March 24, 2003
Today is the day to stick a daisy in the barrel of a gun.
Those crazy Catholic girls are up to it again.
This weekend, I was hanging out with the boys from Irritable
Colon, and I brought you presents:
Here
is my musical debut, a song where I read some Italian from an issue of Wallpaper,
giggle, make 'sexy' sounds and proclaim myself to be 'very special.' If you
can't stand listening to me as much as I can't stand listening to me, then
it should be awkward for all of us. But the studio magic really is wonderful
and the bass line is delicious.
Here
is a very fun song inspired by my unemployment. It will make you wish you
lost your job, too.
Hey, speaking of unemployment, thanks to those who sent in their tales of joblessness. I hope you enjoy them.
Take This Job and...Oh, Never Mind, I Don't Have a Job:
Tales of Unemployment
Kevin Fanning:
I haven't ever been officially fired, but at one job I was given an Ultimatum.
One Friday I got called into an office and was told that I had two weeks to
shape up or ship out. It was a complicated situation, where basically they
thought I was a useless employee and I thought they were terrible managers,
and ne'er the twain shall meet.
I was absolutely livid in the moment, but I went home and thought about it
over the weekend, and decided the job wasn't worth it and I might as well
cut my losses. So on Monday I went in, told them "I'm just going to leave,"
and quietly cleaned out my desk while everyone was at the Monday morning meeting.
I'd always wanted to quit and leave a job the same day. It was simultaneously
the most exhilarating and terrifying experience. They were pretty shocked
by my decision, which made it totally worthwhile.
But of course I was now out of work, and my heart was beating just about out
of my chest as I took the subway home. But when I got home the sun was shining
and I sat on the porch with a scotch at 11 a.m. and thought, "Okay, this
could work."
When you don't have a job, you realize that there are huge amounts of people
out and about during the day. When you're cooped up in your cubicle every
day from 8 to 5, it seems like the rest of the world should be too. Who knows
what all these people are doing walking around and running
errands in the middle of the day, but it's a wonderful group to be a part
of. I wouldn't like to be out of work for too long, because I personally have
trouble setting schedules and getting away from the TV and refrigerator without
the influence of outside pressure, but unemployment here and there is a wonderful
thing. I used the time to hang out at the
library and write. I spent more time preparing interesting meals and cleaning
the apartment. I rented movies I'd been meaning to see for years. I went for
walks and got to appreciate my neighborhood a lot more. Although worrying
about your next job and your money situation can be stressful, losing or quitting
your job, I found, can actually be good for your soul.
However, please note that this happened to me years ago, and now that I have a kid I'm sure I would not enjoy losing my job in the least little bit. But if you're young and carefree, by all means, enjoy.
Theresa DiFalco:
I have unemployment envy! We have had layoffs for seven quarters in a row
now and each time I wait patiently, longing to hear my name called - it never
is. I have layoff fantasies! Layoff party themes and invitation lists! Long-term
Layoff goals! Layoff outfits picked out! "Why don't you just quit, then?"
a person might ask. Because I deserve a severance, too ... and a check from
the government. Why should I have to walk away empty-handed?
It's quarter-end again. The new list comes out March 31st. My breath is baited
and fingers crossed. Wish me luck.
Brian K. Stoner:
I just graduated from college in December and haven't yet found a real
job but was laid off from a reasonably boring part-time systems support job.
I was only crestfallen for about the first five minutes, since I realized
my financial situation would actually improve once those weekly checks started
coming in. My unemployment status and I celebrated our first day together
by driving the to Powell's and sitting in that cavernous bookstore alone,
browsing/reading for about nine hours. We've been going steady for about three
weeks now.
Since that first day, I haven't had the energy to do something so enterprising. I thought I might fly kites or learn to make wine or go see independently released films, but I don't. Wake up at 10 or 11 a.m., zap a few Hot Pockets and watch some Dating Story on TLC - hoping, praying, wishing that these people will make each other happy. A few phone calls about job leads and then consider going to the coffee place, but decide against it because that HOTTT little number that works there probably thinks I'm kind of creepy. Five o'clock delivers on its promise of 90 minutes of Simpsons.
A typical night always involves getting a Slurpee at 1 a.m. or so. Maybe return home and write email to friends with jobs that they will answer in the morning, leaving a distant and too formal reply waiting for me when I break a sleep so deep it's like I'm on drugs. Unemployed sleep is of a higher quality and much greater quantity than regular sleep.
I've tried to save my unemployment checks to buy an Xbox, but I ended up spending quite a bit of my last one on a few new books, getting too generous at the bar and a disappointing, but expensive haircut.
Jory John:
For almost an entire week, I worked on a three-person assembly line at a teddy
bear factory. My jobs included: 1. Tying bows on bears' necks 2. Putting tiny
shoes on bears' feet 3. Spraying a coating of glitter on finished bears to
give them a nice, "glittery" look.
I had a really hard time getting the bows tied correctly. And I wasn't fast
enough. I had to receive near-constant help from my supervisor (who also owned
the bears in question), as well as from those around me. Co-workers would
say things like, "No, you're not doing that right," and "You're
still not doing that right." I never got the hang of it. Many of the
bears that I'd worked on appeared to be choking.
I was moved away from the complexities of bows, the next day, entirely into
the glitter-spraying realm. This was supposedly "easier," although
I never quite got the hang of glittering. The supervisor had to help me with
that, too, and sighed about it, the whole time. The problem, of course, was
that I had a tendency to close my eyes when I did any heavy spraying. To avoid
getting glitter in my eyes. Which I imagined would be painful. And, yes, I
successfully avoided the ol' glitter-in-the-eyes, but the bears remained pretty
much uncoated, as well.
I knew I was finished at the factory when I was replaced in my glitter-duty.
I went out to my car and sat for a while. After I ate my cheese sandwich,
I didn't know what to do. So I continued to sit. I considered getting another
sandwich. Seeing as how the whole bear-making operation consisted of four
people, I was pretty sure they noticed when I didn't come back inside. They
were probably able to get a lot more work done.
And when I got home that evening, I received a call from the bear-boss, who
said that they liked my personality, but not the way I tied bows onto bears
or sprayed glitter onto the walls, surrounding the bears. And that was it:
I was fired, and for good reason.
My immediate reaction: "Yay." The first thing I did: Watch "90210"
reruns on FX. How it's worked out, in the long term: Very well, thanks.
A bear-factory wasn't the answer to my life, I discovered. Even at $7.50 an
hour.
A.J. Daulerio:
I've been lucky. I've never been laid off or let go or escorted out of the
building from any of the "real" jobs I've held since the age of
24 (barring one instance as a part-time personal trainer at the New York Sports
Club when I was fired because I left a woman who just had rotator cuff surgery
unattended while she was attempting to bench press. I needed to smoke and
I figured the weights were light enough for her to handle. How as I supposed
to know her shoulder
would dislocate so easily? She had a shitty doctor if you ask me.) So, no
woeful unemployment tales from me. Apologies. However, between the ages of
16 and 23 I was fortunate enough to be unemployed on 7 different occasions.
In all of those instances, I was fired.
Here are some highlights:
1. Some Moronic Landscaping Company: Holland, Pa. Age 16
These idiots had me shoveling a bunch of potting soil and wheeling around
mounds of dirt for three weekends straight before I told them I'd had enough.
Finally, while I was pushing around a big wheelbarrow full of mulch at an
ornate suburban home that contracted us, I snapped. "If you guys don't
let me start pulling trees and mowing lawns like everybody else I'm going
to leave. Enough with this mulch shit." Well, they didn't think that
tone was appropriate and
they fired me. Worse, they just left me at that lady's house. I had to ask
to use her phone so my mom could pick me up.
2. Kentucky Fried Chicken: Richboro, Pa. Age 16
Hands down the most disgusting place I've ever worked. The chicken would be
on these huge trays all frozen and lined up in neat little rows. I remember
thinking the chicken parts looked like the frozen limbs of dead children.
It smelled awful. After my shift was over, I'd have to take a 40 minute shower
just to wash the grease off my neck, hands, and face. They used to have these
two brothers working on my shift, I forget their names, but the one guy was
some sort of half-retard who couldn't say the letter 'R'. I used to call him
Pwice Tag. Well, one day while I was working the drive thru, that dummy got
his revenge. I accidentally stuck the change return drawer out too far and
took off some mini-van's side mirror. The thing just snapped right off. And
good ol' Pwice Tag tattled on me to the shift manager: "He nawked da
meewah off da caw! He nawked da meewah off da caw!". Well, they sent
me home early and for good. At least I had my car with me, ahem, caw with
me and I could dwive myself home.
3. Northampton Country Club: Northampton, Pa.
Age 18
I am not a man who likes machines. And that's all this job entailed--handling
machines. In two weeks at the golf course I broke two trap rakes, a weed whacker,
got the golf cart stuck in a sand trap, and consistently made every crew member's
job much harder than it had to be anytime I worked with them. Mercifully,
after I showed up for my 6 a.m. shift at noon one day, the superintendent
of the golf course told me that he just couldn't afford to keep me on anymore.
"You just break a lot of stuff," he told me. Once again, I drove
home from work early that day for good.
4. Some Dopey Telemarketing Establishment: Southampton, Pa. Age 19
This was actually one of those Summer Work College Students Up to $12 an hour!
jobs that went horribly wrong. I sold magazine subscriptions for this ridiculously
overpriced business newsletter called the Marketing Report to business owners
over the phone. All of our sales had to be taped and verified by a supervisor
at the end of the week in order to get sale credit and commission. Well, I
decided it would be fun
to make a tape of all the preposterous things I could get secretaries to say
like "The weasel is on the farm, but no one else can see it" and
" I love thigh rubs and giraffe rides." Well, I forgot to change
the tape during one of my reviews and instead of hearing my patented closing
pitch, the supervisors listened to eight dimwitted women reciting ridiculous
non-sequiturs. I was sent home early, once again.
Kristi Plamann:
I was terminated last February in a sticky political move - My boss was the
president of the company, he was replaced by a new president on a Monday,
and that Friday the two of us that worked the closest with the original president
were canned. I definitely spent the first part of my unemployment
being bitter and drunk. But, there are hidden blessings. I now work for the
state, assisting job seekers with resumes, interviewing, etc... So, I went
from getting my check from the state through unemployment, and now it's a
paycheck. The bonus is that I'm much happier in this job, helping people,
rather than making money for the man. I'm poorer, but happier. Last month
I celebrated the one year anniversary of the firing with the gal who was canned
with me, and we are both in better places.
Dennis DiClaudio:
There's something that happens to you when you're unemployed. Your dick
falls off. Nobody speaks about this, but it is an important aspect of unemployment,
for men at least. I don't know if anything comparable happens to women when
they lose their jobs, but for men, they lose their dicks. Not at first. At
first, it shrivels up and shrinks down and atrophies. But, then, eventually,
it falls off completely, and one day you find it sliding out the pant leg
of your jeans while you're in line at the bank to deposit money from your
parents so that you can pay the rent, and you think, "Oh, well, there
it finally went." Not like it was of much use before that. I can't explain
it scientifically, but if anybody wants to know, I can
probably find out. I have plenty of time to search around the internet or
wander through bookstores. I've been unemployed for seventeen months, and
in that time I've learned three things: how to find anything on the internet,
which bookstores don't mind you reading their merchandise for several hours
straight, and that your dick falls off. Four things if you count memorizing
what time News Radio comes on everyday. I love that show. I love watching
those wacky people going about their wacky work day while I sit on my couch
and listen to the credit card people leave messages on my answering machine.
I like to imagine myself as their silent co-worker, staring up at their antics
from seclusion of my desk. I particularly like Lisa, the serious, yet feminine
co-producer of the station. I think to myself, "If I had a dick, I would
take you away from Dave, and I would have sex with you, and then I'd go out
and buy that new Stephen Malkmus CD that I've been wanting to get." My
dick fell off at around the one-year mark. It was hard to use before that,
but it was still possible under the proper circumstances and with the right
kind of manipulation. But afterwards, there was nothing. I met this one girl,
and she invited me back to her house under the ostensible purposes of "seeing
her art work". She didn't know I didn't have a dick. I was there to see
the art, because I knew I didn't have a dick. When she started making very
blatant overtures, I became uncomfortable, and I didn't want to lead her on,
but I also didn't want to make her think that I didn't think she was attractive.
So, I reached into my bag and pulled out the box. Confused, she peered
inside as I opened the lid and pushed the tissue paper aside. "Oh, I
see," she said. "Seventeen months," I said. I'm happy to say
that after seventeen months of scouring the want-ads, being told that I am
under-qualified, being told that I am over-qualified, avoiding the electric
bill, and watching my dick shrivel up and fall off, I have, only yesterday,
found a job; a good job with a lot of upward mobility. Too bad my dick's not
here to see it. (I buried in the park a few days ago.) However, when I woke
up this morning, I looked into my pants, and there, like the early-spring
buddings of acorn, were the beginnings of a brand new dick.
It's not much to look at right now, but it's gonna be a beautiful thing eventually.
David Mogolov:
After three months of unemployment in 2000, I got a magazine job in January
of 2001. I worked there for three months before every employee was laid off.
We all got two months of severence pay. Three months working, five months
of pay. Not bad.
What followed was a second three months of unemployment. The unemployment itself was not a problem. Not working is easy. I enjoyed it. What was difficult was leaving the apartment. All I did for the second three months was throw darts, eat, and occasionally apply for jobs online.
For some perspective on how I spent my time, please do some research and
answer the following question : How many darts do you have to throw in order
to wear out a dartboard? If you find out, let me know, because I think it
would make my story better. All I can say is that bars don't replace their
dartboards very often, and hundreds of people use them. I ruined two dartboards
in three months. Wore them to the point where most of the bristle couldn't
capture a dart anymore. I think it must take at least five thousand
throws to wear out a dartboard. Please let me know.