Blogging on the run this morning, I'm at a net cafe and I forgot to bring my power cord and my laptop says just 32% power. . . Can barely afford a small coffee . . . I guess it's better than paying forty or more a month for cable or DSL . . .
Wi-Fi at the house is a bit of a bitch, low signals from everywhere, only a couple of networks that are open, and very much dependent on the weather.
I've found that the early morning and evening hours are best for accessing the internet there, and I believe it's dependent on the air temperature. Warm air means thicker air that impedes radio signals, cold air means less air density and better signal, so going into winter now we should be getting better signal. We'll have to wait and see. Cloudy days are also problematic, air inversions, turbulence all messin' wit mah signal. Bitch.
Up until a few weeks ago I was using a wi-fi router at the house connected to a housemates cable modem, but he hasn't paid the bill in awhile so they shut the service off and now I'm wondering if he's getting ready to cut out on rent too. . .
Yesterday, in the frustration and anxiety of walking around downstairs trying to find a decent wi-fi connection I took the laptop around to all the downstairs windows, hanging the laptop off the back of the couch seemed to do something, having it at right angles on the kitchen table had some effect, but ultimatly still very spotty, very much a hit and miss thing. One moment the signal will barely be there, the next gone, gone, gone.
After futzing with that for awhile I took the laptop outside and walked west along the sidewalk, refreshing the wi-fi utility to see if there were any changes. I found out that 'default', the connection I depend on most is about a block away, as the crow flies. So, because my broken-down vehicle was parked right at that spot, I sat in the passenger seat and checked e-mails and posted for jobs. Maybe I can get small table in there to hold the laptop better. . .
Moving up and down the street though, everyone's got their wi-fi locked up, which is a good thing I suppose, but damn, give a brother a data pipe for chrisake ! ! !
Battery is down to 25% . . . Fly, magic fingers, fly ! ! !
Today I'm going to walk around Capitol Hill, it's free and I get to look at some great architecture. I bring my camera along to take pics of all the houses I see and whatever comes along like the odd housecat or two. Loves the kitties . . .
Well, time to post this, check the news (blechh) and get out on the road.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Friday, October 01, 2004
What did I do today?
After yesterday's interview, my knee going out and all the stress from that, running out of money, etc, I decided to sleep in for a bit. I didn't get out of bed 'till 7:30AM. For most that probably isn't sleeping in, for me it's getting major, major rest. I usually wake up around 4 or 4:30 in the morning. Seriously. The first thing that goes through my mind is all the fucking crap I've got to deal with: Mostly the bills. How am I going to deal with all the bills with no job, no benefits, no hope.
Most people have friends and family they can depend on. I'm not most people. I have social anxiety disorder and have had to deal with that for all of my adult life. Imagine having no father, mother, sisters, brothers, you're in a strange country and you don't speak the language or understand the customs. That's social anxiety disorder.
Because of fear of being misunderstood you tend to stay indoors, don't engage in the typical "Hey, let's all get together for beers Friday night." banter most people do. Or do most people? I get the impression from research that most people these days would prefer to while their time away alone and depressed than engage in meaningful social discourse. Certainly describes me.
I would really rather spend time with my cats than a sexy, nubile college co-ed. Less stress, more relaxing, and much more gratifying. Give love, get love. That's what I'm all about. What a sad commentary on society as a whole.
I've lived in this shared house for something like fifteen years now, gone through the stress of sociopaths and various other nutbags, and now, near the end, I have a Guatemalen refugee that is certain that former President Clinton sucks the blood from newborn babies and a young hispanic-american from LA who fancies himself the next Charles Bukowski with a complete and total lack of a narrative voice. I'm sorry, but what a friggin' goob. He also fancies himself something of an amatuer pyschiatrist as well . . . So, what would you think of someone who surrounds themselves with lower-class, mentally deficient individuals who is intimidated by those who are more well-read than he is? I would think it would indicate an inferiority complex, but then again, I'm not a professional. He thinks he is.
I'm not saying this to be mean or anything, but let's use an example here: Josh.
Josh used to live up here in the Seattle area, working in a bakery, behind the counter where he wouldn't offend 'the normals'. Yes, they kept him off in the back, hidden away from the public because Josh was, well a bit 'off'. Josh was simple-minded, just a bit above retarded. Dan kept Josh around like he was one of his best friends. Not because he felt pity for him, but because Josh was a useful foil. "Look at Josh, look at how dumb he is. Look at how smart I am." Same for Rita, a loud, brash obnoxious hispanic-american woman who is socially inept. Socially inept because she can't seem to understand that when she visits a home at 9:30, close to 10:00 PM that ringing the doorbell multiple times, announcing oneself loudly so everyone can hear for several blocks, yelling at someone a foot away somehow might be construed as 'inappropriate'.
I love the cheap rent, really I do, but is it worth it when you have to put up with people like this?
I don't have a bad home here, it's a 1920's former professor's residence, five bedrooms upstairs and a mother-in-law apartment below. All in all, pretty nice digs, kept up fairly okay, but only because I lean on everybody who lives here to clean up after themselves, day in and day out. Wash your dishes. Dry your dishes. Put away your dishes. Don't leave a wet sponge in the sink. Wring it out and put it in the rack. Wipe up the counter after you use it. Clean the bathroom. Clean the tub. Vacuum the floors. Am I their mother? I feel like it. The only thing missing is that I don't get to paddle their bottoms. I have to confess I wish I could. Not for the kink, just because they really, really need to get it through their thick heads that, *hey* there's some responsibility here when you live with others. Geez.
Anyway, I'm off, time to get to bed and get some much-needed rest. It's been a long day and I'm bushed.
After yesterday's interview, my knee going out and all the stress from that, running out of money, etc, I decided to sleep in for a bit. I didn't get out of bed 'till 7:30AM. For most that probably isn't sleeping in, for me it's getting major, major rest. I usually wake up around 4 or 4:30 in the morning. Seriously. The first thing that goes through my mind is all the fucking crap I've got to deal with: Mostly the bills. How am I going to deal with all the bills with no job, no benefits, no hope.
Most people have friends and family they can depend on. I'm not most people. I have social anxiety disorder and have had to deal with that for all of my adult life. Imagine having no father, mother, sisters, brothers, you're in a strange country and you don't speak the language or understand the customs. That's social anxiety disorder.
Because of fear of being misunderstood you tend to stay indoors, don't engage in the typical "Hey, let's all get together for beers Friday night." banter most people do. Or do most people? I get the impression from research that most people these days would prefer to while their time away alone and depressed than engage in meaningful social discourse. Certainly describes me.
I would really rather spend time with my cats than a sexy, nubile college co-ed. Less stress, more relaxing, and much more gratifying. Give love, get love. That's what I'm all about. What a sad commentary on society as a whole.
I've lived in this shared house for something like fifteen years now, gone through the stress of sociopaths and various other nutbags, and now, near the end, I have a Guatemalen refugee that is certain that former President Clinton sucks the blood from newborn babies and a young hispanic-american from LA who fancies himself the next Charles Bukowski with a complete and total lack of a narrative voice. I'm sorry, but what a friggin' goob. He also fancies himself something of an amatuer pyschiatrist as well . . . So, what would you think of someone who surrounds themselves with lower-class, mentally deficient individuals who is intimidated by those who are more well-read than he is? I would think it would indicate an inferiority complex, but then again, I'm not a professional. He thinks he is.
I'm not saying this to be mean or anything, but let's use an example here: Josh.
Josh used to live up here in the Seattle area, working in a bakery, behind the counter where he wouldn't offend 'the normals'. Yes, they kept him off in the back, hidden away from the public because Josh was, well a bit 'off'. Josh was simple-minded, just a bit above retarded. Dan kept Josh around like he was one of his best friends. Not because he felt pity for him, but because Josh was a useful foil. "Look at Josh, look at how dumb he is. Look at how smart I am." Same for Rita, a loud, brash obnoxious hispanic-american woman who is socially inept. Socially inept because she can't seem to understand that when she visits a home at 9:30, close to 10:00 PM that ringing the doorbell multiple times, announcing oneself loudly so everyone can hear for several blocks, yelling at someone a foot away somehow might be construed as 'inappropriate'.
I love the cheap rent, really I do, but is it worth it when you have to put up with people like this?
I don't have a bad home here, it's a 1920's former professor's residence, five bedrooms upstairs and a mother-in-law apartment below. All in all, pretty nice digs, kept up fairly okay, but only because I lean on everybody who lives here to clean up after themselves, day in and day out. Wash your dishes. Dry your dishes. Put away your dishes. Don't leave a wet sponge in the sink. Wring it out and put it in the rack. Wipe up the counter after you use it. Clean the bathroom. Clean the tub. Vacuum the floors. Am I their mother? I feel like it. The only thing missing is that I don't get to paddle their bottoms. I have to confess I wish I could. Not for the kink, just because they really, really need to get it through their thick heads that, *hey* there's some responsibility here when you live with others. Geez.
Anyway, I'm off, time to get to bed and get some much-needed rest. It's been a long day and I'm bushed.
Friday night here at 'The Flop'. Pondering what I'm going to do to get more money to last to the end of the month. I've already sent an e-mail to mumsy to get more than the $60.00 she's already sent. At this point I need a bus pass to fund transport for the next month and I don't have it.
I've already borrowed $100.00 from another housemate, but that's to fund cat food, razor blades, a haircut and laundry soap and laundry, as well as what other neccesities are forthcoming.
I'm putting my car up for sale tomorrow, all $5,000 worth of what broke down. It's a 1994 Isuzu Trooper, power everything, like new interior, cruise control, the works. A really, really great vehicle in so many ways. Yet it is not to be mine. It needs some work on the engine, and perhaps a bit of work on the tranny, but nowhere near the $5,000 that I paid for it. Damn this economy, damn the Bush family and their minions, and damn the U.S. as it is now. Damn it all to hell. Al Qaida my ass. You want to get rid of the terrorists? Get rid of the Republican party, it's lobbyists and it's minions and everything will sort itself out. And no I don't say that out of blind anger, but out of carefully considered thought. Take a look to your left. Look at the bookmarks. Read through them one after one after one. Take some time to digest what you've read. Read some more. Ponder that. Read some more after that. If you have any kind of objective reasoning, any at all, you will come to one conclusion: Power of the rich, for the rich and only for the rich will mean the downfall of us all, and the only way to prevent that is to subjugate them, once and for all, not let them subjugate us.
You want to know why we never went back to the moon after the Apollo missions? Look to the rich and the military industrial complex that they supported.
You want to know why you can't afford health care anymore? Look to the rich and their powerful lobbies.
You want to know why you can't get a decent wage? Why you have no power in the workplace? Look to the rich and how they enslave us all.
The solution, as it has been througout human history since
Spartacus
forward has been to put down the rich and make them do our bidding, instead of the other way around.
I've already borrowed $100.00 from another housemate, but that's to fund cat food, razor blades, a haircut and laundry soap and laundry, as well as what other neccesities are forthcoming.
I'm putting my car up for sale tomorrow, all $5,000 worth of what broke down. It's a 1994 Isuzu Trooper, power everything, like new interior, cruise control, the works. A really, really great vehicle in so many ways. Yet it is not to be mine. It needs some work on the engine, and perhaps a bit of work on the tranny, but nowhere near the $5,000 that I paid for it. Damn this economy, damn the Bush family and their minions, and damn the U.S. as it is now. Damn it all to hell. Al Qaida my ass. You want to get rid of the terrorists? Get rid of the Republican party, it's lobbyists and it's minions and everything will sort itself out. And no I don't say that out of blind anger, but out of carefully considered thought. Take a look to your left. Look at the bookmarks. Read through them one after one after one. Take some time to digest what you've read. Read some more. Ponder that. Read some more after that. If you have any kind of objective reasoning, any at all, you will come to one conclusion: Power of the rich, for the rich and only for the rich will mean the downfall of us all, and the only way to prevent that is to subjugate them, once and for all, not let them subjugate us.
You want to know why we never went back to the moon after the Apollo missions? Look to the rich and the military industrial complex that they supported.
You want to know why you can't afford health care anymore? Look to the rich and their powerful lobbies.
You want to know why you can't get a decent wage? Why you have no power in the workplace? Look to the rich and how they enslave us all.
The solution, as it has been througout human history since
Spartacus
forward has been to put down the rich and make them do our bidding, instead of the other way around.
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
I Hate Housemates
I got home today after going through the hell of the interview, sweating in my interview monkey suit, smoking cigerettes when I usually don't and wished so much I had a place of my own. No b.s. to put up with, no crap. Just me and the cats.
When you have housemates you have to put up with so many issues, especially if you manage the place. I hate having to practically beg someone to do something as simple and reasonable as wring out a fucking sponge and put it away.
Then there are the emotional issues. Let me tell you about one little fucktard who's soon to be history. He's a little Guatemalan/Honduran weirdo named . . . . Pepe.
Pepe's a real piece of work, a superstitious little new age goob with neanderthalian features who sincerly believes former President Clinton had a fetish for sucking the blood out of newborn babies. No, I am not making this up. Clinton = babybloodsucker. Imagine all the fun Ken Starr and his bunch could have had with that one. "Heritic! ! ! Burn the Baby-Sucking Heretic! ! !"
There's more, much much more but I think you get the point. Pepe feels that much of his virility comes from his extra-bushy and overabundant eyebrows. They look like live animals crawling across his forehead. . . I've talked with another housemate about someday tackling Pepe and shaving his eyebrows, just to see if he would shrivel up before our eyes as his virility drains from his body, making him shrivel up like a prune. Worth a try . . .
Today after I left the house I was stressing a major amount because I left Pepe's phone at the bottom of the stairs when I went out to run some errands after the interview. I'm using his phone to receive job interview offers because my phone's been shut off for non-pay, no surprise when you have no job, no benefits, no financial resources whatsoever and $16.00 in the bank.
Pepe loves to give someone a long, drawn out lecture as if he was your father lecturing a child. I fucking hate that. I can handle a pissed-off customer any day of the week at a call center, but when someone starts lecturing me like a child, it's all over folks. Time for me to get some spleen, and it's gonna be yours, bitch.
I cut things short and hopped on the bus, replaying Pepe's little lecture about putting his *fucking* phone back in his room after I'm done using it, over and over again until I was ready to kill Pepe just on principal alone. He would come up to me, tilting his chin back, hissing through his teeth as he drew in his breath like he was deciding whether he was going to give someone a spanking or just a stern lecture, and then I would lose it, scream, tear his shirt open and bite out his spleen. I could see it all so clearly. Pepe. Hissing. Spleen. Blood spurting. My crimson smile as I reveled in the joy of never hearing another of Pepe's stupid, stupid lectures ever, ever again. And then they would come to take me away, oh no ! ! !
I got off the bus and I'm walking up the hill when all of a sudden I see . . . Pepe ! Getting out of his car ! And my ankles are sore, my knee feels like it's about to give out . . . And I run. Up the steps, down the walk, up the steps to the porch and into the house to retrieve the phone, carry it upstairs, put it in his room and close the door, all so Pepe knows that, even though I'm using his phone with his permission, at least I have the courtesy to put it back in his room.
I close the door, run down the stairs, scaring the cats who are watching with much worry, and go into my room and partially close the door. Then Pepe comes in. Oblivious. I lie back in bed and smile, glad to be rid of Pepe and a possible lecture.
The rest of the evening goes by somewhat peacefully, with the exception of my spotty wi-fi connection. Finally I am able to get it back up again, but only by putting the laptop near the couch at an angle. I am in the midst of catching up on my daily netsurfing when Pepe comes through the door. It's dark in the living room as he walks through, the only illumination is the laptop screen, turned down.
Pepe begins to talk. He's had a bad day at work. I guess Pepe's got a job now driving a delivery van and it's not going to well for him. Apparently, pretty much from day one they've had problems with him and he's feeling the stress.
I feel sorry for Pepe, I really do. Poor guy comes up here from . . . wherever, his last shared housing situation the people there hated his friggin' guts (bloodsucking aliens, anyone?), so he moved in here.
So now Pepe unloads, and I become his shoulder to cry on, offering support, telling him it's going to be okay, telling him there will be other jobs and things will be better for him. I almost want to take his shaved, bald head in my hands and kiss it to make him feel better. Or maybe not.
He feels better now. I can tell because he changes the subject to aliens and one-world governments and blood-sucking Clintons.
Then he drops the bombshell. He no longer wants me to use his phone. Period. I cannot receive calls from potential employers, although I've got buttloads of resumes out there with his friggin' callback number on them. All over the fucking town. And he cuts me off the phone cold.
I try to reason with Pepe, bargain with him, tell him that unless I am allowed to use that phone to receive calls that I will be unable to get a job and could end up getting thrown out at the end of the month. He doesn't care. I explain to him that I only need it for the rest of the month. He doesn't care.
Now I don't care about Pepe, and I explode. Boy do I explode. I remind Pepe that as the manager at the shared house that I can terminate his tenancy. He doubts my authority. I tell him to get packing and searching for a new house because he's pretty much just kicked himself out. He doesn't care. Of course, this whole conversation is taking place in UPPER CAPS SO IT IS LIKE I AM YELLING, WHICH I AM.
Finally Pepe exits stage right, and as soon as one of the housemates comes home I explain the situation to him. As luck has it, he has a potential tenant! With check in hand! Ready tomorrow night! Goodbye Pepe!
I got home today after going through the hell of the interview, sweating in my interview monkey suit, smoking cigerettes when I usually don't and wished so much I had a place of my own. No b.s. to put up with, no crap. Just me and the cats.
When you have housemates you have to put up with so many issues, especially if you manage the place. I hate having to practically beg someone to do something as simple and reasonable as wring out a fucking sponge and put it away.
Then there are the emotional issues. Let me tell you about one little fucktard who's soon to be history. He's a little Guatemalan/Honduran weirdo named . . . . Pepe.
Pepe's a real piece of work, a superstitious little new age goob with neanderthalian features who sincerly believes former President Clinton had a fetish for sucking the blood out of newborn babies. No, I am not making this up. Clinton = babybloodsucker. Imagine all the fun Ken Starr and his bunch could have had with that one. "Heritic! ! ! Burn the Baby-Sucking Heretic! ! !"
There's more, much much more but I think you get the point. Pepe feels that much of his virility comes from his extra-bushy and overabundant eyebrows. They look like live animals crawling across his forehead. . . I've talked with another housemate about someday tackling Pepe and shaving his eyebrows, just to see if he would shrivel up before our eyes as his virility drains from his body, making him shrivel up like a prune. Worth a try . . .
Today after I left the house I was stressing a major amount because I left Pepe's phone at the bottom of the stairs when I went out to run some errands after the interview. I'm using his phone to receive job interview offers because my phone's been shut off for non-pay, no surprise when you have no job, no benefits, no financial resources whatsoever and $16.00 in the bank.
Pepe loves to give someone a long, drawn out lecture as if he was your father lecturing a child. I fucking hate that. I can handle a pissed-off customer any day of the week at a call center, but when someone starts lecturing me like a child, it's all over folks. Time for me to get some spleen, and it's gonna be yours, bitch.
I cut things short and hopped on the bus, replaying Pepe's little lecture about putting his *fucking* phone back in his room after I'm done using it, over and over again until I was ready to kill Pepe just on principal alone. He would come up to me, tilting his chin back, hissing through his teeth as he drew in his breath like he was deciding whether he was going to give someone a spanking or just a stern lecture, and then I would lose it, scream, tear his shirt open and bite out his spleen. I could see it all so clearly. Pepe. Hissing. Spleen. Blood spurting. My crimson smile as I reveled in the joy of never hearing another of Pepe's stupid, stupid lectures ever, ever again. And then they would come to take me away, oh no ! ! !
I got off the bus and I'm walking up the hill when all of a sudden I see . . . Pepe ! Getting out of his car ! And my ankles are sore, my knee feels like it's about to give out . . . And I run. Up the steps, down the walk, up the steps to the porch and into the house to retrieve the phone, carry it upstairs, put it in his room and close the door, all so Pepe knows that, even though I'm using his phone with his permission, at least I have the courtesy to put it back in his room.
I close the door, run down the stairs, scaring the cats who are watching with much worry, and go into my room and partially close the door. Then Pepe comes in. Oblivious. I lie back in bed and smile, glad to be rid of Pepe and a possible lecture.
The rest of the evening goes by somewhat peacefully, with the exception of my spotty wi-fi connection. Finally I am able to get it back up again, but only by putting the laptop near the couch at an angle. I am in the midst of catching up on my daily netsurfing when Pepe comes through the door. It's dark in the living room as he walks through, the only illumination is the laptop screen, turned down.
Pepe begins to talk. He's had a bad day at work. I guess Pepe's got a job now driving a delivery van and it's not going to well for him. Apparently, pretty much from day one they've had problems with him and he's feeling the stress.
I feel sorry for Pepe, I really do. Poor guy comes up here from . . . wherever, his last shared housing situation the people there hated his friggin' guts (bloodsucking aliens, anyone?), so he moved in here.
So now Pepe unloads, and I become his shoulder to cry on, offering support, telling him it's going to be okay, telling him there will be other jobs and things will be better for him. I almost want to take his shaved, bald head in my hands and kiss it to make him feel better. Or maybe not.
He feels better now. I can tell because he changes the subject to aliens and one-world governments and blood-sucking Clintons.
Then he drops the bombshell. He no longer wants me to use his phone. Period. I cannot receive calls from potential employers, although I've got buttloads of resumes out there with his friggin' callback number on them. All over the fucking town. And he cuts me off the phone cold.
I try to reason with Pepe, bargain with him, tell him that unless I am allowed to use that phone to receive calls that I will be unable to get a job and could end up getting thrown out at the end of the month. He doesn't care. I explain to him that I only need it for the rest of the month. He doesn't care.
Now I don't care about Pepe, and I explode. Boy do I explode. I remind Pepe that as the manager at the shared house that I can terminate his tenancy. He doubts my authority. I tell him to get packing and searching for a new house because he's pretty much just kicked himself out. He doesn't care. Of course, this whole conversation is taking place in UPPER CAPS SO IT IS LIKE I AM YELLING, WHICH I AM.
Finally Pepe exits stage right, and as soon as one of the housemates comes home I explain the situation to him. As luck has it, he has a potential tenant! With check in hand! Ready tomorrow night! Goodbye Pepe!
Major Fucking Stress
I wake up early this morning to get ready for a job interview at 10:00. It's six-thirty and I lie in bed and think about it, how I hope I don't stress out, say the wrong thing, cough up a lung at the appropriate time, seem like a servile toady just when they want me to. I get out of bed and shower, dress in grubbies 'cause it's so early, then make myself a nice breakfast, 4 eggs, 4 links of sausage, 4 slices of english muffins and a pot of coffee and sit down at my computer to check the news on the net. I've got free wi-fi, courtesy of a neighbor, although intermitent, as it was today.
I watch the time as I eat, making sure I've allowed enough to get dressed, make sure all my notes are ready, references, etc. At around 7:45 I decide I should check my memo pad to make sure I'll make it to the bus on time and discover I've only got 17 minutes to get ready, get on the bus and make my connection at the freeway station. Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit. I scramble and miraculously make it out the door. I miss the bus but it's not that important because I've allowed myself some time in case of this very occurance. So I take a bus to the U-district, catch a connecting bus to the freeway station and within half an hour I'm on my way, arriving at the interview with plenty of time to spare.
I follow the instructions that the HR person gave me the day before, sign in, get my badge and make my way back to the HR department where I fill out a job application, writing down all my sins, noting down past names of supervisors who were so incompetent, so inhumane they should never be allowed above fry cook at a fast food place. Not a McDonald's, they don't even deserve that. Just some shitty backwoods greasy spoon. And I hope they never try to call at least one of those people, 'cause they will make up plenty o' shit about yours truly.
I can't believe how things are today in this country. You work hard, do a good job, tolerate inhuman bastards and bitches that should be shut away in institutions for the mentally ill and now, when you fill out a job application, *you're Charles Manson, Jeffrey Dahmer, Adolf Hitler*. Even if you've lived an honest and honerable life, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is how badly they want to fuck you as you go out the door, getting away from their shitty, inhumane, demeaning job that you depend on to put food in your mouth, a roof over your head and hopefully, hopefully, a car to drive of your own. Just a car. Any car. And pray to god that it runs for at least a little while. Another source of stress. "Will my car run at the end of the day?" "Will I be able to insure it?" "Should I even bother to insure it, with all the other bills that I have?" When will it all end? Please, take me now.
So I finish the job application, turn it in, go back to my seat and try to find something interesting to read. Company brochure. Blechhh. . . . So I read the company brochure. We are a re-insurer. We insure the insurer. . . . Oughta be money in that. . . . Until you have to pay out a claim. Owned by Warren Buffet. There's somebody who knows how to use money to make money. Wish I was Warren. Then I wouldn't have to worry about the simple things like wondering where cat food is going to come from at the end of the week with no job and $16.00 in the bank and no unemployment. Parents retired, broken by the stock market bubble, bless'em for having faith in the market . . . . Rubes who were fleeced clean, robbing their children of an inheritance. As if that were ever going to happen anyway. I never believed it, not for a moment. I know both of my parents too well.
Finally the HR person comes to see me. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought we agreed that after checking the schedule today that we would see you tomorrow. Let me see if we have someone available who you could see now." Checks schedule . . . "Nope." At least she agrees to do the pre-interview stuff now, the most important part and let me come back tomorrow. But first she has something she has to do. "Could you come back at 11:00?" So I walk around the Microsoft campus area for almost an hour, wishing I could get a job there instead of the place I'm interviewing at. At least they get all the cool toys. The toys. And major, major fucking stress.
Would you want Bill lopping your balls off in a meeting? I hear the guy is fucking murder. You forget one tiny little detail in a presentation and he will find it, bore in on it, and make your life a living hell that you wonder if you will ever get out of, even though you know the meeting is only half an hour long. But with Bill yelling at you, demeaning you, making you feel like you are absolutly the stupidest, most insignificant, most unworthy human being on the entire planet, if not the universe. And all you want to do is die. Just kill me. Please. Rip out my lungs with a rusty butterknife, I don't care, anything is better than Bill and his maxed out to eleven temper.
I arrive back at the HR department and go in for my interview. This is the worst part, the interview. Cough up a lung. Tell us what your worst mistake in your entire life was on the job so we can use it against you later. Tell us what your worst experience with a manager was. A co-worker. Your mother. Your priest. Your pet. Your shoe. Why exactly should we hire such a pathetic, unworthy, disgusting human being as you? Will you let us rape you in the ass without lube? How often? Will you smile like you enjoy it? Wear sexy clothing that leaves you with an itch? Let us pimp you out to clients for their own sick and demented pleasure? 'Cause if you can do all that, baby you got a job!
But not for too much pay. We want you to be an endentured servant, not the cock-o-the-walk. Take this pathetic wage. We offer it to you on a plate served with cold shit. Then laugh behind your back when you take it up, smile and eat it with a grin.
Finally the interview ends and she asks me to come back for the second part tomorrow. I made it through this far, what else can they do to me? So, tomorrow I go back for more. . .
I wake up early this morning to get ready for a job interview at 10:00. It's six-thirty and I lie in bed and think about it, how I hope I don't stress out, say the wrong thing, cough up a lung at the appropriate time, seem like a servile toady just when they want me to. I get out of bed and shower, dress in grubbies 'cause it's so early, then make myself a nice breakfast, 4 eggs, 4 links of sausage, 4 slices of english muffins and a pot of coffee and sit down at my computer to check the news on the net. I've got free wi-fi, courtesy of a neighbor, although intermitent, as it was today.
I watch the time as I eat, making sure I've allowed enough to get dressed, make sure all my notes are ready, references, etc. At around 7:45 I decide I should check my memo pad to make sure I'll make it to the bus on time and discover I've only got 17 minutes to get ready, get on the bus and make my connection at the freeway station. Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit. I scramble and miraculously make it out the door. I miss the bus but it's not that important because I've allowed myself some time in case of this very occurance. So I take a bus to the U-district, catch a connecting bus to the freeway station and within half an hour I'm on my way, arriving at the interview with plenty of time to spare.
I follow the instructions that the HR person gave me the day before, sign in, get my badge and make my way back to the HR department where I fill out a job application, writing down all my sins, noting down past names of supervisors who were so incompetent, so inhumane they should never be allowed above fry cook at a fast food place. Not a McDonald's, they don't even deserve that. Just some shitty backwoods greasy spoon. And I hope they never try to call at least one of those people, 'cause they will make up plenty o' shit about yours truly.
I can't believe how things are today in this country. You work hard, do a good job, tolerate inhuman bastards and bitches that should be shut away in institutions for the mentally ill and now, when you fill out a job application, *you're Charles Manson, Jeffrey Dahmer, Adolf Hitler*. Even if you've lived an honest and honerable life, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is how badly they want to fuck you as you go out the door, getting away from their shitty, inhumane, demeaning job that you depend on to put food in your mouth, a roof over your head and hopefully, hopefully, a car to drive of your own. Just a car. Any car. And pray to god that it runs for at least a little while. Another source of stress. "Will my car run at the end of the day?" "Will I be able to insure it?" "Should I even bother to insure it, with all the other bills that I have?" When will it all end? Please, take me now.
So I finish the job application, turn it in, go back to my seat and try to find something interesting to read. Company brochure. Blechhh. . . . So I read the company brochure. We are a re-insurer. We insure the insurer. . . . Oughta be money in that. . . . Until you have to pay out a claim. Owned by Warren Buffet. There's somebody who knows how to use money to make money. Wish I was Warren. Then I wouldn't have to worry about the simple things like wondering where cat food is going to come from at the end of the week with no job and $16.00 in the bank and no unemployment. Parents retired, broken by the stock market bubble, bless'em for having faith in the market . . . . Rubes who were fleeced clean, robbing their children of an inheritance. As if that were ever going to happen anyway. I never believed it, not for a moment. I know both of my parents too well.
Finally the HR person comes to see me. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought we agreed that after checking the schedule today that we would see you tomorrow. Let me see if we have someone available who you could see now." Checks schedule . . . "Nope." At least she agrees to do the pre-interview stuff now, the most important part and let me come back tomorrow. But first she has something she has to do. "Could you come back at 11:00?" So I walk around the Microsoft campus area for almost an hour, wishing I could get a job there instead of the place I'm interviewing at. At least they get all the cool toys. The toys. And major, major fucking stress.
Would you want Bill lopping your balls off in a meeting? I hear the guy is fucking murder. You forget one tiny little detail in a presentation and he will find it, bore in on it, and make your life a living hell that you wonder if you will ever get out of, even though you know the meeting is only half an hour long. But with Bill yelling at you, demeaning you, making you feel like you are absolutly the stupidest, most insignificant, most unworthy human being on the entire planet, if not the universe. And all you want to do is die. Just kill me. Please. Rip out my lungs with a rusty butterknife, I don't care, anything is better than Bill and his maxed out to eleven temper.
I arrive back at the HR department and go in for my interview. This is the worst part, the interview. Cough up a lung. Tell us what your worst mistake in your entire life was on the job so we can use it against you later. Tell us what your worst experience with a manager was. A co-worker. Your mother. Your priest. Your pet. Your shoe. Why exactly should we hire such a pathetic, unworthy, disgusting human being as you? Will you let us rape you in the ass without lube? How often? Will you smile like you enjoy it? Wear sexy clothing that leaves you with an itch? Let us pimp you out to clients for their own sick and demented pleasure? 'Cause if you can do all that, baby you got a job!
But not for too much pay. We want you to be an endentured servant, not the cock-o-the-walk. Take this pathetic wage. We offer it to you on a plate served with cold shit. Then laugh behind your back when you take it up, smile and eat it with a grin.
Finally the interview ends and she asks me to come back for the second part tomorrow. I made it through this far, what else can they do to me? So, tomorrow I go back for more. . .
Monday, September 27, 2004
This one was so good I just ran it in it's entirety. Thank You for speaking for us all who still have a conscience.
The Unfeeling President
I fault this president for not knowing what death is. He does not suffer the death of our 21-year-olds who wanted to be what they could be. On the eve of D-Day in 1944 General Eisenhower prayed to God for the lives of the young soldiers he knew were going to die. He knew what death was. Even in a justifiable war, a war not of choice but of necessity, a war of survival, the cost was almost more than Eisenhower could bear.
But this president does not know what death is. He hasn't the mind for it. You see him joking with the press, peering under the table for the weapons of mass destruction he can't seem to find, you see him at rallies strutting up to the stage in shirt sleeves to the roar of the carefully screened crowd, smiling and waving, triumphal, a he-man.
He does not mourn. He doesn't understand why he should mourn. He is satisfied during the course of a speech written for him to look solemn for a moment and speak of the brave young Americans who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country.
But you study him, you look into his eyes and know he dissembles an emotion which he does not feel in the depths of his being because he has no capacity for it. He does not feel a personal responsibility for the 1,000 dead young men and women who wanted to be what they could be.
They come to his desk not as youngsters with mothers and fathers or wives and children who will suffer to the end of their days a terribly torn fabric of familial relationships and the inconsolable remembrance of aborted life . . . they come to his desk as a political liability, which is why the press is not permitted to photograph the arrival of their coffins from Iraq.
How then can he mourn? To mourn is to express regret and he regrets nothing. He does not regret that his reason for going to war was, as he knew, unsubstantiated by the facts. He does not regret that his bungled plan for the war's aftermath has made of his mission-accomplished a disaster. He does not regret that, rather than controlling terrorism, his war in Iraq has licensed it. So he never mourns for the dead and crippled youngsters who have fought this war of his choice.
He wanted to go to war and he did. He had not the mind to perceive the costs of war, or to listen to those who knew those costs. He did not understand that you do not go to war when it is one of the options but when it is the only option; you go not because you want to but because you have to.
Yet this president knew it would be difficult for Americans not to cheer the overthrow of a foreign dictator. He knew that much. This president and his supporters would seem to have a mind for only one thing -- to take power, to remain in power, and to use that power for the sake of themselves and their friends.
A war will do that as well as anything. You become a wartime leader. The country gets behind you. Dissent becomes inappropriate. And so he does not drop to his knees, he is not contrite, he does not sit in the church with the grieving parents and wives and children. He is the president who does not feel. He does not feel for the families of the dead, he does not feel for the 35 million of us who live in poverty, he does not feel for the 40 percent who cannot afford health insurance, he does not feel for the miners whose lungs are turning black or for the working people he has deprived of the chance to work overtime at time-and-a-half to pay their bills - it is amazing for how many people in this country this president does not feel.
But he will dissemble feeling. He will say in all sincerity he is relieving the wealthiest 1 percent of the population of their tax burden for the sake of the rest of us, and that he is polluting the air we breathe for the sake of our economy, and that he is decreasing the quality of air in coal mines to save the coal miners' jobs, and that he is depriving workers of their time-and-a-half benefits for overtime because this is actually a way to honor them by raising them into the professional class.
And this litany of lies he will versify with reverences for God and the flag and democracy, when just what he and his party are doing to our democracy is choking the life out of it.
But there is one more terribly sad thing about all of this. I remember the millions of people here and around the world who marched against the war. It was extraordinary, that spontaneous aroused oversoul of alarm and protest that transcended national borders. Why did it happen? After all, this was not the only war anyone had ever seen coming. There are little wars all over he world most of the time.
But the cry of protest was the appalled understanding of millions of people that America was ceding its role as the last best hope of mankind. It was their perception that the classic archetype of democracy was morphing into a rogue nation. The greatest democratic republic in history was turning its back on the future, using its extraordinary power and standing not to advance the ideal of a concordance of civilizations but to endorse the kind of tribal combat that originated with the Neanderthals, a people, now extinct, who could imagine ensuring their survival by no other means than pre-emptive war.
The president we get is the country we get. With each president the nation is conformed spiritually. He is the artificer of our malleable national soul. He proposes not only the laws but the kinds of lawlessness that govern our lives and invoke our responses. The people he appoints are cast in his image. The trouble they get into and get us into, is his characteristic trouble.
Finally, the media amplify his character into our moral weather report. He becomes the face of our sky, the conditions that prevail. How can we sustain ourselves as the United States of America given the stupid and ineffective warmaking, the constitutionally insensitive lawgiving, and the monarchal economics of this president? He cannot mourn but is a figure of such moral vacancy as to make us mourn for ourselves.
The novelist E.L. Doctorow has a house in Sag Harbor.
The Unfeeling President
I fault this president for not knowing what death is. He does not suffer the death of our 21-year-olds who wanted to be what they could be. On the eve of D-Day in 1944 General Eisenhower prayed to God for the lives of the young soldiers he knew were going to die. He knew what death was. Even in a justifiable war, a war not of choice but of necessity, a war of survival, the cost was almost more than Eisenhower could bear.
But this president does not know what death is. He hasn't the mind for it. You see him joking with the press, peering under the table for the weapons of mass destruction he can't seem to find, you see him at rallies strutting up to the stage in shirt sleeves to the roar of the carefully screened crowd, smiling and waving, triumphal, a he-man.
He does not mourn. He doesn't understand why he should mourn. He is satisfied during the course of a speech written for him to look solemn for a moment and speak of the brave young Americans who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country.
But you study him, you look into his eyes and know he dissembles an emotion which he does not feel in the depths of his being because he has no capacity for it. He does not feel a personal responsibility for the 1,000 dead young men and women who wanted to be what they could be.
They come to his desk not as youngsters with mothers and fathers or wives and children who will suffer to the end of their days a terribly torn fabric of familial relationships and the inconsolable remembrance of aborted life . . . they come to his desk as a political liability, which is why the press is not permitted to photograph the arrival of their coffins from Iraq.
How then can he mourn? To mourn is to express regret and he regrets nothing. He does not regret that his reason for going to war was, as he knew, unsubstantiated by the facts. He does not regret that his bungled plan for the war's aftermath has made of his mission-accomplished a disaster. He does not regret that, rather than controlling terrorism, his war in Iraq has licensed it. So he never mourns for the dead and crippled youngsters who have fought this war of his choice.
He wanted to go to war and he did. He had not the mind to perceive the costs of war, or to listen to those who knew those costs. He did not understand that you do not go to war when it is one of the options but when it is the only option; you go not because you want to but because you have to.
Yet this president knew it would be difficult for Americans not to cheer the overthrow of a foreign dictator. He knew that much. This president and his supporters would seem to have a mind for only one thing -- to take power, to remain in power, and to use that power for the sake of themselves and their friends.
A war will do that as well as anything. You become a wartime leader. The country gets behind you. Dissent becomes inappropriate. And so he does not drop to his knees, he is not contrite, he does not sit in the church with the grieving parents and wives and children. He is the president who does not feel. He does not feel for the families of the dead, he does not feel for the 35 million of us who live in poverty, he does not feel for the 40 percent who cannot afford health insurance, he does not feel for the miners whose lungs are turning black or for the working people he has deprived of the chance to work overtime at time-and-a-half to pay their bills - it is amazing for how many people in this country this president does not feel.
But he will dissemble feeling. He will say in all sincerity he is relieving the wealthiest 1 percent of the population of their tax burden for the sake of the rest of us, and that he is polluting the air we breathe for the sake of our economy, and that he is decreasing the quality of air in coal mines to save the coal miners' jobs, and that he is depriving workers of their time-and-a-half benefits for overtime because this is actually a way to honor them by raising them into the professional class.
And this litany of lies he will versify with reverences for God and the flag and democracy, when just what he and his party are doing to our democracy is choking the life out of it.
But there is one more terribly sad thing about all of this. I remember the millions of people here and around the world who marched against the war. It was extraordinary, that spontaneous aroused oversoul of alarm and protest that transcended national borders. Why did it happen? After all, this was not the only war anyone had ever seen coming. There are little wars all over he world most of the time.
But the cry of protest was the appalled understanding of millions of people that America was ceding its role as the last best hope of mankind. It was their perception that the classic archetype of democracy was morphing into a rogue nation. The greatest democratic republic in history was turning its back on the future, using its extraordinary power and standing not to advance the ideal of a concordance of civilizations but to endorse the kind of tribal combat that originated with the Neanderthals, a people, now extinct, who could imagine ensuring their survival by no other means than pre-emptive war.
The president we get is the country we get. With each president the nation is conformed spiritually. He is the artificer of our malleable national soul. He proposes not only the laws but the kinds of lawlessness that govern our lives and invoke our responses. The people he appoints are cast in his image. The trouble they get into and get us into, is his characteristic trouble.
Finally, the media amplify his character into our moral weather report. He becomes the face of our sky, the conditions that prevail. How can we sustain ourselves as the United States of America given the stupid and ineffective warmaking, the constitutionally insensitive lawgiving, and the monarchal economics of this president? He cannot mourn but is a figure of such moral vacancy as to make us mourn for ourselves.
The novelist E.L. Doctorow has a house in Sag Harbor.
This is in regards to this story: The enemy is not on the court
Armstrong wanted to wear long pants, sleeves and a scarf while playing because the Islamic code calls for women's skin to be covered. Her teammates didn't mind, but critics screamed that it would open the floodgates for individualized jewelry and clothing to be worn by every player with a distinctive faith.
=======================================================================
My buddy felt she shouldn't be allowed to wear a scarf or warm-ups on the court. I felt it was okay. Here's my response:
Nope, sorry I disagree. Let's look at this: If she's
Amish and is required by her faith to wear that frumpy
old 1800 settler's dress and sun bonnet how many
people would be upset over that? Pretty much no one,
in fact the hard core christians would all be like
'oh, she's living her faith, she's blessed!' I think
the whole issue is just intolerance to a mid-east
religion. I mean really, when teams come out on the
court they're wearing their warmup suits, running
around, passing the ball, grabbing each others nuts,
dry humping and shit, what's the dealeo with her
wearing her warmup suit while she plays? No big deal.
What if she's got lupis and it's a danger for her
skin to be exposed to. . . . harsh lamplight? As far
as wearing a scarf, again, no big deal. She didn't
convert to Islam until *after* she was at school. My
buddy Mohamed, who's muslim has a wife who never wore
the hijab or a scarf, or really pretty much anything
(they're proud islamic nudists.) But a few years ago
she decided to wear a scarf, wear the hijab and he
said it was her decision to do so, he never pressured
her and he supported her either way. If you ever saw
the two of them together you would know he was telling
the truth, I've seldom seen a more equal couple, he
was *always* talking to her about 'Well, do you want
to do this." "What would *you* like to do." "Get me
a malt liquor, bitch!" You know, typical american
family.
As far as 'encouraging others to pimp out their
uniforms.' Bullshit. If dude wants to put on a ton
o' bling bling before he comes out on the court, let
him. I'll dance all over his ass while he's trying to
avoid getting smacked by his 20 pounds worth of
mercedes/porsche/cadillac/pepsi/coke/sprite/tab/
medals and shit. And I don't even play basketball!
'Yeah, come on bitch, come get some.' *smack* Mikey
goes down for the count. . .
Anyway, I guess I've made my point. It's no big
deal, and people shouldn't be getting all nuclear
about *a scarf* ! ! !
Armstrong wanted to wear long pants, sleeves and a scarf while playing because the Islamic code calls for women's skin to be covered. Her teammates didn't mind, but critics screamed that it would open the floodgates for individualized jewelry and clothing to be worn by every player with a distinctive faith.
=======================================================================
My buddy felt she shouldn't be allowed to wear a scarf or warm-ups on the court. I felt it was okay. Here's my response:
Nope, sorry I disagree. Let's look at this: If she's
Amish and is required by her faith to wear that frumpy
old 1800 settler's dress and sun bonnet how many
people would be upset over that? Pretty much no one,
in fact the hard core christians would all be like
'oh, she's living her faith, she's blessed!' I think
the whole issue is just intolerance to a mid-east
religion. I mean really, when teams come out on the
court they're wearing their warmup suits, running
around, passing the ball, grabbing each others nuts,
dry humping and shit, what's the dealeo with her
wearing her warmup suit while she plays? No big deal.
What if she's got lupis and it's a danger for her
skin to be exposed to. . . . harsh lamplight? As far
as wearing a scarf, again, no big deal. She didn't
convert to Islam until *after* she was at school. My
buddy Mohamed, who's muslim has a wife who never wore
the hijab or a scarf, or really pretty much anything
(they're proud islamic nudists.) But a few years ago
she decided to wear a scarf, wear the hijab and he
said it was her decision to do so, he never pressured
her and he supported her either way. If you ever saw
the two of them together you would know he was telling
the truth, I've seldom seen a more equal couple, he
was *always* talking to her about 'Well, do you want
to do this." "What would *you* like to do." "Get me
a malt liquor, bitch!" You know, typical american
family.
As far as 'encouraging others to pimp out their
uniforms.' Bullshit. If dude wants to put on a ton
o' bling bling before he comes out on the court, let
him. I'll dance all over his ass while he's trying to
avoid getting smacked by his 20 pounds worth of
mercedes/porsche/cadillac/pepsi/coke/sprite/tab/
medals and shit. And I don't even play basketball!
'Yeah, come on bitch, come get some.' *smack* Mikey
goes down for the count. . .
Anyway, I guess I've made my point. It's no big
deal, and people shouldn't be getting all nuclear
about *a scarf* ! ! !
America the Conservative
CAMBRIDGE, Mass. — Whether President Bush is reelected or Sen. John F. Kerry prevails, the United States will be the most conservative developed nation in the world. Its economy will remain the least regulated, its welfare state the smallest, its military the strongest and its citizens the most religious. According to data taken from the World Values Survey in the last decade, 60% of Americans believe that the poor are lazy (only 26% of Europeans share that view), and 30% believe that luck determines income (54% of Europeans say so). About 60% of Europeans say the poor are trapped, while only 29% of Americans believe they are. And roughly 30% of Europeans declare themselves to be left wing, but only 17% of Americans do.
CAMBRIDGE, Mass. — Whether President Bush is reelected or Sen. John F. Kerry prevails, the United States will be the most conservative developed nation in the world. Its economy will remain the least regulated, its welfare state the smallest, its military the strongest and its citizens the most religious. According to data taken from the World Values Survey in the last decade, 60% of Americans believe that the poor are lazy (only 26% of Europeans share that view), and 30% believe that luck determines income (54% of Europeans say so). About 60% of Europeans say the poor are trapped, while only 29% of Americans believe they are. And roughly 30% of Europeans declare themselves to be left wing, but only 17% of Americans do.
Progress through civilized behavior, not 'survival of the fittest' barbarism. This country is declining in every possible way and solutions need to be found. Compasionate Conservatism is regressive barbarism. Period.
Poverty Up as Welfare Enrollment Declines
Though the number of welfare recipients continues to decline, poverty rates -- particularly for single mothers and children -- have surged in recent years. Just last month, the government reported that the number of people on welfare had declined by 149,000 at the end of 2003 compared with 2002, while the number in poverty rose by 1.3 million. Those divergent trends offer fresh ammunition to both sides in the debate over whether, eight years after the fact, welfare reform is working.
Poverty Up as Welfare Enrollment Declines
Though the number of welfare recipients continues to decline, poverty rates -- particularly for single mothers and children -- have surged in recent years. Just last month, the government reported that the number of people on welfare had declined by 149,000 at the end of 2003 compared with 2002, while the number in poverty rose by 1.3 million. Those divergent trends offer fresh ammunition to both sides in the debate over whether, eight years after the fact, welfare reform is working.
Today I've spent waiting around for a callback from a potential employer, I hate this part of things, the not knowing. Will they call? Am I too late? Will they offer a crap wage (almost always yes.)
I've also been looking over some unpaid bills. I've decided to do a better job of archiving these things so that when I finally do have some income I can get them paid off sooner. We are all endentured servants now.
So, mostly I just surf the net, post for jobs, clean up around the house and wish for better times. Somehow I wonder if *that* will ever happen again. At least I don't live in the Walled City of Kowloon
. . .
I've also been looking over some unpaid bills. I've decided to do a better job of archiving these things so that when I finally do have some income I can get them paid off sooner. We are all endentured servants now.
So, mostly I just surf the net, post for jobs, clean up around the house and wish for better times. Somehow I wonder if *that* will ever happen again. At least I don't live in the Walled City of Kowloon
. . .
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