough* so I actually did know how to do some pretty amazing (to me, at the time at least) stuff despite my B- average there. Want to know if that DNA matches? Need an HIV test? Want to grow mutant corn? No problemo! So, needless to say, I thought that I was pretty hot stuff. Obviously, I needed to find myself a hot stuff job. So, having an a) girlfriend heading to Minneapolis and b) a big head filled with very little sense, I decided to pack up our (100% her) stuff in a U-Haul truck and head out there with her. Hm? Oh, no, I didn't have a job waiting there for me. Place to stay? Well, no, not as such. Money? Well, enough to last a few weeks I guess, as long as you like all four flavors of Ramen. The truck? Well, yes, they'll want it back after we arrive in Minneapolis. Yeah. Uh huh. Yeah. So in essence we had a place to stay (Super 8) and store our stuff (back of the U-Haul) for about 48 hours after our arrival, after which point we would either need to have an apartment or a garage sale. Surprisingly, the stars aligned and all went well, and that's how I came to be sitting in Minneapolis, reading the most useless interviewing guide on the planet made up by some total fuck-wit who was probably a free-lance writer and as such had never been offered nor held a real job in his whole life.
Now I had been on several job interviews before, but they were all for really crappy jobs where the interview was more of a formality than anything - sometimes only consisting of two words in the case of farm labor ('ju wanna?). A nod in the affirmative was all that one took - and, as most of my co-workers at the time either didn't speak English, or were people that you didn't want to spend any more time within arm's reach of than it took to say ' 'ju wanna?', I understood why.
Now, since Monster.com was in its infancy at the time, the best way to look for a job was still in classified ads for the most part. Unfortunately, since news papers charged by the word, some of the ads were quite brief, leaving much to the imagination of the reader. This is how I came to be sitting across from Len the next morning, completely unprepared for what was about to happen. I think the ad went something like this:
*******************************************************
* Asst. Mgr for rapid grow hi-tech company. Will train,
* no exp nec up to 68k to start 612-555-haha
*******************************************************
Ah, management already, excellent. I like delegating, and I'm all about hi-tech stuff. 68k, that's not too shabby either, in fact better than I was expecting for my first job. So I call and make an interview appointment with 'Len', drive up at the appointed time, and get out of the car looking for the address. It's in a strip mall... Okay, fine. Hm. 'E-L-E-C-T-R-O-L-U-X' the sign read. Okay, well, I guess that sounds kind of high tech. Assistant manager for the Electrolux corporation, hah, won't my college buddies be jealous when they find out. So I put on my interview face (chapter 9), and push open the door to find a display room full of vacuum cleaners. Big grey ugly vacuum cleaners. I step out and scrutinize the outside of the door again. . . 'E-L-E-C-T-R-O-L-U-X' it reads. 'Hmm. Maybe they are having the carpets cleaned or something...' I think, as I go back inside. 'Hello?' I say, in my confident, polite, and pleasing interview voice (chapter 6). A strange little man with a very dated suit and bow tie comes walking out from the back room, smiles at me, and then continues walking out the front door dragging a vacuum behind him. He kinda reminded me of that claymation-puppet host guy for those 1970's-era Santa, Frosty, and Rudolph shows that they drag out every year around Christmas. We really need new Christmas shows, don't we? I digress... At any rate, I walked cautiously towards the back room, dully wondering if this is a joke. 'Come in' says a heavy set man with a comb-over and coke-bottle glasses. 'I'm Len' he breathed. 'Hi, I -' I start, but Len cuts in 'Sit down. You see those over there?' he says, grunting towards a wall of ugly grey vacuum cleaners.
Me: 'Yah, th-'
Len: 'That's the new model 55. The chassis is a replica of the original models sold back in 55.'
Me: 'Oh, I-'
Len: 'They're the big seller right now and we push more units than any other store in the Midwest.'
Me: 'That's v-'
Len: 'A lot of folks don't know who we are these days, but if you go knocking on doors of the older generation then you'll see a smile and a wink, because they know quality when they see it.'
Me: 'I'm here about the assistant manager job?'
Len (continuing): 'You know, we use the same technology in these model 55s as jet aero-planes. There's not another vacuum in the world that can make the same claim.'
Me: 'I-'
Len: 'A lot of people will tell you that they can get by with less, but the beauty of an Electrolux vacuum is power and durability.'
Me (in my head, while looking them over): 'Well, the beauty certainly isn't in the chassis...'
Len: 'People don't know what they need in a vacuum anymore. They go for looks, or portability, or because it's quiet, but what they don't know is that it's not picking up all the dirt from their carpet. You don't want a dirty carpet do you?
Me: 'N-'
Len (pounding his fist on the table): 'No one wants a dirty carpet!'
Me (resume still in hand): 'I-'
Len (continuing to pound): 'For $800 today, you'll never have a dirty carpet again!'
Me: 'I'll just go ahead and see myself out...'
Len (talking over me, oblivious to the fact I am leaving): 'This is the finest machine ever built! Could put a man on the moon with the parts inside it!'
Sooo, I emerge from Electrolux a little wiser in the ways of the world, and as it happens we already owned a lovely little green Hoover at the time that even did the stairs. It cost (her) $100 and lasted 9 years before we threw it out - chiefly because she was taken in by the pretty colors of the new Dysons - not because the Hoover was giving out. Secretly, I still miss the Hoover. It was a total whore of a vacuum, sucking up anything that it came across without a single complaint. The new Dyson, by comparison, is kinda prissy. Anyhoo, since the whole Len thing was a failure, I started reading the paper again.
*******************************************************
* Exp cash handler for evening work. Must have reliab
* trans. Apply in person at Minn. Mariott Hotel
*******************************************************
Okay, so it's not Biochemistry exactly, but it could pay the bills while I get a real job eh? So I go down to the Mariott and walk up to the front desk - got four copies of my resume, got two pens, suit - check, tie - check, lookin' good, smellin', well, ok, and here we go!
Me: 'Hi, my name is Hammy, and I'm here to apply for the position posted in the Minnesota Crapper (or whatever their paper was called - I dunno).
She (handing me an application): 'Here, fill this out. I'll let them know you are here.'
Me: 'Thanks.'
So I sit down, and as I am debating whether blue or black ink would be more appropriate for this application - as it was copied on blue paper, I get a tap on the shoulder.
Him: 'Hey, you can leave that here. Follow me.'
Me: 'Okay, nice to meet you, I'm Hammy.'
Him (not looking at me): 'I'm Big Tony.'
He must have noticed my impeccable dress (Chapter 3) and resumes ready in hand (Chapter 4), and that's why I didn't have to fill out or bring the application with me. Yes, he knows how to spot a fellow professional when he sees one (Appendix A), for sure.
Big Tony proceeded to lead us down the hallway, across the hotel, and to the elevator. Were we going to a conference room? Was he giving me a tour of the hotel?
Big Tony (as if sensing my confusion): 'There's a guy you gotta meet.'
Me: 'Okay, sure.'
We get out on the second floor, and walk to a nearby hotel room. Big Tony stops and knocks twice. 'Who is it?' comes from inside. 'It's Big Tony' says Big Tony. 'Yeah, alright.' the inside voice says, and the door opens and we proceed into the room. It's just a room. A hotel room. And not even a suite. My spider sense begins to tingle. Rut Roh Raggy. . .
'Siddown' the guy says. 'I'm Frankie, youse here for da gig, right?'
Me (hesitantly): 'Yes, here is my resume.'
Frankie: 'You're a funny guy.'
Me (naively): 'Thanks, I -'
Frankie: 'Hey Big Tony, getta loada dis guy, here's my resume.'
Big Tony: 'Ha ha ha.'
Me (uncomfortable, restoring to my 'memorized questions to get the interview back on track' (chapter 15)): 'So uhh, what would you say is the most challenging aspect of this position?'
Frankie: 'Getting the clients to pay regular.'
Big Tony: 'Haaaa Ha.'
Me '..?'
Frankie: 'We sell insurance.'
Me (showing interest with related follow-up questions (chapter 16)): 'Oh, you mean like State Farm, or -'
Frankie: 'Hey Tony, dis guys bustin' me up here, like State Farm, that's rich.'
Big Tony: 'Ha ha ha.'
Frankie: 'Yeah, like State Farm, only we sells door to door, see?'
Me (in my head): 'Oh dear God...'
Me (outloud): 'So I would be -'
Frankie: 'You do collections. We collect door to door every week.'
Me: 'I see.'
Frankie: 'Some clients don't pay unless you motivate them. You got skills?'
Me: 'I-uh-huh?!'
Frankie: 'Are you tryin' to break my balls here? What am I, an asshole here?'
Big Tony: 'I'll get this -'
Frankie: 'Get dis guy outta here!'
And I was summarily gotten out of there. And I'm still not really clear on what the job was, except that it was probably painful, illegal, and quite unnecessary. Thankfully, I eventually managed to grab a job at the local University being a lab rat for some cancer research team. The pay was horrible, the tasks repetitive, and the prospects for advancement were dismal - as there were PhD's sitting across from my lab bench doing the exact same work that I was - but at least it paid the rent. It wasn't until later that I slowly gathered some real secrets for good interviewing, a few of which I will attempt to summarize for you here today. The following recommendations are based on being on both sides of the interview table approximately 100 times in the past 5 years - take them for whatever you think they're worth:
1) Dress appropriately to the job that you are applying for. Dress as if you were ready to step out of the interview and start working right away. Any more, and people might think that you're pompous or over-compensating - any less, and you appear not to care about or respect the position. Most interviewees fret about potential employers discovering weaknesses in their skill sets, but when I look across the table at someone I find myself asking 'Will they fit in?' just as often as 'Are they an idiot?'. Dress like you'll fit in.
2) Don't be afraid to admit ignorance of a topic or question asked. The interviewer likely already knows both the textbook answer and the real answer to whatever question they are asking, so don't bother trying to fake it. You'll sound like an idiot, kill your chances for the job, and likely provide endless entertainment for the interviewer's co-workers later that day. Say something like: 'Well, I don't have a lot of experience in that area, but if I had to guess, then I would say [...]' Even if you're wrong, you'll score points for demonstrating an ability to know your own limitations. This engenders trust. Editorial note: Don't try to use this on every question.
3) Have an answer ready for the following interview question: 'So, knowing what you know about our company now, tell me, what can you do to help us reach our goals?' Sounds stupid, yeah, especially if it's McDonalds, but if you go in with a clear picture of what the company is and how you fit in, then the answers you give to any other interview questions will paint a consistent and cohesive picture. If you have a good interviewer, then they will note this - and you will move up the list. If they ask this question straight away (only happened to me once), and you answer it with any kind of eloquence, then you just got the job. Congrats.
4) Have a few questions ready to ask the interviewer. You can stay generic here if you want, though pointed questions are better. Generic? 'So what do you envision the key contributions for this position to be?' 'What do you see as the most challenging aspects of this position?' 'What is a typical day-in-the-life like for your team?' You know, just stuff. Stuff that helps you learn about what kind of chaotic hell-hole you'll be (potentially) thrust into on a Monday coming soon. If you have no questions, then you have no apparent interest, and you'll move down the list fast.
5) Don't say anything stupid. Bad interviewers, especially, are looking for reasons to not hire you rather than looking for reasons to suspect that you will be a star at their company. If you need to keep a mouse in your pocket and stroke him when you get nervous, then the interview is not the best time to mention this. Shut the hell up, keep the mouse in your pocket, and smile.
6) When and if the inevitable subject of salary requirements ever comes up, the company will try to sign you for as little as possible. Oh, they may say that they are working with you to find a 'mutually beneficial' (Chapter 18) arrangement - or some other crap like that, but the fact of that matter is that if you would sign a piece of paper saying that you would do the job for $5 a year, then that would, all of a sudden, become the most beneficial arrangement. When they ask what you want, then you need to respond like this:
Company (wink wink): 'So, what's it going to take to get you to work here, today?'
You: 'Well, that's an excellent question. What are you prepared to offer your best candidate?'
Company (with a suddenly fake, plastic smile): 'Come on, now.'
You: 'Come on, now.'
Company (no matter what they say): 'Blah blah blah.'
You: 'Show me the money.'
Stick to those basics and you'll avoid a lot of uncomfortable situations. Most uncomfortable situation I have ever been in? Sure. I was interviewing at McDonalds just before my senior year of college in order to make ends meet. They had assistant manager positions open which were paying more than anything else at that point, so I decided to lie my way into an interview. 'No, no, I've had enough of college. I'm giving it up one year short of my degree to join your fine organization where I'll happily be the modern-day equivalent of an indentured servant for the rest of my life' I said, or the equivalent, and was invited to interview. During the interview I met with a current McDonald’s manager and listened to him talk about the goals of the company, and McDonald's University, and the training program, and all the other company lines. He indicated that there were several stations that I would have to work my way through and spend about 6 weeks working each until I had attained a mastery of each one. This seemed kind of.. dumb? to me, so I tried to make light of the requirement by saying 'Well, yeah, but do you really need six weeks salting fries? I mean, how can you screw up salting fries?' And this little mistake (don't say anything stupid, see #5 above) cost me approximately 30 of the most uncomfortable minutes in my life (that I will never get back) where we had to go over the proper procedure for salting fries in painstaking detail, as well as anything that could possibly go wrong with the process. To sum up: You salt forwards, back, and then forwards one more time. Three passes, and you try not to get salt in the oil, because it will break down the oil - which I say is complete BS, but I didn't want to get into it with him because I didn't need to spend an hour discussing intermolecular bonding theories with someone who was probably a burger flipper six weeks ago. I actually thanked him for his time and left after our little salting lesson, because no matter what happened next I couldn't see being successful there - even for three months. Some things should just be too damned stupid to be allowed. I went and delivered pizzas instead - and that's another story. :)
Let's back up a minute. I had just graduated college with a degree in Biochemistry. A good private college too, not one of those wussy state schools where the final exams are multiple choice *cough* UMN *cough* so I actually did know how to do some pretty amazing (to me, at the time at least) stuff despite my B- average there. Want to know if that DNA matches? Need an HIV test? Want to grow mutant corn? No problemo! So, needless to say, I thought that I was pretty hot stuff. Obviously, I needed to find myself a hot stuff job. So, having an a) girlfriend heading to Minneapolis and b) a big head filled with very little sense, I decided to pack up our (100% her) stuff in a U-Haul truck and head out there with her. Hm? Oh, no, I didn't have a job waiting there for me. Place to stay? Well, no, not as such. Money? Well, enough to last a few weeks I guess, as long as you like all four flavors of Ramen. The truck? Well, yes, they'll want it back after we arrive in Minneapolis. Yeah. Uh huh. Yeah. So in essence we had a place to stay (Super 8) and store our stuff (back of the U-Haul) for about 48 hours after our arrival, after which point we would either need to have an apartment or a garage sale. Surprisingly, the stars aligned and all went well, and that's how I came to be sitting in Minneapolis, reading the most useless interviewing guide on the planet made up by some total fuck-wit who was probably a free-lance writer and as such had never been offered nor held a real job in his whole life.
Now I had been on several job interviews before, but they were all for really crappy jobs where the interview was more of a formality than anything - sometimes only consisting of two words in the case of farm labor ('ju wanna?). A nod in the affirmative was all that one took - and, as most of my co-workers at the time either didn't speak English, or were people that you didn't want to spend any more time within arm's reach of than it took to say ' 'ju wanna?', I understood why.
Now, since Monster.com was in its infancy at the time, the best way to look for a job was still in classified ads for the most part. Unfortunately, since news papers charged by the word, some of the ads were quite brief, leaving much to the imagination of the reader. This is how I came to be sitting across from Len the next morning, completely unprepared for what was about to happen. I think the ad went something like this:
*******************************************************
* Asst. Mgr for rapid grow hi-tech company. Will train,
* no exp nec up to 68k to start 612-555-haha
*******************************************************
Ah, management already, excellent. I like delegating, and I'm all about hi-tech stuff. 68k, that's not too shabby either, in fact better than I was expecting for my first job. So I call and make an interview appointment with 'Len', drive up at the appointed time, and get out of the car looking for the address. It's in a strip mall... Okay, fine. Hm. 'E-L-E-C-T-R-O-L-U-X' the sign read. Okay, well, I guess that sounds kind of high tech. Assistant manager for the Electrolux corporation, hah, won't my college buddies be jealous when they find out. So I put on my interview face (chapter 9), and push open the door to find a display room full of vacuum cleaners. Big grey ugly vacuum cleaners. I step out and scrutinize the outside of the door again. . . 'E-L-E-C-T-R-O-L-U-X' it reads. 'Hmm. Maybe they are having the carpets cleaned or something...' I think, as I go back inside. 'Hello?' I say, in my confident, polite, and pleasing interview voice (chapter 6). A strange little man with a very dated suit and bow tie comes walking out from the back room, smiles at me, and then continues walking out the front door dragging a vacuum behind him. He kinda reminded me of that claymation-puppet host guy for those 1970's-era Santa, Frosty, and Rudolph shows that they drag out every year around Christmas. We really need new Christmas shows, don't we? I digress... At any rate, I walked cautiously towards the back room, dully wondering if this is a joke. 'Come in' says a heavy set man with a comb-over and coke-bottle glasses. 'I'm Len' he breathed. 'Hi, I -' I start, but Len cuts in 'Sit down. You see those over there?' he says, grunting towards a wall of ugly grey vacuum cleaners.
Me: 'Yah, th-'
Len: 'That's the new model 55. The chassis is a replica of the original models sold back in 55.'
Me: 'Oh, I-'
Len: 'They're the big seller right now and we push more units than any other store in the Midwest.'
Me: 'That's v-'
Len: 'A lot of folks don't know who we are these days, but if you go knocking on doors of the older generation then you'll see a smile and a wink, because they know quality when they see it.'
Me: 'I'm here about the assistant manager job?'
Len (continuing): 'You know, we use the same technology in these model 55s as jet aero-planes. There's not another vacuum in the world that can make the same claim.'
Me: 'I-'
Len: 'A lot of people will tell you that they can get by with less, but the beauty of an Electrolux vacuum is power and durability.'
Me (in my head, while looking them over): 'Well, the beauty certainly isn't in the chassis...'
Len: 'People don't know what they need in a vacuum anymore. They go for looks, or portability, or because it's quiet, but what they don't know is that it's not picking up all the dirt from their carpet. You don't want a dirty carpet do you?
Me: 'N-'
Len (pounding his fist on the table): 'No one wants a dirty carpet!'
Me (resume still in hand): 'I-'
Len (continuing to pound): 'For $800 today, you'll never have a dirty carpet again!'
Me: 'I'll just go ahead and see myself out...'
Len (talking over me, oblivious to the fact I am leaving): 'This is the finest machine ever built! Could put a man on the moon with the parts inside it!'
Sooo, I emerge from Electrolux a little wiser in the ways of the world, and as it happens we already owned a lovely little green Hoover at the time that even did the stairs. It cost (her) $100 and lasted 9 years before we threw it out - chiefly because she was taken in by the pretty colors of the new Dysons - not because the Hoover was giving out. Secretly, I still miss the Hoover. It was a total whore of a vacuum, sucking up anything that it came across without a single complaint. The new Dyson, by comparison, is kinda prissy. Anyhoo, since the whole Len thing was a failure, I started reading the paper again.
*******************************************************
* Exp cash handler for evening work. Must have reliab
* trans. Apply in person at Minn. Mariott Hotel
*******************************************************
Okay, so it's not Biochemistry exactly, but it could pay the bills while I get a real job eh? So I go down to the Mariott and walk up to the front desk - got four copies of my resume, got two pens, suit - check, tie - check, lookin' good, smellin', well, ok, and here we go!
Me: 'Hi, my name is Hammy, and I'm here to apply for the position posted in the Minnesota Crapper (or whatever their paper was called - I dunno).
She (handing me an application): 'Here, fill this out. I'll let them know you are here.'
Me: 'Thanks.'
So I sit down, and as I am debating whether blue or black ink would be more appropriate for this application - as it was copied on blue paper, I get a tap on the shoulder.
Him: 'Hey, you can leave that here. Follow me.'
Me: 'Okay, nice to meet you, I'm Hammy.'
Him (not looking at me): 'I'm Big Tony.'
He must have noticed my impeccable dress (Chapter 3) and resumes ready in hand (Chapter 4), and that's why I didn't have to fill out or bring the application with me. Yes, he knows how to spot a fellow professional when he sees one (Appendix A), for sure.
Big Tony proceeded to lead us down the hallway, across the hotel, and to the elevator. Were we going to a conference room? Was he giving me a tour of the hotel?
Big Tony (as if sensing my confusion): 'There's a guy you gotta meet.'
Me: 'Okay, sure.'
We get out on the second floor, and walk to a nearby hotel room. Big Tony stops and knocks twice. 'Who is it?' comes from inside. 'It's Big Tony' says Big Tony. 'Yeah, alright.' the inside voice says, and the door opens and we proceed into the room. It's just a room. A hotel room. And not even a suite. My spider sense begins to tingle. Rut Roh Raggy. . .
'Siddown' the guy says. 'I'm Frankie, youse here for da gig, right?'
Me (hesitantly): 'Yes, here is my resume.'
Frankie: 'You're a funny guy.'
Me (naively): 'Thanks, I -'
Frankie: 'Hey Big Tony, getta loada dis guy, here's my resume.'
Big Tony: 'Ha ha ha.'
Me (uncomfortable, restoring to my 'memorized questions to get the interview back on track' (chapter 15)): 'So uhh, what would you say is the most challenging aspect of this position?'
Frankie: 'Getting the clients to pay regular.'
Big Tony: 'Haaaa Ha.'
Me '..?'
Frankie: 'We sell insurance.'
Me (showing interest with related follow-up questions (chapter 16)): 'Oh, you mean like State Farm, or -'
Frankie: 'Hey Tony, dis guys bustin' me up here, like State Farm, that's rich.'
Big Tony: 'Ha ha ha.'
Frankie: 'Yeah, like State Farm, only we sells door to door, see?'
Me (in my head): 'Oh dear God...'
Me (outloud): 'So I would be -'
Frankie: 'You do collections. We collect door to door every week.'
Me: 'I see.'
Frankie: 'Some clients don't pay unless you motivate them. You got skills?'
Me: 'I-uh-huh?!'
Frankie: 'Are you tryin' to break my balls here? What am I, an asshole here?'
Big Tony: 'I'll get this -'
Frankie: 'Get dis guy outta here!'
And I was summarily gotten out of there. And I'm still not really clear on what the job was, except that it was probably painful, illegal, and quite unnecessary. Thankfully, I eventually managed to grab a job at the local University being a lab rat for some cancer research team. The pay was horrible, the tasks repetitive, and the prospects for advancement were dismal - as there were PhD's sitting across from my lab bench doing the exact same work that I was - but at least it paid the rent. It wasn't until later that I slowly gathered some real secrets for good interviewing, a few of which I will attempt to summarize for you here today. The following recommendations are based on being on both sides of the interview table approximately 100 times in the past 5 years - take them for whatever you think they're worth:
1) Dress appropriately to the job that you are applying for. Dress as if you were ready to step out of the interview and start working right away. Any more, and people might think that you're pompous or over-compensating - any less, and you appear not to care about or respect the position. Most interviewees fret about potential employers discovering weaknesses in their skill sets, but when I look across the table at someone I find myself asking 'Will they fit in?' just as often as 'Are they an idiot?'. Dress like you'll fit in.
2) Don't be afraid to admit ignorance of a topic or question asked. The interviewer likely already knows both the textbook answer and the real answer to whatever question they are asking, so don't bother trying to fake it. You'll sound like an idiot, kill your chances for the job, and likely provide endless entertainment for the interviewer's co-workers later that day. Say something like: 'Well, I don't have a lot of experience in that area, but if I had to guess, then I would say [...]' Even if you're wrong, you'll score points for demonstrating an ability to know your own limitations. This engenders trust. Editorial note: Don't try to use this on every question.
3) Have an answer ready for the following interview question: 'So, knowing what you know about our company now, tell me, what can you do to help us reach our goals?' Sounds stupid, yeah, especially if it's McDonalds, but if you go in with a clear picture of what the company is and how you fit in, then the answers you give to any other interview questions will paint a consistent and cohesive picture. If you have a good interviewer, then they will note this - and you will move up the list. If they ask this question straight away (only happened to me once), and you answer it with any kind of eloquence, then you just got the job. Congrats.
4) Have a few questions ready to ask the interviewer. You can stay generic here if you want, though pointed questions are better. Generic? 'So what do you envision the key contributions for this position to be?' 'What do you see as the most challenging aspects of this position?' 'What is a typical day-in-the-life like for your team?' You know, just stuff. Stuff that helps you learn about what kind of chaotic hell-hole you'll be (potentially) thrust into on a Monday coming soon. If you have no questions, then you have no apparent interest, and you'll move down the list fast.
5) Don't say anything stupid. Bad interviewers, especially, are looking for reasons to not hire you rather than looking for reasons to suspect that you will be a star at their company. If you need to keep a mouse in your pocket and stroke him when you get nervous, then the interview is not the best time to mention this. Shut the hell up, keep the mouse in your pocket, and smile.
6) When and if the inevitable subject of salary requirements ever comes up, the company will try to sign you for as little as possible. Oh, they may say that they are working with you to find a 'mutually beneficial' (Chapter 18) arrangement - or some other crap like that, but the fact of that matter is that if you would sign a piece of paper saying that you would do the job for $5 a year, then that would, all of a sudden, become the most beneficial arrangement. When they ask what you want, then you need to respond like this:
Company (wink wink): 'So, what's it going to take to get you to work here, today?'
You: 'Well, that's an excellent question. What are you prepared to offer your best candidate?'
Company (with a suddenly fake, plastic smile): 'Come on, now.'
You: 'Come on, now.'
Company (no matter what they say): 'Blah blah blah.'
You: 'Show me the money.'
Stick to those basics and you'll avoid a lot of uncomfortable situations. Most uncomfortable situation I have ever been in? Sure. I was interviewing at McDonalds just before my senior year of college in order to make ends meet. They had assistant manager positions open which were paying more than anything else at that point, so I decided to lie my way into an interview. 'No, no, I've had enough of college. I'm giving it up one year short of my degree to join your fine organization where I'll happily be the modern-day equivalent of an indentured servant for the rest of my life' I said, or the equivalent, and was invited to interview. During the interview I met with a current McDonald’s manager and listened to him talk about the goals of the company, and McDonald's University, and the training program, and all the other company lines. He indicated that there were several stations that I would have to work my way through and spend about 6 weeks working each until I had attained a mastery of each one. This seemed kind of.. dumb? to me, so I tried to make light of the requirement by saying 'Well, yeah, but do you really need six weeks salting fries? I mean, how can you screw up salting fries?' And this little mistake (don't say anything stupid, see #5 above) cost me approximately 30 of the most uncomfortable minutes in my life (that I will never get back) where we had to go over the proper procedure for salting fries in painstaking detail, as well as anything that could possibly go wrong with the process. To sum up: You salt forwards, back, and then forwards one more time. Three passes, and you try not to get salt in the oil, because it will break down the oil - which I say is complete BS, but I didn't want to get into it with him because I didn't need to spend an hour discussing intermolecular bonding theories with someone who was probably a burger flipper six weeks ago. I actually thanked him for his time and left after our little salting lesson, because no matter what happened next I couldn't see being successful there - even for three months. Some things should just be too damned stupid to be allowed. I went and delivered pizzas instead - and that's another story. :)
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Quick Update aka the Cop Out
Yes, I am copping out this week. Actually, it's been about two weeks, hasn't it? I'm sorry, I have been adjusting to a new job and the result is that I haven't had much time to work on music or write anything remotely interesting on here for the last couple of months. I accept the blame.
At any rate, I wanted to make an entry to let y'all know that 1) I am not dead, as Perez Hilton reported earlier, and 2) That I am thankful for the hundreds of you that have gone on to iTunes or Amazon and bought a song. You have inspired me to keep going. Over the past several weeks I have managed to actually finish writing the full-length album that I want to put out, and now it's just a matter of finding the time to record all of the parts that go into it. It will be out this year, even if I have to squeak it by in December. I'm hoping for late summer myself though.
Sooo, highlights of the last few months include:
- Receiving a bottle of simple syrup in the mail from a couple readers in Europe (who must have felt some sympathy for that Simple Syrup story) - thanks guys!!!
- Getting 3 nice 'atta-boys' on the iTunes reviews page (woo hoo!)
- Happily reporting to my wife that the 'I met My Wife at a Strip Club' story is the most popular read on this blog, despite her protests
- Seeing that music video to the right there has received over 300,000 views (combined) from all of the sites that have hosted it. W-O-W!
So, if you'll accept a cop-out for this week, I humbly offer the following joke (which is not mine) for your amusement:
C, E-flat, and G walk into a bar. The bartender says, "Sorry, but we don't serve minors." So, the E-flat leaves, and the C and the G have an open fifth between them. After a few drinks, the fifth is diminished; the G is out flat. An F comes in and tries to augment the situation, but is not sharp enough. A D comes into the bar and heads straight for the bathroom saying, "Excuse me. I'll just be a second." An A comes into the bar, but the bartender is not convinced that this relative of C is not a minor. Then the bartender notices a B-flat hiding at the end of the bar and exclaims, "Get out now! You're the seventh minor I've found in this bar tonight." The E-flat, not easily deflated, comes back to the bar the next night in a 3-piece suit with nicely shined shoes. The bartender says: "You're looking sharp tonight, come on in! This could be a major development." This proves to be the case, as the E-flat takes off the suit, and everything else, and is now au naturel. Eventually, the C sobers up, and realizes in horror that he's under a rest. The C is brought to trial, is found guilty of contributing to the diminution of a minor, and is sentenced to 10 years of DS without Coda at an upscale correctional facility. On appeal, however, the C is found innocent of any wrongdoing, even accidental, and that all accusations to the contrary are bassless. . .
Y'all remember not to take things too seriously, if only for today.
Cheers!
At any rate, I wanted to make an entry to let y'all know that 1) I am not dead, as Perez Hilton reported earlier, and 2) That I am thankful for the hundreds of you that have gone on to iTunes or Amazon and bought a song. You have inspired me to keep going. Over the past several weeks I have managed to actually finish writing the full-length album that I want to put out, and now it's just a matter of finding the time to record all of the parts that go into it. It will be out this year, even if I have to squeak it by in December. I'm hoping for late summer myself though.
Sooo, highlights of the last few months include:
- Receiving a bottle of simple syrup in the mail from a couple readers in Europe (who must have felt some sympathy for that Simple Syrup story) - thanks guys!!!
- Getting 3 nice 'atta-boys' on the iTunes reviews page (woo hoo!)
- Happily reporting to my wife that the 'I met My Wife at a Strip Club' story is the most popular read on this blog, despite her protests
- Seeing that music video to the right there has received over 300,000 views (combined) from all of the sites that have hosted it. W-O-W!
So, if you'll accept a cop-out for this week, I humbly offer the following joke (which is not mine) for your amusement:
C, E-flat, and G walk into a bar. The bartender says, "Sorry, but we don't serve minors." So, the E-flat leaves, and the C and the G have an open fifth between them. After a few drinks, the fifth is diminished; the G is out flat. An F comes in and tries to augment the situation, but is not sharp enough. A D comes into the bar and heads straight for the bathroom saying, "Excuse me. I'll just be a second." An A comes into the bar, but the bartender is not convinced that this relative of C is not a minor. Then the bartender notices a B-flat hiding at the end of the bar and exclaims, "Get out now! You're the seventh minor I've found in this bar tonight." The E-flat, not easily deflated, comes back to the bar the next night in a 3-piece suit with nicely shined shoes. The bartender says: "You're looking sharp tonight, come on in! This could be a major development." This proves to be the case, as the E-flat takes off the suit, and everything else, and is now au naturel. Eventually, the C sobers up, and realizes in horror that he's under a rest. The C is brought to trial, is found guilty of contributing to the diminution of a minor, and is sentenced to 10 years of DS without Coda at an upscale correctional facility. On appeal, however, the C is found innocent of any wrongdoing, even accidental, and that all accusations to the contrary are bassless. . .
Y'all remember not to take things too seriously, if only for today.
Cheers!
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