Monday, June 18, 2007

crap



"Whatcha doin?"

"Work."

"Can you help me with my homework?"

"Doesn't your mom?...why don't you do as much as you can and then show me."

"I already did."

"You didn't even try."

"What's the answer to this one?"

"Well, what do you think it is?"

"Just tell me. My mom gives me my answers."

This was the first 3 hours of my day, with a six-year-old. The boss's kid had a half day and mommy had a meeting. Playing ball, writing reports, commenting on the differences between the first Star Wars characters and the second generations' set and researching companies. These are the kind of tasks that I'm supposed to perform with head-nodding efficiency.

I had done a lot of work for Soledad, one of my bosses at the company I temped for. I worked hard, and quickly developed a reputation for good work, a fast learning curve and an ability to take on all loads of work, no matter how much was going on around me. Quickly though, I realized with frustration that this woman was taking advantage me. Soledad was from Chile, and was a fiery fast talking, wiry blonde with cutting blue eyes and sharp features. She was newly divorced, newly dyked and always dramatic. She sped through the office on foot and talked with the confidence of someone who comes to a country in which they are not a native of and succeeds.

I knew all about her because of the personal records I scanned for her. Suddenly I was the garbage man of the neighborhood. Oh, you left these on top of the stack...the affidavit of your kid's nanny who says (translated from Spanish) that there was evidence of negligence on the hubby's part. Uh. Oh.

"Do you know a good real estate agent in Clear Lake?," She asked me one day.

"Well, I said I used to live near there, but no I don't."

"Could you find one for me?" she said, those eyes urging, demanding and asking.

Well, no. I almost did, I felt guilted by those eyes. Like it was my job to interview my Uncle Larry who lived there and tell him. "Look, I've got cray on line 2 she needs a good realtor, could you give me a name? Oh by the way, thanks for the candies you're wife, my aunt, gave me for Christmas. Does she know I'm 26?"

Soledad was like a robot sometimes, with the inability to either feel empathy or someone who lacked the capability for common manners. People don't assume that someone, who is a stranger to them, will automatically want to do their personal business, do they? Isn't that a pretty much standard operation? Get to know them before helping them deliver a court summons for ex-daddy.

She wore on me. I wasn't just her assistant, I was 5 other people's, but in her world, everything must be done the fastest and firstest. I began to loathe doing anything she asked. I could be totally bored and look with contempt in my eyes at the mere mention of a researching task from her email. I'd do everything she asked and she'd smile a devilish grin and speak to me in Spanish. Her rapid-fire Spanish was light years beyond my comprehension level, but she'd smile when I'd reply to her in her native tongue, even if it was an easy phrase.

It had been a rough two weeks, I narrowly missed out on a job, and a girl I was dating moved to Ft. Lauderdale. At the office, Soledad's 6-year-old stared at me behind his mom's legs. Her eyes and his were the same. "Martin, if you need anything Jeff can help you." Thanks. That's all I needed was some kid asking me a million questions while I tried to get in an updated media list to some other department by 12 noon. I always forget that younger kids have no concept of personal space, and how it is to be respected, so it's always a little shocking to have some kid hang on your arm, or talk in your ear, or hug your leg. Finally, the bugger was gone, but Soledad informed me that she was too busy to order food, but she was hungry, and could I order the salmon roll for her with miso soup, thanks.

Last week Soledad's youngest child was present when I walked into my cubicle. I eyed the 3 foot little beast with a wary eye. Was I going to be conscripted into watching this one? Luckily for me the young girl held the attention of the women in the office. A close one to be sure. I gave her a stink eye just in case she decided that my cubicle was a McDonald's playland. It's not that I don't like kids, I just don't like hers.

Monday, June 11, 2007

BGB Revealed


Yesterday I waited by the phone. And waited. And waited. Why won't he call me? I made sure to sound as unassuming as possible when I dropped my phone number neatly underneath my signature of the email I wrote him.
Dude, pretty kick ass concert on friday if you want to go. I've heard that Animal Collective is pretty boss (i'm bringing it back) live.

j
512.xxx.xxx

He told me he might flake, but I didn't want to believe it. The concert wasn't the same. Where was my buddy who would tell me,"Tall boy time." Or the second pair of eyes for the massive crowd in front of me, "Check that out."

The best guy buddy is a grown-up (slightly) version of your best friend when you were younger, except you now add into the equation booze, girls, work, play and general philosophy. Maybe he's your roommate, a co-worker, or your bartender but never your lover. Nothing wrong with the latter, just doesn't end up being your best guy buddy as much he becomes your gay buddy.

My best guy buddies and I made a split this year, moving to different cities across the states. At times it wasn't pretty and now it's sad. Jealousy arises when some other dude is mentioned as "really cool guy," or if said other guy says something admittedly funny. Damn it, don't do this to me best guy buddy, I thought we had something!

After I put back a fifth of JB and suitably expanded the contents of my stomach into a "how digestion works" diorama, it was time to face the facts. Find a new best guy buddy.

This is a hard job. You've got to tell yourself that asking to play a game of darts or pool with someone is no big deal, and that they have no clue you're on the search for new BGB. This should be your basic template. "Hey man, you got next on ______? Wanna play doubles?" A simple innocuous question that either works or it doesn't.

Sometimes you hit pay dirt, sometimes you hit the sandbar. I knew I was in for a tough sell when I tried to make the bartender, at my neighborhood bar, a new BGB. It wasn't an active mission by all means, but it had the makings. Nothing forced, just an every Tuesday trip down to the bar, some chatty time and a couple of beers on him. "Hey look at that Upper East Side d-bag. You should check this band out. I'm playing at this bar. Hey I might go to that concert you told me about," he said on many occasion. What was I supposed to think? I know the old service industry boundry line, if you're not one of them you're none of them. But I thought he might be different, he could be my new BGB. Maybe FL.

I related my troubles to a friend of mine over pulled pork and brisket on a warm Brooklyn night. "I've got the perfect guy for you," she said. I told her to go on, and I heard her case for BGB matchmaker. She told me this weekend we could "hookup." I quickly told her that BGB's weren't about hooking up and maybe I had given her the wrong impression. She quickly apologized and rephrased it, "Look, he's looking for a BGB too, but don't tell him I told you."

Secret's safe with me.

Monday, June 4, 2007

Exploitation 2000

Red and white fragments of pre-paid envelopes pile up on the kitchen bar in my studio apartment. A book of Verdi classical operettas and songs props up the laptop to a proper viewing height so I can lay on my couch/bed and watch movie after movie that graces my mailbox. New York is, to quote my sister, "Fucking expensive," and catching a quick beer often means that $5 and $10 bills magically burst into flames as soon as you walk into any service based building. My temporary solution for this forced liquidation of cash flow, is to stay inside and only come out when my salary allows me to buy new clothes, a plane ticket and food from a restaurant, in the same week.

If you or someone else you know is currently is a similar situation, then I recommend taking full advantage of your hermit ways. First things first, get a Netflix account or become a regular at your local indie movie store, they still have the mainstream titles and have the foresight to retain an archive of older and less well known films. Next, pick a genre, director, actor or producer and give the person a thorough study. Today's lesson, exploitation films.

Many of you have seen a recent film, Grindhouse. Its tribute to older exploitation films of the past was an appreciative tongue implanted into cheek. I like the Tarantino and Rodriguez's films respectively, but I was more interested in the genre itself. Fast forward to my renting of exploitation hits like, The Big Doll House (sexploitation), Coffy (blaxpoitation), Sweeet Sweeetback's Baad Assss Song (supposedly first blaxploitation, but really a great art-house film), Mad Max (Apocalyptic Carmeggedon), The Gumball Rally (fastcarploitation). All of these films have similar characteristics, with the exception of Mad Max and Gumball Rally, they're not great movies. In fact, they're terrible. What they offer maybe cliche now, but put yourself in the world of the late 60's and 70's and these films offer inventive story lines and content everyone wants to see: sex, drugs and violence.

Oddly enough while doing a little research on the subject of exploitation, I came upon a Kroger Babb, who in the late 30's and 40's and into the 50's touted a 'personal hygiene' film called Mom and Dad. The film was an early "public health" film that showed the dangers of not informing your children thoroughly on the topic of human sexuality; its climax being the showing of an actual child birth. Great to know we're related, hey this man should be recognized for the invention of legalized porn on the big screen. We must share some genes. I leave you with a clip from a movie that I haven't seen yet, but you can bet it's at the top of the Netflix queue. Death Race 2000 is probably the greatest name for a movie, ever and the fact that Sly Stallone and David Carradine are in it, make it 20 times better. This scene featuring a crazy Stallone is awesome.