McSweeney�s #6 � McSweeney�s vs. They Might Be Giants
[Quick explanation] Sorry if the reruns are confusing some people. I�m almost finished putting these in the proper order, and then everything goes back to proper chronological time.
You know, in case you wanted to read every single on as a sort of testament to history.
And if you do, there is obviously something very wrong with you.
So I�m not planning on doing anything after work. Hopefully I can just re-post the last two months of entries and be done with it. And perhaps I can actually write a new entry as well. Then there�s that film that catspajamas loaned me. I still need to start purging my stuff in preparation for the move. And maybe I should buy that plane ticket to Hawaii. Registering for classes would probably be a good idea. Plus, for some reason, I haven�t been able to sleep for more than four to five hours for the last week..
Oh, hey! Newcastle is own sale! Fuck all that other stuff!
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This book comes with instructions. Nine pieces of instruction, in fact. Some of these have to do with the band They Might Be Giants, as they have a CD included that is supposed to correspond with each story or photograph in the book. I can�t tell you how well this works, as a friend of mine sold this to the store and brought the CD in later, after I already took the book home. I know I have the CD, but I have no idea where it is.
But there are other instructions, like #6, which reads,
�Please note that you may listen to Tracks without reading the Pieces, and you may read Pieces without listening to their corresponding Tracks. But this is not recommended. You fucking bastard.�
I just love that. Totally random cursing rules. My mother hates it, and her admonishment of my doing it falls just behind telling me to quit smoking. She won�t even look at an e-mail from me if I send it from my regular address because it has profanity. To end the instruction with �You fucking bastard� in a literary magazine, even a so-called hip and funky one, makes me fucking giggle like crazy.
Unfortunately, that was the most that I giggled. McSweeny�s pieces can be a little too much of a hip and funky literary circle sometimes, and I can�t help but think that it�s a clique of friends who get their pieces printed even when they�re not very good at all.
Oh, and a message to the artist who made �art� by painting a slogan onto a huge sign and mounting it to his mini-van (featured in several photographs in this collection). Quit art school and try some fucking English composition courses so you can learn the difference between �its� and �it�s� before broadcasting your ignorance on a 15-foot mural.
Anyhoo (that�s intentional, people!) there are a couple of stories about working life in here, so I�ll do my own, since I have a full Newcastle AND a pint glass of Jack and coke next to me at the computer. I�ll obviously be here a while, so here we go.
I used to work at an Italian chain restaurant that rhymed with the words Olive Garden. Rhymed really, really closely, actually. I worked there for nearly five years and soon became their head day cook. I got employee of the month so many times that they finally gave me employee of the year and gave up the practice. They put a picture of me up in the lobby complete with my green hair, which the hosts loved.
�What�s wrong with this picture?� old ladies would ask as they waited for their table, �It looks underexposed.�
�Oh, the picture is actually fine, it�s just that he has green hair.�
�He does? Really? Well, who is that in the picture?�
�That�s the guy who will be cooking your food.�
The reason I got all the awards wasn�t because I liked the job. It was because the normal assumption of people, especially the fucks in management, was that I was some kind of fuck-up. I even had a chance to see my original application, and the first interviewer wrote, �Don�t judge a book by the cover with this one. He seems to know what he�s talking about.� I loved shattering their illusions to become the most reliable guy on the workforce.
The best part about it was that I kept my personality the entire time, and my personality is to be obnoxious, anti-authority, and somewhat of a prick, particularly if they had some sort of superiority complex. More than one manger, and I went through about 25 in my tenure there, wanted desperately to fire my ass.
The funny thing was that most of them didn�t even know my name.
See, when I first started, the head manager kept confusing me with Greg, another cook in the back. Greg and I switched nametags one day to see if that would make him get it right, and the manager said, �Screw it, you�re the punk and he�s the rocker, so that�s what I�m gonna call you. He even made me my very own nametag that read �Punker.�
The rocker left soon after, but my name caught on. Pretty soon the entire staff was calling me Punker. A few staff changes later, and that�s all the staff knew me as.
Back to the random cursing thing with an example. One time after I casually swore while talking with another employee, the new manager walked up quickly to admonish me. �Hey, hey, hey, we don�t tolerate that kind of language back here.�
I put down the crappy lasagna I was shoveling onto a plate, turned to face him, and slowly extended both middle fingers toward the sky.
He started to walk away, obviously pissed, but I called him back and unbuttoned my chef�s coat to show the T-shirt I was wearing underneath.
The T-shirt read �Fuck You� in bold white letters on a black background.
That manager, like many others, simply required a pattern that I had already followed for two years. A manager would be shipped in from another location, and they would invariably think to themselves that they had gone too easy on employees at their last place, and said employees had taken advantage. Since they were making a fresh start, they reasoned, they would act like a fucking bastard, and people were going to do what they wanted, goddamn it.
And then they meet me, and all their carefully laid plans went to shit.
Oh, some people when they first started tried to set a course in action to get me canned, but I was a guy who was never late and worked harder than everyone else, managers included. Since the restaurant had five other supervisors who had worked with me and knew this, nothing ever happened.
It became routine whenever a new manager came in: we would be at each other�s throat for about two months, then they would somehow fuck up and I stepped in and saved their ass. From there they gained a grudging respect, and sometimes we even became friends. Then they would leave or get fired, and the process would start over again.
Then we got Brian. I don�t think we had the worst start in my history there, but we started to actually hate one another. It became obvious that both of us were waiting for the other to fuck up so we could win the battle. He started implementing rules that he knew would annoy me and played radio stations that he knew I hated (the speaker was right above my head). I brought books like Sabotage in the American Workplace and read them with the cover showing for all to see.
Finally, Brian fucked up. Big time. On the day that a big shot from the corporate office was coming to inspect the place, he forgot his keys and didn�t realize he had forgotten them until he arrived at the restaurant after a nearly two hour commute. He frantically called his girlfriend, and she was on her way with the keys. In the meantime we waited outside of the locked building.
Normally, we would start work at eight o�clock in the morning to set everything up. We got inside the doors at ten, and opened for business at eleven, which was when the head honcho was supposed to arrive.
I fucking ran my ass off for that next hour, and when the guy walked in promptly at 11, he had no idea that there was any problem. I had done it � I had saved this asshole�s hide. Now perhaps he�d stop riding me.
He didn�t even thank me.
In fact, I think he used the time we were stuck outside to plot against me, which I probably didn�t help since I spent those two hours saying, �Whoooo! You are gonna be in so much trouble!�
About a month later, a new hire came to work for his first day as manager. Brian left instructions.
�There�s a guy named Punker who�s gonna show up around 7:15. Tell him he can�t come in until his shift starts at eight.�
That�s right, I was early to work every day. I did this so I could drink coffee, read, and smoke cigarettes before starting an incredibly hectic day.
So I showed up early that morning, as usual, and rang the back door so I could start my coffee and cigarette ritual. The new guy answered.
�Oh, you must be the new guy,� I said. �How�s it going?� I started to move past him.
He blocked the entrance. �Hey, you want to get out of my way so I can make some fucking coffee?�
He looked shocked at my casual swearing. �Uh,� he said, �Brian says you can�t come in until eight, when your shift starts.�
�Yeah, well Brian�s an asshole and I�ve been coming in at this time for almost five years, which is longer than Brian�s even been with this company. Now step aside.�
�I can�t,� he said meekly. �I�m sorry.� And then he shut the door in my face.
And since this is long enough already, plus I don�t have much to say about the next book that I read as well, I�m gonna make this a two-part piece. Tune in tomorrow... Well, maybe not tomorrow, but tune in eventually. You fucking bastard.
Dum DUM DUM!!!
Worth keeping? Maybe, if I ever find that fucking CD. Oh, and sorry about the misleading Amazon link, but I can�t find this one anywhere. Perhaps you can buy my copy. Once I find my CD, that is. And remember � perhaps.
