I worked once.

Ya wanna hear about a job? I got a folking job for ya.

Come to think of it, it's probably not for ya, and it's not... well read on.

When being interviewed for a job, the right thing to say is 'YES', and that means under all circumstances, including on the entrance interview 'Have you ever murdered/killed anyone'.

Yes, but only with humor. I once slayed a dragon by telling her that her letterhead had a typo in it. It took her several weeks to figure out that I was just kidding.

But that's not the story I want to tell now.

I interview quite well. I dress to perfection, and have that savoir fare air of confidence, and know how to shake hands, smile, and present myself as if I've done this a few times... mostly because I have.

Out of 10 applicants to this one job position - and mind you, it was a job, not a career... I was finally chosen.

However, I had my doubts. First of all when I drove to the place, I could not for the life of me wrap my head around the fact that it was in a neighborhood that even by day I felt uncomfortable walking around in with out a glock in my pocket. With the safety off. Now, usually I can walk through tough neighborhoods - you must know I'm a regular honest white boy, and not some punk - and get practically NO attention because
a) I talk to myself a lot
b) I rummage through other peoples trash and often walk away with something
c) I have that cachet of being harmless and totally fucking insane.

But not today, for today I was dressed in shiney grey tweed, red tie, hat tipped just enough for attitude, one degree more would have been cocky, my portfolio in hand, and that 'yes sir, yes sir, three bags full sir' smile. The same one I would shine when asked by the interviewer that the job required me to have sexual relations with the boss's sister. Luckily for me, that topic did not come up.

What did come up, and was probably just as scary, was that I needed to show up at 6:30 in the morning.

When I was 10, 11- or even 20 years old, my mommy would have to practically drag me out of bed, and sometimes my father was asked to intervene, and even then, it was a struggle. I'd fall back asleep, I'd fake a cold, I even told them once that I had brain cancer, and couldn't make it to school that day. This all because I would stay up way too late and read books, magazines, or talk to my imaginary friends, and read them poetry I was making up impromptu. I thought I was pretty darn good at that, who know, later on, it might just come true?

So I had to wake up at 5:30, make the coffee if I was lucky, and then drive into the bowels of Newark, otherwise known as the armpit of New Jersey - although a good argument for that title is Kerney, so maybe there are two armpits. Not a big stretch of the imagination. I won't go into the southern towns just now, it would not be appropriate.

My job was to make big signs for people.

See, we had a system that let people design signs online, for their car, or business window, bumper stickers... I mean just about any kind of flat product that needed some imprinteur of the owners desire or authority, we made it happen at the sign shop.

Now, I've watched 8 mile, and saw how Emminem went to his low class job, and were I to work next to him I'd get a 'fuck you for breakfast and this was my friend who I had to work either for - or eventually over.

It was a comedy of errors, every thing I could have done wrong - from my holier than thou attitude, my 3'rd day write up of everything I saw 'wrong' with the shop that I shared with a midlevel boss to my presumption of wearing a suit and tie everyday, kept asking for, and finally got that corner office with a lockable door and a view of the parking lot, so I could see all the minions and secretaries go trot trot in the morning, their coffee splashing, their hair dashing, their shoestraps tangled, and then on to the times I came in still drunk from the weekend party, to my glad handed attempts at friendship with co-workers... I think I hit about every point in what NOT to do -

So when they let me go, I was SO relieved... oh my fucking Iced Tea, I don't have to wake up at 5:30 and drive down into that ugly part of the city and slave for $10 per hour while trying to look pretty.

I'm a fox up on a hill, gazing at all the silly little people below... and knowing I am just one blow away from being even lower than that, which is what I suppose is where I was at, but it didn't fit, so I got quit, and took all the knowlege of that wonderful experience (no joke) with me to use wherever else I choose. Truth be told, I count it as a 'freelance opportunity' that provided a bit of money, enough to keep the lights on for the next couple months, and honestly, nothing I could have done for much more time. I still wake up at 5:00 am and go brush my teeth, or fix something to eat, then go back to tweet on my laptop, I'm so glad not to have to stay up and drive down only to fuck up, because the people who send in their 'artwork' for signs are not designers, just clowns who don't know how to use the tools given, and need my help, but I am not given time or encouragement to help, just to schedule jobs, and collect money, that was not how I was raised, I was taught to love what you do, and this was just a bad picture in a dingey art gallery, filled with otherwise smart, but awful boring people...

This is the job, I was very glad to be let go from.

My next job?

My next endeavor will be to rule the universe! That is, I will write, and more profane examples of employment idiocy will ensue.

Love - and 7ox Out.
L3l&