Just a thought ...

My 2006 will end with a hellish series of double-shifts that will likely lead me to pursue adventures in which I almost certainly will drink heavily during the three days off I'll enjoy ringing in 2007. Ah, I do love New Year's.

I usually hate resolutions because they're almost certainly annually redundant and doomed to fail. I'm pretty sure I've listed quitting smoking at least half a dozen December 31sts—and I think this year was officially my mere decade anniversary of making people at Camel very rich.

I swore off making resolutions quite some time ago, but ... boy-oh-fucking-boy didn't they just start springing to mind this recent holiday season. Man, when you start a rare afternoon off by dedicating your afternoon to getting all of the water off the flooded basement floor before Dad gets home—and then Dad gets home after you dumped twenty or so buckets into the drain as evidence of your efforts only to watch Dad walk over to the drier south wall area, jiggle a plug, and then inform you that it appears the "suck pump" (Whatever the fucking hell that thing is ...) wasn't completely in the socket.

Oh ... well, fine then.

You feel stupid for spending three hours that could have been fixed in say, uh, fifteen minutes. Maybe ten.

Then you really feel stupid for looking at all the crap you've been leaving on the floor—again. "Didn't I swear to leave the sketchbook on the dresser from now on, you know, the last time this happened?"

I'd elaborate more if 2006 allowed it, but I've got shirts to iron. I now see why the second question of that interview—at this breakfast place nearly two years ago where my current boss nonchalantly asked, "Have you ever worked for Greeks?"—still strikes me with a certain "We warned you" sense of I having should known better.

So I'm compiling my list and wondering if there's more guilt in not fulfilling pointlessly declared resolutions than there is in just simply setting an enormous amount of basic achievements instead.

"I'll eat better."

"I'll get out more."

"I won't let a girl convince me to shave my chest again unless she's really going to make it worth the emotionally painful sense of self-embarrassment."

2006, I won't forget you. But 2007, I can hardly wait to get knowing you.

"It's cold outside."

Another great moment in ones soon to be ignored by Second Amendment-thumpers.

The Tie That Binds

One of the waitresses at work approached me with a smile on Friday, saying she had something for me. She has expressed a fondness for shopping at thrift stores in the past.

"It's an ugly boy's tie," she told me. (Ugly, of course, meaning the tie and not the boy, just to be clear.) It was adorned with black & white soccer balls and a gray background. At the bottom of the tie, one ball seems to be tearing through the netting of a goal, but it appears as though the ball has been shot through an electrical fence. I said my thank yous and promised to wear it the sometime soon.

Sure enough, on Saturday I decided to sport the tie since my own selection has been severely limited by timeliness (bats would be appropriate if this were still, say, October) or simply being lost (blue-checkered design that was a gift from an ex-girlfriend is mysteriously absent).

My boss' mother—as she typically does—comes up to me to review my uniform. Seeing as my apron is clean and my shirt is pressed, she has little to complain about. "I like your tie," she says. Ordinarily, this is the equivalent of a bad review.

Later in the day, a couple at a booth with another friend asks me "what I do." Not quite certain how to answer that question, I respond with something to the effect of "you're looking at it." For one reason or another, they state that I come across as somebody who works in banking, or "executive"-type work. Why they've drawn this conclusion is lost to me, but I catch a glimpse of my tie just above the top of my apron as I accept a business card they've handed me. No customer at the waffle house has ever given me a business card.

After running into another server from a different restaurant at the bar later, we're discussing the differences and similarities between our two establishments when he suddenly starts urging me to come in and apply where he works. I could do well there, he says. "I can see you come off very professionally," he tells me.

Again, I look down at my tie. I'm no longer wearing an apron, but usually I'd have lost the tie by that point too.

Fast-forward to Sunday when I opt for my sentimental favorite, a tie entitled "Busy, Busy Cars" that was drawn by a nine-year-old girl (I'm guessing on the age, but you get the idea ...). It's my Sunday tie, I suppose, and the day goes on with no comment about my wardrobe—except from the same waitress who'd supplied me with the soccer ball art adorned around my neck. She sarcastically gives me some shit about not wearing her tie again, and I promise I'll wear it in the hear future.

I'm in a hurry on Monday when I exit the shower, run downstairs, grab the neatest-looking shirt from the rack and the only tie I can find: soccer balls. We are exceptionally slow—so much so that the waitress in question and I have time to begin, but not finish successfully, two crossword puzzles. Later that evening, I trek downtown to meet with a former editor still working at the paper when he points out that I'm looking "sharp." Again, I can only assume it's because I haven't removed the tie. Sure enough, a barback standing near us tells me, "Nice tie."

And so while I'm mulling over searching out thrift stores for more conversation-starting neckwear, today I followed up on that fellow server's advice and applied at his restaurant. Because, hey, if you can't find one real job, you might as well take on two decent ones to compensate.

The application was about as basic and vague as they come, and the interview might as well have been:

1) "What's your name?"

and

2) "When can you start?"

The answer to that second question is tomorrow evening. And with the annual Christmas Walk coming through town this weekend, I'm guessing I just booked myself a rather hectic little week. Or couple of weeks. Or couple of months. But let's stop there.

"And what should I wear?" I asked the front-of-the-house manager interviewing me.

As is common among fine dining, it's a long-sleeve white dress shirt and black dress pants.

"No tie?" I asked.

Nope; open collar. Perhaps now I can test to see if my naked Adam's Apple reaps the same attention one shortly-debuted tie earned within a single weekend, but I've got my doubts.

Emphasis On The "P" In The Acronym "R.I.P."

There's nothing quite like Thanksgiving to end a pretty ugly week of racial tensions in the media. Besides the post below regarding numbskull Mark Fuhrman's comments adding to the latest sad attempt by "The Juice" to profit off his ex-wife's death, we also got treated to Kramer going slightly postal at a comedy club and then making us further uncomfortable by trying to explain how he's somehow not a racist on Letterman. Oh, and in a slower media week, maybe somebody might have been a little more upset about what the typically asinine Michael Irvin had to say about the ancestry of a certain white athlete in Dallas.

I was thinking how we might need Rodney King to come out and ask for us to all get along again, the way a motion picture director would when dealing with a cast of out-of-line celebrities.

And that's when I woke up this morning, picked up the paper, and saw that the man who built a reputation getting the best of his large ensemble casts had died.

Anybody who watched this past year's Academy Awards telecast would likely remember that one of the night's bigger surprises (besides the show being trumped up as a celebration of how "courageous" Hollywood is every year right before naming a faux controversial piece of cinematic swill like "Crash" Best Picture) was Robert Altman accepting an honorary award and revealing that he had undergone a heart transplant years earlier.

It was sometime around the mid-90s (1996, I believe) when I discovered that video cassettes of older pictures were available for free rental at the public library. And I went through most of the classics quite quickly before becoming so consumed with taking in all of the older fare I'd heard so often but had never actually viewed. On one occasion, I watched all three of the "Godfather" films in a single day.

I don't really tend to lean toward any particular director as a "favorite," partly because there's too many good ones to choose from and partly because nobody can have that kind of remarkable consistency—the greatest directors can let us down on occasion, not with a particularly bad film, just a disappointment.

But going over the obits for Mr. Altman today, I was struck by just how many very enjoyable films he had made. Ask me my list of favorite directors yesterday, and I might've likely forgotten to include him. But from "M.A.S.H." to "Nashville" to "Short Cuts," his work always stood out in the singular way that you imagine any great artist's would: Only he could have pulled that off.

Of course, 1992's "The Player" remains my favorite of his. But just to make sure I've seen the entire scope of his beautiful career, I did the only thing I could think to do today and went out to rent his final film, "A Prairie Home Companion." I'm not especially fond of Garrison Kiellor, but with Altman at the helm, I'll trust that perhaps one last movie of his might make me believe that we can all still get along.

UPDATE: Okay, career gone for Michael Richards.

Mark Fuhrman: "These people will kill someone and go have chicken at KFC"

I can still recall the day of the infamous O.J. Simpson Ford Bronco chase during the Knicks-Rockets game of the NBA Finals. We all assumed that he had done it at that point. It was just a matter of catching him.

And as his trial dragged on for month after month after relentless month, I remember slowly listening to his defense and realizing how they weren't so much proving his innocence as they were creating a reasonable doubt. An episode of "Seinfeld" spoofed the decision to have the defendant try on the glove, but many would admit that perhaps one of the most explosive bits of testimony to come out of that trial was that of Mr. Mark Fuhrman.

I'm not terribly proud to admit that when we were ushered into the high school library to witness the verdict being read that day at the conclusion of the trial, I was one of those people who cheered when O.J. was found innocent. I could make excuses for it now if I sincerely felt O.J. was actually innocent, but instead, I'll just refer to this recent clip from FOX News' "Hannity & Colmes":



There's a number of discouraging things to be found in this video clip:
1) Alan Colmes shows unprecedented backbone.
2) Mark Fuhrman continues to treat his racist views as though they are beyond question.
3) Sean Hannity—as he always has—supports his good friend Fuhrman through and through.

The judicial branch of America ain't perfect; but watching ass-hats like Hannity and Fuhrman continue to try and deny how much of a role Fuhrman ultimately played in O.J.'s subsequent acquittal makes me appreciate a fair, but flawed justice system even when the jury's decision is not indicative of the conclusions the rest of us in the public had drawn.

Ghetto Fabulous

I am 28 years old and am supposed to be dressing up for Halloween ... twice. This makes me uncomfortable.

It is not as though I haven't had to do this before so much as it is the reality that I'm doing it again. I promised myself this year that I would treat myself by not forcing myself to endure a mask while waiting tables, nor would I spend any needless time or money on a costume. Everybody wins.

Plans to purchase a costume with some co-workers also forced to play dress-up this weekend didn't go off without its own little hitch. A seemingly easy pitch of going to Goodwill after a shift for some cheap but creative hand-me-downs quickly became a fiasco requiring the involvement of their boyfriend's companionship or hair needing to be done.

In the end, I stopped in the Goodwill a few days later and purchased a wig and a predominantly red flannel, like the type you'd imagine Paul Bunyan wore. The cashier looked at the prebagged wig with a picture of a man with a large, wide smile modeling the wig. It looked as though he might be retarded.

"You'd look good in a mullet," she told me. I wasn't quite sure how to respond to a comment like that.

The last time I dressed up for Halloween at work was while employed at the country club. There was a costume store on the other side of the river, and I once again purchased a prebagged item with the label "Shiek." When I drove to work on Halloween morning, the front page of the New York Times had a full-color image of Osama bin Laden from a recent video release and I spent the rest of the day having the strictly Spanish-speaking employees constantly giggling to themselves while repeating the "Osama" line aloud.

And it had been hard to take orders with my ZZ Top fake beard covering my mouth. It caused my the lenses of my rainbow-tinted hippie sunglasses to fog quite quickly. Not this year, though. Seeing as I had to abide by the dress-up code for this morning and Tuesday's day of recognizing a children's holiday, I simply donned a decade-old profession wrestling T-shirt, some tattered blue jeans, the flannel, wig, and a "Jim Beam Racing" ballcap. Voila: White Trash.

It wasn't the most imaginitive costume, to be sure. Nor the most extravagant. My boss opted to purchase an all-white jumpsuit a la Elvis Presley. He also had glasses with fake lamb chop sideburns attached when he wasn't busy loading up trays with food and shouting random employee names.

There were a few strange looks from customers of mine, but perhaps none more so than a curious lad in a highchair who leaned back and looked straight up at me in some upside-down perspective while I scribbled down his parents' breakfast order.

"Denver skillet ... scrambled ... cheddar ..."

While jotting down that his father did not in fact want onions in his selection, out of the corner of my eye I saw the child raise its hand in the air and proceed with the beginning stages of an innocent, playful slap at my genitals. I took a step backward and avoided any contact while the parents apologized for their son's curious manner. But I just waved it off, knowing that to a child being sat down in a restaurant, a Halloween costume and the daily uniform aren't all that different. Both are forms of costumes to kids, which kind of makes me wonder when I go back to the white dress shirt for a day tomorrow if I'll get sick of wearing that costume too.

It smells like syrup. Everything smells like syrup. And I don't even like syrup.

Men Of The World: Unite!

Have you seen them? Or, even worse, are you one of them?

You know the couples I'm talking about; those ones who are just so completely in love with one another that they couldn't fathom the thought of sharing an entire meal while seated on opposite sides of the booth. Yeah, sure, sharing a seat next to your significant other was pretty sweet in, say, the high school cafeteria. But the general public without the company of your three or four ugly chess club friends is quite another thing. Stop proclaiming your love of being in love in the public square ... please.

I say this knowing full well that women, for the most part, get the free pass here. Very rarely does it ever appear that it's the female who takes her seat and genuinely asks her boyfriend to take the open space beside her. Sure, it can happen; and if you're a dude who follows through with her shameless call for attention, well, you're a giant tool. Congratulations.

Not that any of that excuse makes you any better than the douchebags I all too frequently see performing what I'll refer to as the "insecurity trap." It becomes nauseating.

Nine times out of 10, some hostess at any given restaurant shows a young couple to their booth, the lady sits first, and then the male—as though he were a predator on some wildlife documentary—dives in to sit right beside her ... leaving the other side of the table empty.

This is an empty gesture in many ways, but a telling one about the male in the relationship.

Watch him put his arm around his girl. Watch the girl occasionally squirm and look around in a fascinating state of panic. Watch as the female is then trapped in a date situation in which she can:

A) no longer escape

or

B) welcomes the gesture as a sure sign of commitment

Option B is popular among uglier couples. That's who love to flaunt it the most, after all. "Hey ... We're fucking ... And you're not."

They need to tell themselves that. It's always a saving grace that no other employeee in the restaurant is envious at this point.

Option A is particularly saddening, however, because I tend to shake my head and try to think of the best subtle way to remind the poor fellow how uncomfortable he may have made his date feel. Suddenly, there's a spotlight cast upon her that the rest of the patronage sees, but only he does not.

Treating your date, your girlfriend, your "we-should-get-back-together" as a caged animal is a heartless, shallow manuever that I'm sure guarantees you more failure in the long run than you think it ensures in the here and now. But, you're oviously smarter than me, Mr. Pimple Face seated with Mrs. Double-Chin. Best of luck to the both of you.

For the rest of us that are smart enough to realize there are times when allowing some physical space isn't just necessary, but also productive, please pity these poor souls.

And then please tell that couple to get a fucking room if they really think we're into watching them be more in love with pretending to be in love than they are with actually being in love with one another. You can put it off for another couple of weeks, and we'll forget about it in about twenty minutes. Everybody wins ... Kind of.

One more viewing of behavior like this for me is enough to make me vomit, and hence, leave one unfortunate female who didn't realize how cornered she was, trapped in an entire room where she might not be able to stomach the smell of what I puke up.

Relationships succeed by knowing your boundaries; exploiting them to remind others that you're in a relationship ensures nothing but failure. It's too bad freckly-face will have to learn that the hard way.

We all know the rest of the world is having sex, but feeling the need to remind us that unattractive or overly sheltered goonies get to have it to doesn't impress anybody. To be honest, it's downright frightening.

(Another Edition of:) Adventures In Housesitting

I have just as much cash in my wallet as I recall leaving with before the previous night began, one cigarette left from that moment's fresh pack purchased following work, and now ... now I'm staring at the same sheet of itinerary I saw the last time I was at this place.

The instructions are the same, but I'm only now separating which directions the most attention be paid from those of lesser importantce. This is difficult in that the two pages are prited entirely in capitalized letters.

Early lessons in "nettiquette" taught me that the effect of writing a simple, innocent statement like—:

"HEY! HELLO! HOW ARE YOU?!"

—when entirely capitalized is the equivalent of shouting out every word that comes out of your mouth. If somebody came up to you on the street and trying to shake your hand, you'd turn and run as though they were a lunatic who'd mistaken you for a different N.R.A. buddy of theirs. That or a locally campaigning Republican. Same difference.

Point here is that these following days will not be as fruitfully rewarding as the times of the past.

Why?

Well, let's look at one warning about fucking Cosmo's seemingly constant battle with constipation:

"AUNTIE FROM SAINT CHARLES WRITES: 'SIGNS HE'S PLUGGED UP—HIDING UNDER THE BED, SQUATTING AND TRYING TO POOP OUTSIDE THE KITTY LITTER. IF NO POOP FOR 3 DAYS, CALL THE VET—'..."

The bastard child I'd rescued as a young, still-believing-Jesus-mighta-happened teenager has come back to haunt me. Not only is he crapping (all over the house, actually), but he's also HIDING UNDER THE BED, and SQUATTING AND TRYING TO POOP OUTSIDE THE KITTY LITTER.

So, there's reasonable belief for conern. But there's also reason for hope. Call uncle or vet first?

Phone lines NOW OPEN . . . (I'm screaming it, by the way, if it isn't already evdient.)

The Truth Lies Somewhere In Between ...

Blogs leaning to the left mostly conclude that releasing the recent National Intelligence Estimate should be one of—if not the—most urgent issues Democrats have on their plate, while those on the right predominantly reiterate it's a classified manner and the liberal media is (once again) running amok.

So it was refreshing, once again, to have Jim Lehrer sit down former CIA official Paul Pillar and shoot the shit tonight about what the real story is. And while Pillar said that what, basically, amounts to the most sensational of newsworthiness is what gets reported and helps "give a distorted impression," that final bit of dialogue exchange really tells me just how deep of an impression has been left that the Iraq War's done more harm than good:

JIM LEHRER: Back to the substance, at least as far as we know it at this point, and what Iraqi President Talabani told Ray Suarez in an interview we're going to see in a moment, he said that he doesn't agree with the finding that it increases the terrorist threat on the United States because the terrorists are on all now focused on Iraq. Does that make sense to you?

PAUL PILLAR: No, it doesn't. Well, it makes sense for the president of Iraq to say it because the president of Iraq has to have Iraqi interests uppermost in mind, and evidently President Talabani have concluded, as have many other Iraqi officials, that keeping the U.S. presence there longer rather than shorter amount of time is in Iraqi interest.

But his point about all the terrorists in the world are being attracted to Iraq -- this is the flypaper theory -- and therefore they're going to stay away from the United States, the flaw in that is we don't have a fixed number of terrorists in the world. I think the more appropriate comeback to that was what Secretary Rumsfeld raised the question in another leaked memo, a year or so ago, as you may recall.

JIM LEHRER: I do.

PAUL PILLAR: And the question was, "Are we breeding more terrorists faster than killing or incarcerating the ones we already have?" That's really the issue that is at stake here with the Iraq war.

JIM LEHRER: And if what's been in the press is correct, this intelligence estimate appears to suggest that we are breeding more than we're catching, is that right?

PAUL PILLAR: It does. And that's my judgment, as well.

Unless Karl Rove's supposed routine of having Bush pull a bunny from the hat next month scores big (sniff, sniff: I smell another bin Laden capture conspiracy theory), the Dems would have their incompetence upgraded to 100 percent if they fail to make up ground in BOTH the Senate and the House.

Period.

Adventures In Housesitting

I wouldn't call myself the most responsible person in the world (many assorted cops and bartenders would attest to this), but every now and then my aunt and uncle deem me to be the person they entrust with watching over their happy home when they leave town.

It's not all that difficult a task, really. There's but a single cat who needs to be fed twice a day. Oh, and the mail needs to be brought in.

So I've been spending the week here with the singular goal being not to let the cat die. And while that sounds simple enough, I should add that poor "Cosmo" has one wee little problem: He occasionally goes through periods of constipation. This was fully relayed to me in horribly graphic detail in a two page printed letter of itinerary for the week.

Until Sunday, I never knew cats could have an "emergency enema." Or that they would spend a span of days following such a procedure by, ahem, "cleaning" themselves in the privacy of the garage.

The house isn't any type of drastic upgrade from the folks' place (no cable television, dial-up internet service, etc.), so I've mostly been trying to finish reading a book and checking the litter box for a turd or two.

I had been told that if there was no fecal matter to be found—either in the litter box or perhaps on the floor somewhere—I would need to phone the vet, because the hell if I'm performing the procedure on a cat myself. When the first two days passed without Cosmo having a number two, I began to worry. I considered picking him up, embracing him, and quite literally squeezing the shit out of him.

And then I thought back to what additional food I could feed him that shoots right through me and basically spray the bowl. That food, as I hope you might not have had the horror of experiencing yourself, is of course jalapeno cheeseburgers from White Castle. There's a reason some people call this restaurant's sanwiches "steamers."

I'll make the regrettable late-night deperation decision about once every two years to go through the White Castle drive-thru for what, at the time, seems like an innocent post-midnight snack. One particularly memorable evening after leaving a party or a bar, I placed my order for what I thought would be a "sack" of five or six. Driving up to the window, I was asked to pay something like 20 bucks. "W.T.F.?"

Turns out I must have mistakenly said "case," which is why I begrudgingly shelled out the dough (I was really that hungry) and was handed a gigantic cardboard box filled with probably about 25 of the burgers. Upon returning home, I tried to choke down as many as possible and probably got through about ten before passing out.

I slept fine, but going to work the next day, my stomach rumbled its displeasure. And drinking the second-most effective laxative, coffee, along the way didn't help matters any. Seeing as I was working at a country club that was an hour drive, the journey was unbearable. It's hard to cross your legs and steer at the same time.

Upon arriving (late, I add), I burst into the facility, clocked in, and ran directly to the member bathroom. It was what an old boss referred to as "pissing outta your ass." And the member entering the bathroom after I emerged had to turn away as though he'd just been punched in the face.

So if White Castle has a proven track record for cleaning out my system, it would certainly work for Cosmo.

But on Tuesday, as I began wondering what time I should wait until to call the vet, sure enough, there it was on one of the small area rugs in the garage: sloppy, wet brown goo. Normally, you'd run to find something to clean up the mess and kick the pet across the fucking room for something like this. But I just stood and smiled, placing the phone back on the set to charge, relieved that this might have to be the only "cleaning" I'd have to deal with.

Hey, shit happens.

That's So Gay

Okay, explain this one to me, God:

The image to rhe right is the cover of a recent issue of an American entertainment magazine that is actually published and then read by many, many readers who clearly have far too much time on their hands.

As I'm sure you're probably aware, the man on the cover is Lance Bass, a former member of the boy band *NSYNC, which broke up so the commercial whores involved could presumably pursue opportunities to suck individually rather than continue sucking collectively. They were popular among young girls who were just learning to masturbate and record company executives who realized that you don't need talent to appear on MTV. It's hardly a coincidence that the group's rise to stardom came at a time when the flagship show was hosted by certified tool Carson Daly (whose own admission of homosexuality is surely imminent).

Now, we've gotten into this habit as a society of applauding people of such high profile for their courage in "coming out." But when I first read about this on the internet—actually listed as a "news" item—my immediate reaction to the two word title of "I'm Gay" was another two words: "Yeah," and "So?"

Why would anybody find this the least bit surprising? Or interesting? Did People really uncover something here? It seems like a pretty clear-cut case of restating the obvious. Perhaps Lee Greenwood will appear on the cover in a few weeks to admit, "I'm untalented."

It's not as though I ever really held People magazine up to particularly high standards (Jesus, I could finish their crosswords when I was five at the dentist's office), but it's amazing how pivotal a role the publication plays in furthering the circular nature of celebrity life: get famous, suffer backlash, go away for a while, and come back with some sort of new quality (i.e. "I stopped doing drugs," "I overcame my eating disorder," "I had children," etc.).

My guess is that Bass has one terrific publicist for some sort of forthcoming project who placed the call to People, offered an exclusive, and knew all along that now this skidmark of recent pop culture can now be sold to the public on similar entertainment "news" outlets with the standard line of, "Lance Bass, who recently admitted that he is gay ..."

So the pathetic attempt to earn a few more bucks by disclosing what was an already widely held assumption isn't what really has me holding back from a violent stream of projectile puking of blood. No, it's the fact that so many people are actually following right in line with it.

I've had the misfortune of working in a restaurant that doesn't get cable, which makes channel choices rather limited during daytime hours. In the morning, the news is on and that works for a while. Around 1:00, you're really kinda fucked. Soap operas, numerous Judge Fill-in-the-blank shows, and of course, daytime talk shows. That last category is what really proves my point: I saw Martha Stewart standing next to a chalkboard on her show trying to speak to her homies about ghetto slang with P. Diddy ... or Diddy ... or whatever the hell his name is (if a giant light fixture had come crashing down on them, killing both, I would have wanted to declare the day a national holiday). A couple weeks later, Tony Danza, also having convinced somebody that having his own talk show was a good idea, was talking to a parrot. Women in the audience hooted and applauded.

It's hardly any surprise that on some days, I actually prefer Sesame Street and the Teletubbies. "It's for the kids in the place," I tell myself.

Sure enough, a new issue of People on the newsstands this week. And yet, there's Barbara Walters on that great bastion of power to feminism, The View, still holding up a copy of the People issue with Bass on the cover. Make matters worse, you say? I actually overhear a young girl ask her three friends, "Did you see Lance Bass is gay?"

I wanted to chime in, right there. "Yes, we always saw it. Do you want proof?" And then I would have shown her a picture like this one:







But I didn't do that because I work for tips. And if you offend somebody, even by being honest, you're penalized. So instead I'm forced to silently cater to their misguided concerns about completely irrelevant matters by saying nothing. They're products, after all, of a culture celebrities and items like People magazine have created. And in doing so, I've ultimately become one of the victims as well.

What's Old Is New Again

Hey Higher Power,

Listen, I've heard about this "fork in the road" metaphor B.S. before, and I really can't wait to get to it. Because if this summer's letdown was spurred by the path I chose when there was a choice about where to be employed, it's leading me right back to the exact same fucking fork.

Let's see; last summer, I took a shitty door-to-door sales job and didn't find anything else until mid-August when I started at the waffle house. Shortly after taking that job, seemingly every single place I'd sought employment began ringing my cell phone off the hook to say things like, "I've got your application in my hands" and "If you're still looking for work ..."

And now this summer I took the first shitty door-to-door sales job I was offered and here we are, in mid-August again—back at the waffle house. Why do I get the queasy feeling that every place I sent resumes out to is suddenly going to be holding a copy in their hands when I'm now working my ass off? It's a fair question.

When I was finishing out what I thought would be my final days at the restaurant, they'd hired a hot young girl to replace me. Wondering why it took so long, I told myself, "Figures."

But now that I'm back at the pancake place for the time being, I'm getting to know her better and finding that the gig wasn't really all as evil and subhuman as I had made it out to be. And while I'd hope for something better, seeing as I, you know, fucking graduated and all, it's okay just being able to make some cash again. Money has that effect on you.

I've gotten to know a local cabbie who has had the incredible luck of driving me the short distance from the bar to my house on select weekend afternoons. Those occasions usually found me entirely shitfaced because I had just completely gotten my ass kicked all day at the restaurant and found the local barkeep—who claims he cannot function each day without getting stoned—makes me vicious Long Island Iced Teas ... or a variation of the recipe. Whereas a traditional Long Island uses a splash of Coke to offset its five other liquors and sour mix, my buddy behind the bar uses Chambord. If there's sour mix in it all, I sure as hell don't taste it.

When the cabbie and I last met, I detailed my pathetic summer of unemployment. He knew I was going to Columbia and had a career in radio himself. He keeps telling me to hound the Kane County Chronicle, for whom I had delivered papers as a kid. When he found out about my most recent string of luck—back at the restaurant, a shitty sales job—he shook his head and said very plainly, "How much are you going to let you distance yourself from what you really want to do?"

It's a good point, but here's the thing: I'm not really sure what exactly I want to do. Yes, writing would be ideal. But while that's pretty broad, so is my acceptable mediums I think I could be happy doing it for: newspaper, magazine, online. You get the idea.

For now, I'm content with just being employed again. I don't see how I would let myself be sucked into any great length of time back at the waffle house. And the simple pleasures of flirting with a girl 10 years less than me who doesn't flee in terror has me thinking that if the phone does start ringing like it should have two months ago, I'm not jumping immediately at the first "fork" I come across. The worst thing I could do would be going down another path of similar unhappiness that only ends up bringing me back to exactly the same place when I could have been satisfied still waiting for the right "fork" to present itself.

Stop Me If You've Heard This One Before, Vol. 2

Of course, the week before that flattering e-mail I was talking about below, I was giving myself a birthday present by really laughing in print at the asinine anti-foie gras movement that had been gaining steam. The fact that there was actually legislation against a certain type of food production—and a small one in America, at that—was totally indicative of just how much time elected officials piss away.

My mentor told me he didn't agree with me and warned, "You're going to get some mail about this."

And, boy, he wasn't kidding.

Perhaps I was most flattered by actually having a senior writer from PETA take the time to tell me how much "compassion" I lacked. Come to think of it, a majority of the e-mails used that word—even though I'd specifically mentioned how much they overused the term.

Well, you could imagine my delight in the Chicago Tribune's recent coverage emphasizing the delicacy's final days in the Windy City. But today's editorial really got my day off to a good start with what could be a startling reality to the reality-deprived:

"So it could turn out that instead of reducing the local demand for it, the City Council may have made foie gras more popular than ever. In that case, the ducks won't be much better off."

Got that, veggies? You likely did more harm to one major city's economy—and all those precious ducks—than you did help.

For all the nauseating self-righteousness of your lost cause, I have but two delicious words: Eat it.

Stop Me If You've Heard This One Before, Vol. 1

A couple of days ago, Brian Flemming had a link up to a study with some news that was rather, well, alarming.

But I've had my say about the preposterous debate involving evolution before. And I remember after writing that article, I received an e-mail from one reader I don't think I'll ever forget. Considering I was still dealing with hate mail from the previous week's piece, it began with the author telling me that he was in fact writing me from Kansas. He thought that by telling me that, I probably assumed he was some loony Bible-thumper (and he was, unfortunately, probably right).

As it turns out, he wasn't.

Instead, he was just as outraged that his home state's science cirriculum was being thrown into a regrettable national spotlight—again.

Despite the fact that 44 percent of Americans actually believe Jesus Christ will return to Earth in their lifetimes, Kansas looks like it will probably go back to realizing how important an issue this is to their science standards are:

"[Janet] Waugh said she supported both evolution and creationism being taught in the appropriate settings. Waugh said that the current conservative board’s decision to include criticism of the theory of evolution in its science curriculum had made the state a laughing stock.

'I think it’s unfair and tragic because the reality is we rank in the top 10 of the nation in every category educationally, but if we continue the path we were on with radicals and conservatives, I think the ranking would be lower,' Waugh said."

Getting the Intelligent Designers off the board isn't just another step in evolution; it's further proof of it.

Timing Is Everything

Okay, this was pretty fucking wierd.

I was at the library today to do that routine of combing the local papers and the internet for jobs. And after a cigarette break, I was looking over the magazines on the shelves. And I grabbed this month's Vanity Fair because Hilary Swank is on the cover and I still can't forget Roger Ebert writing in his prediction that she'd win her second Best Actress Oscar, but her not being the best-looking actress. And I remember thinking how totally out-of-place that mention was. Even more so than Jamie Foxx coming out this year and referring to the nominees as four lovely ladies and "one great Dame," which I took to mean he was calling Judi Dench, essentially, a fucking dog. And especially since I remember while watching this year's past Oscar ceremony, another fellow and myself agreed that, lately, Hilary Swank's been looking pretty fucking good lately.

And while I was flipping through for Hilary's photo shoot, I came across a rather interesting little article about a little film called "Loose Change."

I should've noticed the "9/11 CONSPIRACIES" thing on the top of the cover, but, hey, I'll admit I wasn't really looking at the words.

Nonetheless, I spent too much time today glossing over filmmaker Dylan Avery's site. Then, of course, I went and sought him out as a friend on MySpace.

And while I'm awaiting the final cut of this film, and I've previously expressed my hesitance to jumping at the numerous conspiracy theories about 9/11, I really couldn't stop going through all the material. I have long been suspicious about how much the government tells us in the interest of basic damage control. It's hardly ever honest or the truth we'd want, but that makes sense. I'd cover my ass too if I was hiding information from the public.

Naturally, there's the right-wingers who've long dissected "Loose Change" and similar theories. But there's also some other organizations that are similarly critical (more or less so by specific group) of what's been reported as the explanation ... and there are actually an awful lot of them.

But I've also noted before being equally hesitant to go fully off the deep end about the government actually being directly responsible for these deaths. I know that tragedy struck us all in a significant way, but there's a difference between your officials suffering from willful ignorance (more likely) and having a blatant hand in the attacks (less so).

But, at the same time, I can't ignore a good question. And with 9/11, there's still an awful lot of them ... unanswered.

This, of course, is not to mention that the news today was dominated by the whole matter of a plot to blow up American-bound airliners. So, don't plan on bringing your iPods, BlackBerrys, or, well, anything aboard a plane ever again. We're at war, we'll always be at war, and basically, I'm expecting a day to come soon that we're all just going to have to just fly naked with one another in order to secure our nation's security. Otherwise, you're a threat.

I had a nightmare recently about planes sharply falling from the sky. As a person who rarely recalls their previous night's dreams, you could say this one stood out. But when the vision turned into a canoe (or some other boating vessel) whisking by my head while my friends and I were seeking cover in our moment of panic, I realized this was not happening. I sat up, in my bed, shook my head, and went back to sleep.

And, no, I hadn't done any drugs that evening.

The only other dramatic end-of-the-world scenario that unfolded in my mind before that was one in which I was downtown in Geneva and buildings were inexplicably collapsing. But those were nightmares, and the only actual thing that came close to being real images of such was 9/11. Those visions probably wouldn't have occurred without that unbelievable day. But if that horror rooted anything deeply in me, it's probably not the rush to blame the whole day on a conspiracy ... rather, to demand answers to an awful lot of questions that should have, at the very least, better explanations.

I won't jump to conlusions, but I'll never stop listening to others' ideas either. You can do both, you know ...

Helluva Entertaining Interview

Wait ... I'm A What Now?

I was trying to find some online clips through a Google search of my own name, and I came across this flattering bit of information.

So, I guess while I didn't get that internship I'd taken the test for last year, it wasn't because they didn't think highly of me.

Who's Your "Daddy?"

The, ahem, "interviews" Big Daddy Drew has been conducting over at Kissing Suzy Kolber have been second to none. Don't miss this discussion with Damien Woody.

Excerpt:

Drew: Your first name, Damien, is also the name of the kid from "The Omen". Your last name, Woody, is slang for a man's erection. When you're ejaculating on a groupie's chest, do you tell her that you're "exorcising the demons"?

Woody: I'm married.

And it just keeps getting better.

Visions Of My 26th Birthday

"And Now, Here's Tom With The Weather ..."

"Well Suzy, it looks like Hell has officially frozen over today."

Weird side note: Nearly half of my first friends are named Tom.

Where I Would Most Certainly Die

Blink And You'll Miss It

Life During Wartime

Just like any other person who is a recent college graduate and seeking employment, I sought remorse in the disappointment of quitting the first job I was offered—as well as the pancake house I'd called my employer—by doing what any other down-and-out individual would do: Feel sorry for themelf every day, get drunk every other, and fill all available time in between with a fantasy franchise I'd constucted in NBA 2K2 (part of the recently returned Sega Dreamcast package I had loaned to a friend some years back ...).

Tomorrow was to have been my last day being a waffle waiter, but because the chick making the schedule felt like giving me my entire last week off—mostly, I assume, because I had told her I had a new full-time employer—it turned out last Sunday was in fact my last. Unless, I am called in tomorrow—which I am not particularly relying on, nor expecting to honor, seeing as I will sleep through every single phone call that comes in prior to noon, Central Standard Time.

"So today's the last day?" the boss asked last Sunday.

He seemed to be the only one who knew.

And I played it off that way because I had no answer about where I was going, what I'd be doing, or why my cell phone wasn't going to be working should they try calling anytime between that Sunday and tomorrow.

No sadly unemployed and desperately seeking some kind of——any kind of work, I begin looking forward. And while this past weekend was joyous in hanging out with a longtime friend, he also reminded me that, in fact, next weekend I should plan on attending our 10-year reunion.

"They never told me anything about it," I said.

But he claimed he'd told me everything, and it was at some shithole near his house. So, thus, I'm obliged to go. Or, so he thinks.

Because really, what reason do I have to be attending a 10-year reunion. What's my best introduction about what I've been up to (seeing as I never make an actual introduction as it is, mind you)?:

1. "Yeah, I just now graduated college and I'm on the job hunt."
2. "I'm between jobs."
3. "Well, I'm conducting the final years of a test to see if I can drink away most of my 20's."

It should be added that there will be free booze at the reunion, which could only mean likely disaster next weekend considering my current state-of-mind.

And the weekend after that is my grandmother's memorial, which should be some kind of a trip in itself.

And the week after that is a wedding for one of my now-former co-workers—which is to say, a total party (the wedding is at the courthouse, and the party is at one's home).

So I sit in a constant state of self-evaluation, seeking self-improvement, and all the while wondering if the lone attractive idea for future "employment" will be granted the graces of my parents or not.

But I will not wait long. I am growing impatient.

Much like many others, I assume, have grown with me.

The Really Inconvient Truth

Well, That Didn't Take Long ...

This summer is beginning to parallel last year's more than I'd like to admit.

During the break between semesters about a year ago, I took a summer job "helping the environment." In other words: Door-to-door begging for donations.

The pitch was for bringing more "clean, renewable energy to the state of Illinois." As you could imagine, my dedication to this job lasted exactly three days. In that time, we were required to average at least $100 a day. In three days, I was credited with exactly $299.

"Aw, too bad," I told myself. And so I quit, spending the remainder of my summer turning in application after application at local and Chicago-area restaurants. Then, approximately two or three weeks before school was to resume, I finally found a job at a local restaurant and became a waffle waiter.

Now, I began this summer accepting a job in "marketing." In other words: Door-to-door begging for people to sign up with a major company providing telephone, cable, and internet service.

To this job's credit, the pay would be better, the pitch was shorter, and I was trying to help people save money as opposed to spending more. So it sounded like an improvement, and I put in my two weeks notice at the pancake house.

But being entirely commission-based, the hours were dreadful. I hopped aboard the 8:17 train every morning and usually came home after 10:00 every night. I should add that the company also wanted me to work for four hours on Saturdays.

The first day on my own went rather well, pulling in some $200+ profit. But then there was the matter of putting in around ten or so hours and having around $25 to show for it. I make more—hourly—at the restaurant.

After getting out from the $2.50 an hour performance of Tuesday, I arrived back at Ogilvie just a minute after my train had left. With an hour to kill, I took the puzzles in the Daily Herald to the bar and saw the National League had a 2-1 lead in the All-Star Game. Since the contest was going by rather quickly, I decided to forgo the 9:40 train as well, and I was treated to the disappointment of Trevor Hoffman blowing a two-out save possibility in the ninth as the A.L. came back to win 3-2.

Sitting on the train, I realized that I had effectively made enough money that day to cover the cost of lunch and my bar tab. Wow.

Just to add insult to injury, I fell asleep on the train. A younger girl awoke me, knowing I probably didn't want to end up in Elburn. It was a nice gesture on her part, but a stop too late; I was now in LaFox.

Could've been worse, I suppose; Elburn is either about a three and a half hour walk or a small fortune for a cab. LaFox, by comparison, is a brisk hour and a half on foot. And a cab will run you about twenty to thirty dollars, depending on your generosity for a tip.

But feeling I'd spent enough money for the day, I opted to walk it. Dissatisfaction with current work situation now peaking, I immediately went to the computer to check the job sites once again.

On Wednesday, I once again—like last summer—simply decided I wasn't going anymore. And with my current cellular phone provider deciding to suspend my service, I knew I could not be confronted about my cowardly manner of resigning.

Better jobs have been popping up, but it's back to the interviewing process. Tomorrow I'll go back to being a waffle waiter as I've been doing for basically every weekend since last August. But I'm not sure I'm going to beg to keep my job, either. I may mention I quit the, ahem, "real job" already. And then the restaurant can decide if they want to keep me around for a little while longer.

While I wouldn't entirely complain about still spending the rest of my summer pouring coffee and being (other than the owner) the only dude at my workplace, I'm not falling for any more of these sales gigs. Sure, this last stab at it was better than the previous two attempts I made—the environmental deal and a sad chapter involving selling vacuum cleaners a number of years back. Times were tough. They'll still be tough. But I'll survive.

In order to be successful in sales, you really have to enjoy what you're doing because you are, in essence, selling yourself. But I'm not really capable of doing any door-to-door thing for any amount of time longer than a period of a few days. And so when people seem as though they don't want to hear what I'm selling, I'm not epecially hurt or baffled by it. My demeanor probably makes it apparent that I'm not really all that interested in it either.

"Rapist, Backing Out!"

"The Hoff"

It's a funny little story about the former "Baywatch" star, but alas, it's not true.

Did The Forefathers Have A Sense Of Humor?

Mr. Fish imagines so.

Today's Big News

Everybody is talking about those silly mushrooms.

Now I Know What "WATB" Stands For

Because talking about death threats can always be funny.

Yeah, But You've Got A Birthmark On Your Head, Dude

Mikhail Gorbachev on Donald Rumsfeld and Dick Cheney:

"They are just hawks protecting the interests of the military — shallow people," he said.

Also claims that Americans have a severe disease "worse than AIDS."

One More Person Who Will Hate A.J. Pierzynski

I mean, really ... that's just plain cruel.

That's A Really Good Question

And my answer would be "Abso-fucking-lutely."

That Doesn't Sound Very Good

As though the New York Times hasn't given conservatives enough reasons to loathe them, this particular story from last week certainly won't help any:

Mr. Barfield said Army recruiters struggled last year to meet goals. "They don't want to make a big deal again about neo-Nazis in the military," he said, "because then parents who are already worried about their kids signing up and dying in Iraq are going to be even more reluctant about their kids enlisting if they feel they'll be exposed to gangs and white supremacists."

Goddamn liberal media.

Pile-On

Oh, Ramesh Ponnuru, will you ever learn? Andrew Sullivan has been calling the "Party of Death" author out for more boneheaded G.O.P. fan boy comments.

In case you forgot, you can always watch Ponnuru's deer-in-headlights manner of defense from his appearance on the Daily Show.

Paranoid

I love a good old-fashioned conspiracy theory as much as the next nut on the fringes, but I've always been reluctant to jump on the wagon for the one concerning 9/11. The Chronicle of Higher Education, however, reports that there apparently seems to be more people who don't share that hesitation.

Naturally, faux journalist Michelle Malkin was quick to drop her much beloved "tinfoil" mention.

The Funniest Goddamn Thing You'll Read Today

And Kissing Suzy Kolber is now officially a must-read.

I'm Lovin' It

If nothing else satisfies me as much as Tom Tomorrow's artwork, it's when he writes about getting justifiably angry.

I'm Starting To Like This Guy

"TPM Reader DK" has been popping up more often over at Talking Points Memo. And the point he makes about the supposed shift in Bush's foreign policy is a rather astute one:

"He deserves no more credit for a policy shift than the man serving a life sentence who declares that he will henceforth be law-abiding."

Score One For PETA

Toby has been saved!

Remind me to buy the book.

Early Kathleen Sebelius Fan Club

Count me in. Ferrarro she is not ...

France Still Dirty

When all else fails, headbutt an opponent in the chest—and then win MVP for screwing your squad over ....

... And people actually do wonder why "soccer" hasn't caught on in American culture.

Go figure.

Oh No

As though I needed another time-suck.

Smelling "Bullshit"

Before I could elaborate on a sort of "government-conspiracy" rant about friends in high places, I was beaten to the punch ...

... Mad props, fellas.

Good Riddance

If a nationally-syndicated fabricator gets finally her comeuppance, does a rational person shed tears?

I didn't think so, either.

Benny The Brilliant

I wouldn't disagree with a move Mr. John Paxson has made so far in making the Bulls sudden NBA title contenders, but dismissing the duties of our mascot might clear up some salary cap room ...

I'm just sayin' ...

How The Left Just Oficially Became "Right"

The venom spewed toward the New York Times didn't just get worse; unless you're okay with advocating murder of those with opposing views ... Even then, the entire "argument" distracts from the fact that the Times did what we count on it to do:

It's job.

Better yet would be if we could admire Mr. Bush for the same feats, but excessive Congressional spending has yet to be denied because ... (hey!) ... Daddy's footing the bill ... right?

Right???

We'd better hope Pops has some deep pockets ... or sympathy ...

What An Unbelievable Coincidence

"Unbelievable," especially.

In other words: minority of WMD doubters have no valid complaints in the face of aggressive patriotism; and the minority of Global Warming doubters have every complaint validated because the argument from the opposition has been articulated by—of all "villains"—Al Gore.

God—and really, literally—help us.

"Dead," "Alive," ... Ah, Fuck It

Murder millions and, well, get away with it.

Welcome to 21st century America. Open House began September 12, 2001 ... and the "party" can still go strong, apparently.

Could Be Handy ...

"Think ex-boyfriend or ex-girlfriend."

The Right vs. The Wrong

Let's keep this whole "scandal" regarding the recent New York Times story that got the White House's collective panties in a bunch short and sweet:

• Anybody with the slightest amount of common sense would likely agree with the opinion articulated by Clarence Page.
• Anybody who is a shill for the Bush Administration is likely on this list of idiotic comments compiled by Media Matters.
  

Night and day, "this your brain; this your brain on drugs"-type stuff. As Talking Points Memo noted, House Republican leaders have been quick to create legislation punishing the press for publishing leaked information—unless, of course, it was leaked by Karl Rove.

"The Word"

When my uncle asked me if I'd had any interviews lined up a couple of weeks ago, I sighed and said, "Yeah." And after asking me why I didn't sound more excited, I said it was because they were both for entry level positions—in the suburbs.

My uncle had seen the speech Stephen Colbert delivered at Knox College (a school to which my uncle still donates) in the newspaper. He read me a couple parts from this passage, which I've highlighted in bold:

But you seem nice enough, so I’ll try to give you some advice. First of all, when you go to apply for your first job, don’t wear these robes. Medieval garb does not instill confidence in future employers—unless you’re applying to be a scrivener. And if someone does offer you a job, say yes. You can always quit later. Then at least you’ll be one of the unemployed as opposed to one of the never-employed. Nothing looks worse on a resume than nothing.

So, say “yes.” In fact, say “yes” as often as you can. When I was starting out in Chicago, doing improvisational theatre with Second City and other places, there was really only one rule I was taught about improv. That was, “yes-and.” In this case, “yes-and” is a verb. To “yes-and.” I yes-and, you yes-and, he, she or it yes-ands. And yes-anding means that when you go onstage to improvise a scene with no script, you have no idea what’s going to happen, maybe with someone you’ve never met before. To build a scene, you have to accept. To build anything onstage, you have to accept what the other improviser initiates on stage. They say you’re doctors—you’re doctors. And then, you add to that: We’re doctors and we’re trapped in an ice cave. That’s the “-and.” And then hopefully they “yes-and” you back. You have to keep your eyes open when you do this. You have to be aware of what the other performer is offering you, so that you can agree and add to it. And through these agreements, you can improvise a scene or a one-act play. And because, by following each other’s lead, neither of you are really in control. It’s more of a mutual discovery than a solo adventure. What happens in a scene is often as much a surprise to you as it is to the audience.

Well, you are about to start the greatest improvisation of all. With no script. No idea what’s going to happen, often with people and places you have never seen before. And you are not in control. So say “yes.” And if you’re lucky, you’ll find people who will say “yes” back.

Now will saying “yes” get you in trouble at times? Will saying “yes” lead you to doing some foolish things? Yes it will. But don’t be afraid to be a fool. Remember, you cannot be both young and wise. Young people who pretend to be wise to the ways of the world are mostly just cynics. Cynicism masquerades as wisdom, but it is the farthest thing from it. Because cynics don’t learn anything. Because cynicism is a self-imposed blindness, a rejection of the world because we are afraid it will hurt us or disappoint us. Cynics always say no. But saying “yes” begins things. Saying “yes” is how things grow. Saying “yes” leads to knowledge. “Yes” is for young people. So for as long as you have the strength to, say “yes.”

And that’s The Word.

Today, after spending eight hours on my "second interview"—which was really just shadowing another sales rep for the day—at the marketing firm in Chicago, we returned to the office. I filled out a brief questionairre about the day and about the job before the manager sat me down across from him in the office and asked me a few questions. It was short and sweet, and then he asked when I could start.

We stood up, shook hands, and I start at 10 a.m. on Monday. It's commission-based, but it also has insurance and it's near Ogilvie.

For now, I'm just happy I had the chance to say "yes."

Picking A Favorite Can Be Hard

So when I asked World Cup fan at work who I should root for once the United States had been eliminated (although I really wasn't all that surprised—or disappointed, really—by their failure to get out of their group; we're still years from soccer—or "football" as it's called, well, all over the rest of the world—gaining similar popularity here), she recommended Argentina.

I seemed to remember seeing hearing positive things about them.

And they're pretty good too, she told me—although she admitted believing popular favorite Brazil would probably win the whole thing, and she herself was rooting for Mexico.

Too bad about that heartbreaking, unstoppable game-winner that once again sent Mexico home early. I'm tempted to call the staff of the men's locker room at the country club I usedto work at and maybe ask them if now they're rooting for Argentina too.

And you know what? Although I was tempted to cheer for the Netherlands, I think World Cup fan really knows my own taste in soccer teams pretty well.

Of course there are some people feel the World Cup is "an excuse to exploit girls."

What? I haven't the faintest idea of what the senator is talking about.

Hell In A Handbasket

Touched on this last week a couple times, but Paul Begala expands on why the Democrats should not be playing defense come November:

"Being part of a party that has three or four different new approaches to Iraq beats the hell out of being part of a party that marches in lockstep off a cliff."

And if there's any doubt what three-word phrase is getting run into the ground, take note of the running theme of this letter in today's Tribune:

"The Democrats are being chided by Republicans for not having anything about Iraq in their New Direction for America plan. The truth is that the Democrats have too many Iraq plans. They have the cut and run immediately plan, the cut and run at the end of 2006 plan, the cut and run by July 1, 2007, plan, the cut and run by the end of 2007 plan, and the begin to withdraw troops at the end of 2006, followed by a cut and run at some later unspecified date plan.

The nation can always count on the Democrats to be with us at the start of a war, but after a short while, they always cut and run."

Got that? Six times! Nice job, Mr. Graham. Karl Rove, I'm sure, is very proud.

Knock On Wood

The two interviews last week didn't go as swimmingly as I had hoped, but today was a much better turnaround. I guess after you've been asked the same questions over and over, you really start perfecting the replies.

THEM: "What is it you are looking for in this job?"

ME (thinking): "Money ... women in business attire ... "

ME (speaking): "Well, I'm really just looking for somewhere that I can grow and learn to be an integral member of a team."

THEM: "So which of these jobs has best prepared you for a career in the business world?"

ME (thinking): "None of them, really."

ME (speaking): "Oh definitely The Chronicle. I really learned a great deal there and was given a healthy amount of responsibility every week in managing my section."

And today he pulled a fast one on me ... giving a new variation to the strengths and weaknesses bit:

THEM: "So it says here you were responsible for training an assistant."

ME (thinking): "Uh oh ..."

ME (speaking): "Yes, that's correct."

THEM: "So if your assistant was sitting in that chair beside you, what do you think he—it was a 'he,' right?"

I nod "yes."

THEM: "And what would he tell me your biggest strength is?"

ME (thinking): "A high tolerance ... great ability to quote Bill Hicks ..."

ME (speaking): "Um ... probably by writing ability."

ME (thinking): "Research, you idiot! Say research!"

THEM: "And what would he say your biggest weakness is?"

ME (thinking): "Late every Friday ... Missed deadlines ... Smells like bourbon ..."

ME (speaking): "Well, probably that I didn't explain certain aspects of the job as fully as I could've the first time around."

The other new element to today's interview was that I was being grilled right alongside a female applicant. Luckily, most of the questions went her way first. So there were a couple of, "Yeah, like she said ..."

I wasn't going to get my hopes up too high about that "we'll be calling you" line. Yeah, I heard that twice last week and about the only people calling are the bank that's asking where their fucking money is.

But remarkably, less than ten minutes after leaving the office—in Chicago and not the lame suburban locations I was at last week, a major plus—my phone did ring. I was paying for a soda and couldn't grab it. And it wasn't the bank's phone number. It actually was the interviewer, seeking a more hands-on full-day second interview tomorrow.

It hurts when you just about shit a brick on the train, but I was stunned.

Of course, I'm supposed to work at the restaurant tomorrow. But if you think I'd pass up going downtown tomorrow so I could sling waffles instead, well, no fucking way. I've never called in sick, but now would be the time.

I have but one phone number for one of the waitresses at work—and she quit last weekend. But she's got the other girls' numbers and so I began placing calls late this evening. First girl didn't answer, second girl has plans tomorrow, and I was already perfecting my "sick voice" for the morning before the third girl was only too kind to say, "Sure."

Her interest in the World Cup had already given me a high opinion of her, but now she's been moved up on to a pedestal. "I owe you," I told her—thinking immediately that I should ask her what she drinks. But we'll worry about that later. Right now, it's back to rehearsing those answers.

Repeat after me: "Research ... research ... research ..."

One Of "Those" Weekends ...

"Be patient," they tell me.

Nobody finds the real job right out of school, they say.

"You have lots of options."

One of the more talented broadcast majors at our graduation ceremony—during his own moment when the college had the continuous video feed of every graduate's handshake with the college president at the ceremony—held up a hand-scrawled note with the station letters he was going to work for. I remember smiling/laughing when I saw it. I was in a good mood that day, of course, but now I'm wondering if I should've—could've, done more to prepare for breaking the ice that is my entry into the "real world."

There's two more of those "entry level" job interviews scheduled for this week, which is good. If GIBS still hasn't found work yet with her newly acquired Master's degree, then I shouldn't be too hard on myself.

Or at least I tell myself that.

***

On Friday, the restaurant scheduled six servers—a needlessly unnessecary amount of staff that seemed more appropriate for, say, a holiday when, you know, "there's no school." That's our restaurant's typical excuse for over-staffing, and we'll typically look the other way.

We have to. There's no second option.

There are, however, second jobs. And most—if not all—of the other waitresses have those. Even the girls back in town only for the summer. And now everyone seems to be lamenting about the days when business was much, much better for us.

"There used to be lines going out the door," one says.

And in my short time at this place, I too remember when we were far, far more bustling with business. Of course, I was showing up late then and somehow managed not to get fired. So the fact that lately I've been doing better about showing up on time hasn't been noted all that greatly because I really haven't missed all that much.

Friday amounted to me arriving a couple of minutes late and ending up with what I broke down to being the equivalent of less than $10 an hour. By basic principle, for serving standards, that's inexcusable.

I'll make no bones, however, about having to work for a living. It's all fine and good as long as I'm rewarded for my effort. That's all I ask.

***

GIBS had a "lunch date" that day. It ended up lasting three hours.

The fellow she'd been speaking with has apparently been very big on recommeding her. As well he should be, but I've been growing somewhat tired of hearing about the connections she's made still without finding a job. After all, if somebody with her qualifications is still searching for work, then I have no idea how that bodes for my own future.

She asks me if I want to go out with her and a friend for Geneva's annual Swedish Days festival, and I say that after Friday's lackluster earnings at the restaurant, I want to really, really dedicate the evening to finding something—anything else for work. I'm tired and frustrated, which is always a bad element to have before going out to drink.

You can guess what happened next.

***

Not long after arriving at our bar at the train station, I receive a phone call from one of my Republican friends.

He and his wife are headed out to the "beer garden" at the festival. GIBS and I are supposed to be headed out there too, I tell him. But we're waiting for her friend ... who ends up arriving a couple of hours late.

By that point, I've joined RF and his wife before GIBS and her friend have even left. RF's wife feels somewhat ill, leaves early to go home, and so he and I agree the beer garden sucks a fat dick (Seven dollar entry fee, by the way, to see ... I don't know, some sorry-ass Dave Matthews cover band or something, I guess).

When GIBS calls, RF and I arrange to meet at the bar along the river. He's drinking vodka & tonic now, which catches me off-guard since this is the guy who usually drinks SoCo. But I share his newfound drink of choice—sans tonic.

The four of us end up talking for an hour or so before mutually agreeing we should head back to what—for GIBS, her friend, and myself—is our typical watering hole. We somehow lost RF along the way during the walk uphill. But, as it turned out, he just stopped by the restaurant another one of my buddies worked at—inviting him too to come out.

When he shows up at the bar, I offer to call him—and myself—a cab. But then, upon leaving, he says he'll walk.

And his walk is a long one. But I call the cab company back and cancel both cabs, now having decided to walk myself.

***

I am scheduled to work at 8:30 the following morning.

And, boy, am I hurting.

Cheap, domestic draft beer does that to you. Either way, I need to work. And nothing is helped by our business—or lack thereof.

It is not a financial windfall of a day, and matters aren't helped any by the end—in which I think I'm ready to leave and, instead, the hostess informs me that I have a check still "open."

Looking at the bill, that particular table immediately comes to mind: a family of four in which a young couple and their apparent parents, along with child requiring a high-chair at the table's end.

They had said everything was fine.

But maybe it was not. And now, they—apparently—walked out on their bill. The damage, you ask?: $40.

Keeping in mind that I work at a family restaurant (i.e. "family"-owned), this is the bosses' mother's response to the revelation:

"You're gonna' have to pay for that."

Of course, keeping in mind that this is America and that capitalism reigns supreme here, my response—internally: "Fuck You"—externally, is, "No, I won't."

And I KNOW I'm right.

Why?

Well, I've known a number of waitresses who have detailed their stories of tables walking out on their checks; each time, it's the waitress in question who is required to foot the bill. One girl who had just started at a local bar watched an entire night's worth of tips go down the drain because her final table walked out on a $100+ tab.

There is nothing derogatory about me openly wishing people such as those who utilize someone's physical services—and then not paying for them—should burn in the firiest pits of Hell. It's almost enough to make me want to become a Christian.

And as sad and unfortunate as every "dine-and-ditch" is, there was a quite reasonable logic behind my own argument that Saturday: I'm not responsible for my "bank."

As though the cheap bastards who decide to pull this stunt aren't bad enough, nothing could be worse than a restaurant in which the owners prefer to rely on their front desk to manage their money—and consequentially blame their servers for not collecting the money they trusted somebody else to collect anyway.

Nothing could be more insulting.

So when the shift ended with my boss saying he'd talk to me about it "tomorrow"—I told him I wouldn't be in again until Tuesday—I could hardly wait long enough for the bartender to fix me one of his Long Islands.

"How was work today?" he asked.

"It sucked," I said—quite matter-of-factly.

He mentioned that if I thought my shift sucked, I should consider that he was in for what was basically a two-hour shift. Pretty shitty, indeed.

But still, I had a graduation party to go to.

***

The last time I went to one of this editor's parties, it was her birthday.

I not only showed up drunk; I left perhaps even more drunk.

That had been, once again, another bad day. A former co-employee and I had done a pretty good number on a bottle of scotch while chilling out, and I had been invited to take some with me on the train.

Not pretty.

So besides arriving wasted, I tried to duck out with another former editor who had invited me to go get, uh, "stoned." After one look at me while walking with his friends, his buddy whispered something in the ex-editor's ear, and suddenly our plans to go hang out weren't happening.

Go figure.

I was scheduled to work at 8:30 the following morning. And that was roughly around midnight.

So when I was awakened while lying on my back on the sidewalk of some nearby neighborhood, I sat up to a dude offering a ride home.

"You don't want to drive that far," I told him.

And when his buddies laid on the horn at two in the morning, he ran back to the car and disappeared. I, meanwhile, sat there on the sidewalk, looking around and wondering how to get back home.

I finally found my way to the Blue Line, where a friend had offered to pick me up from O'Hare, crash at his place, then give me a ride home before work that morning. I'm looking at the Blue Line map and counting how many stops I am from O'Hare. The last one before the end is Rosemont, and when I hear that announced with the moon still out, I figure I'll safely make it to work on time.

When I opened my eyes, the sun was out. It was 8:00 a.m. and the Blue Line was now headed back to Chicago. I hopped out at the exact same stop as the one for the party. After catching the next outbound Blue Line, the phone rang with our teenage hostess saying the boss' mom wanted to know where I was.

"Um, O'Hare."

"He's at O'Hare," I hear her saying with the boss' mom shouting in the background.

I arrived at work two hours late, berated by my boss.

But not fired.

***

I'm still silently fuming on the train about the dine-and-ditchers. Gonzo has told me to get off at the Maywood stop and he'll drive us to the party from there. I sit camped out at the tracks in that suburb, admiring it's ghetto fabulousness.

Gonzo's ride is a Ford Tempo—ironically, what was nearly my first car. And just as I was beginning to think that I couldn't stomach another night of domestic beer consumption, Gonzo informs me of the good news that he's gone through the trouble of bringing a handle of Jim Beam.

My gift was a Hot Wheels Chevy Impala, citing that this was the nicest car I could afford.

Chicago Ridge was a bit of a haul and the turnout was pretty good considering the number of other events going on in the city that weekend (i.e. Intonation, Gay Pride, etc.). I'm a bit shy around faces I'm not familiar with—oh, that is unless there is the reliable social lubricant that is alcohol. While Gonzo plays it smart by mixing Coke, I decide to forgo a mixer.

Bad move.

I'm fine enough for the first hour or so, finally starting to forget about my shit job. There's some delicious homemade ribs, a swimming pool, and ... karaeoke? Normally, I dismiss participating in favor of watching others (that "bit shy" thing again). Just a few weeks ago, I went to a place in Chinatown for a friend's birthday party and saw perhaps the most amazing rendition of David Bowie's "Ziggy Stardust" I've ever seen.

On this particular Saturday night, my stage fright doesn't seem to be gripping me. Partly because it didn't seem everybody in the "audience" was paying attention, and mostly because I've refilled my cup.

My performances are a series of diminishing quality. While I'm disappointed that Janet Jackson's "Escapade" is not available, Johnny Cash's "A Boy Named Sue" is always a safe bet for me. I should have just left it at that.

But no, following a conversation with one of the waitresses earlier in the day about a Backstreet Boys song on the radio in the dining room, I actually sign up for "I Want It That Way." This is a song that might have been more appropriate for, say, a junior high graduation. At a college graduation, well, I think Ozzie Guillen might have a word to describe what to think of me.

And again, I should have just left it at that.

But no, perhaps driven to reclaim my masculinity or perhaps driven by another cup refill, I sign up for Young MC's "Bust A Move." RF has performed this for years and made it look easy. I know the words to this too, I tell myself. But upon being called to the microphone once again, the words come up much faster than I remember them. My version went something like this:

"This here's ... la duh the to uh nah nah the duh nah ..."

You get the idea. I'd say I didn't finish the song if I actually thought I started it.

We had been invited to crash at the house, but thanks to my early passing out and probably some justifiable concern about whether or not I would vomit (I didn't, for the record—not that I'd trust my memory), Gonzo is forced once again to actually having to carry me back to the Tempo. He is one strong Pollock.

***

I had actually worried at one point that I would be the first person to wake up in a home of strangers and I would be unable to get back to sleep.

Ha.

Instead, I'm on a leather couch back at Gonzo's home. He's up before me and already shaking his head. I don't want to ask how the night ended, but I know I'm going to hear about it anyway. I don't feel the painful, headache-type hangover I had Saturday morning, but rather the woozy, "I-think-I'm-still-drunk"-type hangover.

Gonzo and I go to grab some breakfast before dropping me back off in Maywood. The trains on Sundays don't run quite as often, so when Gonzo actually suggests grabbing a round or two somewhere ("Mugshots" sure looked, uh, "cozy"), I say we should err on the side of caution. If I miss the train, it's another four hours until the next one, and Gonzo has already done a remarkable job of keeping me entertained—or babysitting me.

***

Why is it that after nights like that, I always find myself doing yardwork for my uncle the following day? It was raining in Maywood, but when I arrived in Geneva the sun was out. And it was just in time for the Swedish Days parade. And the scene was crazy.

Hopping on my bike and still a little wobbly, I pass by a man sitting in a lawn chair on top of his van parked in his driveway. He is very enthusiastic about the parade from what appears to be a terrible view. And there are people dressed up as storm troopers walking down the sidewalk. And a German polka band. Strange people everywhere you looked.

Not me, though. No sir, I'm normal.

I try my best to avoid the parade, just get to my uncle's and then come home and take a very long nap. To say the weekend was "eventful" seems like an understatement.

Of course, the first thing my uncle asks me is, "So didja' find a job yet?"

*SIGH*