Wednesday, September 12, 2007

F.M.I.T. (or, Fuck Me, it's Tuesday)

First of all, temps are sexy. If you think they're not, you're just wrong, and that's all there is to it. Second, temps are invisible. You may find it hard to rectify these two aspects… and there you have it: The Mystery of the Temp.

Thoughts and notes:

-My current boss for the last two and a half weeks has a huge corner office on the 25th floor of a stunning Midtown sky-scraper. It is nicely furnished. He also has a giant house on the New Jersey shore, bought and paid for, which, I am sure, is also nicely set-up. He has limos pick him up and drive him around. I have heard him say "Hello", I have heard him say "Thank you", and I have heard him talk baseball, but I have never once seen him smile. Not once. His desk is strewn with various pill bottles his doctor has prescribed him for his various ailments due, no doubt, to stress. I answer his phone, and I make his copies, and I feel sorry for him. Every time I look at him I think, "What was the point, if it hasn't made you happy?"

-Temping is, by far, the easiest job I've ever had in my life. I'm making $18/hr to sit on my ass, screw around on myspace, catch up on emailing, and that's really about it. One day I answered the phone thrice… THRICE, then made one singular copy, and that was all the work I did. Mega-corporate-law-firms have too much money. It's dirty money, and I'm happy enough to put it through the Artist Filter and clean it up.

-Also, every law firm I've worked at so far has at least twelve flavors of instant coffee in their pantry/break-room, and there's always at least one really weird flavor like "Mars Bar". I'm not a coffee drinker, myself, but I discovered that I could get seltzer water out of the soda-fountain, and I don't even know how many liters of that stuff I'm downing every day.

-The other day I was riding the train home, and a man seemed to fall asleep on a little old lady's shoulder. She got up, and moved hurriedly to the other side of the train, huffing and puffing her outrage. It was pretty funny. Everyone around started cracking up, and I was thinking, "This is so great. It's so rare in New York for a group of strangers to laugh together. Especially on a subway at rush-hour." Then some teenage boys (who were laughing the hardest), started posing with the man as he leaned further over to the side, taking pictures with their cell phones. People were still laughing. A German tourist said, "Yah, now you have a souvenir!" Finally, as the man went completely horizontal on the subway bench, the two boys got a friend to snap pictures of both of them with him, throwing peace signs and whatnot. There was still some giggles here and there. Suddenly a woman spoke up.

Woman: You know, that's a human being you're doing that to.

1st teen: Well, he shouldn't be on drugs.

Woman: Well, he has a problem but—

1st teen: No, he shouldn't be on drugs. (putting his hands up and yelling) Everybody! Do not do drugs! This is what drugs will do!

Woman: You're just being cruel.

1st teen: If I'm cruel, why don't you sue me? (as he and his friends are getting off the train) My name is Brian ______, and I've got millions of dollars. Sue me! Don't do drugs, everybody!

Well, the train moved on, and nobody said anything. Anyone who'd laughed felt fairly abashed. The German man still chuckled, shrugged, and said to me, "He's right, of course." (Amazing sympathy for all living things, those Germans.) I felt bad. I thought it was just some guy who was falling asleep. The revelation of the drug element, suddenly, changed all that. At the next stop the conductor came out, and shook the man awake. The guy woke up, and sat up, clearly dazed and sick. "Are you alright, buddy?" The conductor asked. "Do you need me to call the paramedics?" The man shook his head. "Is that blood on your shirt?" The man looked, and shook his head. "What is it, soy sauce?" The man hesitated, then nodded. The conductor left him alone, and pushed the train forward. The man continued to nod, in and out of consciousness, until I got off.

-In a related (drug) story, I got stoned a couple weekends ago while camping and I wrote the following:

is a complicated disastrous
beautiful enchanting
Ornamental oysters always
ask the same question:
What part of the this
am I?
We don't know either.
So we laugh
at them
and call them mangy mollusks.
Serpentine pork-chops
we think
we don't hear.
Love lips.

-It is not always easy for straight men to relate to each other. Which is why when they find a topic they can talk about, they tend to stick to it, hold on for dear life, and ride it out though the rapture were coming. A couple of guys I spent a weekend with found that they could talk about movies that they had seen. Once they figured that out, that was all the talked about for the next two days. Non-stop. Others found it annoying. I was like, "Awww, isn't that sweet? They're trying to get close to each other." It's oddly romantic and touching, if you look at it that way. But don't let on that that's what you think, or they will shoot you; one of them hunts.

-On a final note. One afternoon, as I was walking around Midtown, trying to find a place to have some lunch. On one particularly run-down corner, there stood a particularly run-down girl, listlessly passing out flyers for something or other. Her hair looked tangled and unwashed, and there was what appeared to be grease stains on her jeans. But then I saw the thing that made my day. She wore a pink t-shirt that said, simply, "Outta Your League!" It made me happy, until I wondered if it was true... then it made me sad.


BR 9/12/06

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