All roads lead to Hickory Farms
After going over this post, I decided that if it had been written by someone else and I’d read it, I probably would have been annoyed with them. I don’t know what that means, but you’ve been warned. Long, too. SORRY.
Well, I’m at three weeks, and I think I’ve made peace with my work. I don’t like it, but I didn’t expect to, and while it’s the most tedious work I’ve ever had, there’s rarely anything grueling about it. My relationship with my boss has changed, however, at least in the respect that I hate her. My initial perceptions of her as a quintessentially Midwestern and endearingly batty were somewhat off; instead, it turns out she’s a patronizing, self-pitying 4-ft tall madwoman. When hired, I thought she only seemed condescending because I was new. Nope. I’ve played over in my mind several times a revenge fantasy wherein Bing Crosby comes on the North Grand Mall holiday music loop. Doris remarks to me how much she likes old Bing, and I respond, casually but solemnly, by saying “Yeah, it’s a shame he used to hit his kids,” which is in turn met with a look of shock and disbelief. I’m waiting for the day. On a related note, last week one of the employees at The Buckle made fun of me for helping myself to a mint when the kiosk wasn’t busy. What the fuck!? Go pre-rip some jeans and listen to the Bravery, prick.
This job has also confirmed something I’d already been assuming: I am not a salesman. I felt very awkward trying to sell people something they weren’t already intent on buying, and don’t any longer.
One upside to working at the mall is I get to see quite a lot of familiar faces on a daily basis, many of whom I might not have seen during break otherwise. (The) Andre was a highlight. Also, Josh Inyang works at the mall, and is usually there when I am, but seems to spend more time outside of his work station than in it. And about 60% of the time I’m there I see Anju Somani (WTF, Anju?).
In spite of a couple of fairly terrible things occurring within my extended family the past year, I, as I’ve said before, have been generally more content these past few months than I have during the whole of my adolescence. The magnitude of one’s problems, I think, is usually much less important than one’s ability to cope, though that’s not really what’s on my mind right now. The point is that what urges I have toward self-expression and cathartic experiences, while still present, demand much less of my attention than an urge to help people, one which was also always present but seems to be expanding. I’m struggling to understand this, because I’m not sure I like people all that much. Marvel Comics has a lot to answer for.
In what I guess is a similar note, I’ve concluded that deciding on a major and subsequently fulfilling the requirements are both going to be a lot harder than I’d thought. BUT-I’ve also concluded that in order to help pay for grad school, or maybe in the years directly after it, I’d really like to spend some time as a firefighter. So I’m five, apparently. This is an occupation that is virtually guaranteed to have nothing to do with whatever my major ends up being, which I think is part of the appeal. (And it would beat editing copy somewhere.) If I begin to take a more serious interest in Buddhism, I suppose there’s also the promise of the novelty of being a Zen fireman, which could make for either a really terrible Steven Segal movie or a really terrible sitcom.
I’ve been reading Woody Guthrie’s autobiography Bound For Glory lately, and I’m that much more convinced Guthrie embodied pretty much everything I respect in a person. This is a guy, an artist, a progressive, who had wit and a very low tolerance for bullshit, who thought the best thing in the world was people working hard together and had a bone to pick with totalitarianism-not an objection, but a Bone. To. Pick. And while I’m acutely aware of the many differences between Guthrie and myself, I still reserve the right to have a hetero crush on him. Plus, writing “THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS” on your guitar is still one of the most badass things anyone’s ever done.
Really, fuck “The War on Christmas.” This is, hands down, the most arbitrary fucking issue the religious right has ever concocted. How arrogant do you have to be to be offended at an attempt at inclusiveness? Honesty! It's not true that most Christians in America are bullies, granted, but too damn many of them are.
Well, I’m at three weeks, and I think I’ve made peace with my work. I don’t like it, but I didn’t expect to, and while it’s the most tedious work I’ve ever had, there’s rarely anything grueling about it. My relationship with my boss has changed, however, at least in the respect that I hate her. My initial perceptions of her as a quintessentially Midwestern and endearingly batty were somewhat off; instead, it turns out she’s a patronizing, self-pitying 4-ft tall madwoman. When hired, I thought she only seemed condescending because I was new. Nope. I’ve played over in my mind several times a revenge fantasy wherein Bing Crosby comes on the North Grand Mall holiday music loop. Doris remarks to me how much she likes old Bing, and I respond, casually but solemnly, by saying “Yeah, it’s a shame he used to hit his kids,” which is in turn met with a look of shock and disbelief. I’m waiting for the day. On a related note, last week one of the employees at The Buckle made fun of me for helping myself to a mint when the kiosk wasn’t busy. What the fuck!? Go pre-rip some jeans and listen to the Bravery, prick.
This job has also confirmed something I’d already been assuming: I am not a salesman. I felt very awkward trying to sell people something they weren’t already intent on buying, and don’t any longer.
One upside to working at the mall is I get to see quite a lot of familiar faces on a daily basis, many of whom I might not have seen during break otherwise. (The) Andre was a highlight. Also, Josh Inyang works at the mall, and is usually there when I am, but seems to spend more time outside of his work station than in it. And about 60% of the time I’m there I see Anju Somani (WTF, Anju?).
In spite of a couple of fairly terrible things occurring within my extended family the past year, I, as I’ve said before, have been generally more content these past few months than I have during the whole of my adolescence. The magnitude of one’s problems, I think, is usually much less important than one’s ability to cope, though that’s not really what’s on my mind right now. The point is that what urges I have toward self-expression and cathartic experiences, while still present, demand much less of my attention than an urge to help people, one which was also always present but seems to be expanding. I’m struggling to understand this, because I’m not sure I like people all that much. Marvel Comics has a lot to answer for.
In what I guess is a similar note, I’ve concluded that deciding on a major and subsequently fulfilling the requirements are both going to be a lot harder than I’d thought. BUT-I’ve also concluded that in order to help pay for grad school, or maybe in the years directly after it, I’d really like to spend some time as a firefighter. So I’m five, apparently. This is an occupation that is virtually guaranteed to have nothing to do with whatever my major ends up being, which I think is part of the appeal. (And it would beat editing copy somewhere.) If I begin to take a more serious interest in Buddhism, I suppose there’s also the promise of the novelty of being a Zen fireman, which could make for either a really terrible Steven Segal movie or a really terrible sitcom.
I’ve been reading Woody Guthrie’s autobiography Bound For Glory lately, and I’m that much more convinced Guthrie embodied pretty much everything I respect in a person. This is a guy, an artist, a progressive, who had wit and a very low tolerance for bullshit, who thought the best thing in the world was people working hard together and had a bone to pick with totalitarianism-not an objection, but a Bone. To. Pick. And while I’m acutely aware of the many differences between Guthrie and myself, I still reserve the right to have a hetero crush on him. Plus, writing “THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS” on your guitar is still one of the most badass things anyone’s ever done.
Really, fuck “The War on Christmas.” This is, hands down, the most arbitrary fucking issue the religious right has ever concocted. How arrogant do you have to be to be offended at an attempt at inclusiveness? Honesty! It's not true that most Christians in America are bullies, granted, but too damn many of them are.