The show started fifteen minutes ago. I'm sitting in the box office, but we are no longer open for ticket sales because, again, the show started fifteen minutes ago.
A woman walks in. She comes up to the window.
"Can I help?" I say.
"I need to get in," she says.
"Do you have a ticket?"
"No, I need to buy one.""I'm sorry, but the box office is closed for the evening."
"You won't sell me a ticket?""No, I can't. The box office is closed down.""There are empty seats in there?""Yes.""And you won't let me go in?" "Well no, the box office is closed, I cannot sell you a ticket.""Well then I'm just going to go in." She leaves the box office and starts heading toward the door into the house. I hop up and cut her off.
"M'am, you don't have a ticket, you can't go in.""You're being ridiculous. I'm ten minutes late and you won't let me in?""No, m'am, the show started fifteen minutes ago, I can't sell you a ticket and you can't go in without a ticket. We have another show tomorrow, you could come back then." "My children are in there, I'm going in. I can either give you twelve dollars or I can just walk in, those are you options."
'How the fuck did she become the one in the position of power?' I think to myself, 'This is not how it works. You show up fifteen minutes late-- that does not entitle you to a free seat! And I'll be damned if I take your twelve dollars because in your head then I'll have kept the money and I refuse to have you think I'm as much of an asshole as you are!'
"That's not really how it works--" I begin to explain."You're being ridiculous.""Okay, no, I'm not. This is how it works. It's not ridiculous, it's business. We are closed, therefore I can't sell you anything. Everyone else in there showed up on time and paid for their tickets--" "I'm going in."At this point, I wanted to push this five foot nothing woman to the ground and say "NO! GODDAMNIT! YOU ARE NOT IN CHARGE HERE! You are rude and mean and I hope your children hate you! If you had asked nicely, I would have let you in right away and that would have been it, but you fucking DEMANDED it as your fucking RIGHT as a fifteen minute late ASSHOLE to get to see (most of) the show for FREE! If I could, I would slap your parents for teaching you that you are somehow special and entitled to equally special treatment when you arrive late and act rude! Not only are you not special, you are an awful human being and I hope that ill befalls you! And because you are a rude and mean lady, no one will be there for you and your funeral will be more sparsely attended than Willy Lohman's!"
In a desperate struggle to assert some power I say, "Fine, you can go in, but understand that we would not normally allow this." We both know it's a futile gesture, my pretending like I'm the one letting her go in. She walks past me the way I imagine she would drive past a pile of roadkill that she herself ran over a week prior-- she's vaguely disgusted by it, but still proud to have been the killer.
I stood there for a moment, feeling as powerless as a eunuch in a whorehouse. How the hell did that just happen? Who the hell was that woman? And was I being ridiculous? I have often in the past let people into the theatre without tickets after the box office closed WHEN THEY ASKED NICELY. Hell, it didn't even really have to be all that nicely, they just had to ask. This woman told me: "I'm going in and that's that."
Was it ridiculous of me to put up a fight? Well, sure, probably. Was I on a power trip? Yeah . . . I guess. But really: Can you blame me?* I mean, what a bitch!
*Yes, yes you can.**
**But seriously, have you ever heard of anything quite so bitchy before in your life?
I didn't think so.
Showing posts with label archive. Show all posts
Showing posts with label archive. Show all posts
21 September 2007
15 September 2007
Archive: Hear Yee, Hear Yee
A month and a half ago I got a phone call.
"Hi, this is Carrie from Schmirch Fabrics*, Lynne Brown Schmepper** gave me your name as someone who might be interested in an acting job," the voice on the other end says.
"Oh. Okay, sure," I said.
"We're having a picnic and we need some one to dress up and make an announcement. And we'd pay you to do it." Carrie said
Even though I don't understand at all what she's asking me to do, I do understand that she's offering me money so I say: "Alright. When and where?" We set up a time for me to come in a meet the group of people Carrie refers to as "us" (who's us? what us is this? I never really found out).
About a month later, Carrie calls me again just to make sure I'm still planning on coming in. I tell her "yes," and blow yet another opportunity to find out exactly what it is that I've agreed to do. This happens partly because she called while I was suffering from my massive sinus infection and I, for a period of a week and a half or so, hated life and partly because, as a general rule, I'm bad at stuff.
Last Friday, I went to meet with Carrie. I went to the Schmirch Fabrics office, told the receptionist that I had an appointment with Carrie and then sat down in the holding area, reading all about upcoming events in the September 2005 issue of Grand Rapids Magazine. Turns out, I missed what promised to be a totally awesome Aerosmith concert two years ago. How will I find the strength to go on?
Carrie walks into the room to greet me. When I see Carrie, I wonder if Schmirch Fabrics is breaking child labor laws by employing this fourteen year old child. She ushers me into the conference room to meet everyone. "Don't worry," she tells me, "there's only going to be seven of us."
Seven women ranging in age from the fourteen year old Carrie to 50ish. A whole range of shapes and sizes. As diverse a group as you can get from seven Dutch women who work in the office of a fabric and upholstery company.
As I walk into the room I hear titters of "Oooh, he's tall!" and "Oh good the costume will fit!" and "Oh, the beard will work great!" It's weird to be ogled like a piece of meat. It's even weirder to be ogled like a piece of meat that someone wants to put in a funny hat and a pair of fake boots.
So I sit down at the head of the table and say 'hi' to everyone, more confused than ever about what it is they want me to do. It was like a scene from The Office, with the party planning committee interviewing entertainers for the big Christmas party. If only there had been a Pam in the room to share in my embarrassment for everyone else in the room.
"Has Carrie told you what we want you to do?" asked woman 3.
"Uhm, not really," I admitted my cluelessness.
It was then explained to me that what they needed was someone to announce their Renaissance themed office party, so they wanted me to come in in a week, put on some Renaissance garb and read a proclamation to the assembled Schmirch Fabric employees. 'Oookay,' I thought, 'sounds simple enough, if not altogether kind of ridiculous.' "Oh, alright, sure," I said. "Have you ever done anything like this before?" asked woman 5.
"I mean, I've acted before . . . I've never done something like this, exactly, but I've worn purple tights so it's not like I'm unaccustomed to looking silly in front of crowds of strangers." This inspired more giggling.
"Oh, we won't make you wear tights," said woman 2. I was kind of disappointed. Not because I love wearing tights or anything, but because, frankly, my legs look really good in tights. I'm just saying.
Anyway, woman 7 pulled a sheet of paper out of her folder and slid it over to me and then woman 4 said, "We don't want to put you on the spot here, but would you mind, y'know, standing up and giving us a reading, maybe?" Now, in an audition (which this ostensibly was), I generally expect to have to, y'know, audition so asking me to read is not so much 'putting me on the spot' as it is asking me to do the thing that I was asked to come in and do. So, I take the script, I stand up (more titters from woman 5 and 7, who came in late and as such didn't get to marvel at my height earlier) and I look at the script.
Because, of course, it's all Renaissance-y, it's typed in some Renaissance-y font which is good, because if it were in a more readable script, I wouldn't have understood that it was supposed to be Renaissance-y and would have read it wrong. The script begins "Hear Yee, Hear Yee." Yup. "Yee."
So, I start reading the script in my big Renaissance-y voice and the titters begin again "Oooh, my!" "It sounds even better than I thought it would!" I read about half of it and the titters grew to a crescendo so I stopped. "Oh that's great!" "Thank you for doing that!" Clap, clap, clap, applause, applause, applause.
"Alright, great! That's going to be just perfect. Just perfect." says woman 5.
"We've got everything set, the only question is, how much to pay you. I don't want to put you on the spot, but how much would you normally get paid for something like this?"
Because I'm Dutch and because I've been poor all my life, and because my family ever only talked about money as a problem, I'm really bad about talking about money. It makes me very uncomfortable. Especially when it comes to evaluating my value. 'How much would I normally get for something like this?' Something like this has, to my knowledge, never really been done by anyone ever. It's like asking "How many people are usually killed in a Martian attack?"
I yammered out some "ye--err--idunn--uhm" and, sensing my continued cluelessness and discomfort, young little Carrie came to my rescue and said "How about $50 dollars?" Honestly? I was hoping for more. Not that I deserved it, but I've gotten used to getting paid $100 an hour for gigs and I thought maybe these people were just clueless enough to over-estimate my worth. And they did, just not as much as I would like them to. Realizing that $50 for three minutes of work was probably more than fair, I took the offer.
Yesterday, at 9am, I drove down to Schmirch Fabrics. I met Carrie and was scuttled off into the conference room yet again. She quickly drew all of the curtains and, motioning to a series of plastic bags and a box formerly used for stationary, she says "There's your costume stuff. I'll give you ten minutes or so to put it on. I'll knock before I come back in." I start pulling things out of the bags, fearful that without having taken a single measurement from me, or even asking what size I wear, a costume has been picked out for me. I was fairly certain that this was going to fit about as well as the infamous Cap'n Crunch outfit I wore for Schmeritage Theatre Groups '02 production of Hamlet.
I needn't have worried, though. These women are used to upholstering large pieces of furniture, so finding the right amount of fabric to cover my orangutan-like physique was no problem. The costume fit fine. And while I had been expecting something Renaissance-y, it turns out their idea of Renaissance-y is much more in keeping with my idea of Pirate-y. The inside label of the shirt actually called it a "Buccaneer" shirt. Granted, it wasn't a very tough looking pirate, but a nancy pirate is still a pirate.
Once I was all pirated up, I opened up the stationary box (by which I mean both that it was once used to hold and transport paper products and that it was itself immobile) and pulled out the hat contained therein. This supposed Renaissance-y hat looked like an Indian Jones hat with three ostrich feathers attached to it. It was neither Renaissance-y nor particularly Pirate-y, but it was most definitely big pimpin'.
I was coached by woman 5 on exactly how to conduct myself, then Carrie came back and taught me how to do a page (they wanted to have me do it so that no one would recognize the voice) to tell everyone to gather in the warehouse by the time clock in five minutes. While we waited for the right time to do the page, Carrie went and got Steve. I don't know why she got Steve, as his only purpose seemed to be joining Carrie and I in the conference room, gawking and making me feel very uncomfortable. I'm awkward enough meeting new people, but meeting new people while hiding in a fabric company conference room and wearing a pirate costume and Indian Jones' pimped out hat is about as 'awkward turtle' as you can get. He didn't even have any questions for me. And of course, the only question I had for him was "Why the hell are you here? Can't a guy dress up like a pirate in peace for five minutes?!"
So, time came to make the page. I successfully managed to work the type of multi-line phone that I send five hours a day operating, impressing young Carrie once again with my mad skills. Then, she lead me to the back hall way and up a metal staircase to a grated floor where I was to wait for her signal and then head out to the balcony and begin to read my proclamation.
As I stood there, fully exposed to members of my awaiting audience (probably the thing that makes me most uncomfortable as a performer is having audience members see me in costume when I'm not supposed to be seen. It even makes me uncomfortable when other actors are seen by the audience before it's time. I'm talking to you, John Schmoley.) I heard the people below speculating on what was going on. "Maybe it's someone dressed as Santa" one already drunk employee suggested. Apparently, she had seen my boots, or maybe the red pirate vest I was wearing, or perhaps even my beard or my girth and decided that, in fact, I was not a pimpin' pirate, but Jolly Ol' St. Nick. "Come on out, Santa, and get it over with!" Sweet Jeebus, I was being heckled before I even started!
Then, from below me, I hear Carrie whisper calling to me "Dave, go. Go." So, I stroll out to the balcony and twelve feet below me are all twenty employees of Schmirch Fabrics. And Steve and women 's 1-7 had already seen me. 'Well, dozen Schmirch Fabric employees,' I thought to myself, 'prepare to be amazed!'
As instructed, I walked up, blew the dollar store trumpet I had been given, set it on the ground next to me, then removed my hat and gave a big bow to the citizen of the Schmirch realm below. I pulled the scroll out of my belt and, as a juxtaposition to the pimpin' pirate look, I read out the scroll in my big Renaissance-y voice. Then, I bowed again, turned and left. Never have I left a crowd quite so dumbfounded/ put out to have had their precious fabric related work time interrupted for something so ridiculous.
Back in the conference room, Carrie informed me that "Everyone is so excited now! They can't believe they have to wait a week for the picnic!" "Well, great," I said. "Sounds like it's going to be a lot of fun," I lied. She tossed me $50, which, of course I will be reporting to the IRS as earned income, and asked if I needed to see her for anything before I left. I told her I didn't think so, thanked her, offered up my services should she ever need another bearded pirate, to which she smiled politely but offered no kind of empty affirmation that she might, in fact, call again and then she left me to change back into my street clothes.
'Do other actors do shit like this?' I thought to myself as I boxed up Indy's plumed hat. 'Hell, does anyone do shit like this?' I kind of figured they probably don't. But, hey, I got fifty bucks for dressing up like a pirate, when was the last time any of you schmucks did that?
Yeah, that's what I thought.
*the names have been changed to protect myself from liable charges.
**Thanks, by the way, Lynne.
"Hi, this is Carrie from Schmirch Fabrics*, Lynne Brown Schmepper** gave me your name as someone who might be interested in an acting job," the voice on the other end says.
"Oh. Okay, sure," I said.
"We're having a picnic and we need some one to dress up and make an announcement. And we'd pay you to do it." Carrie said
Even though I don't understand at all what she's asking me to do, I do understand that she's offering me money so I say: "Alright. When and where?" We set up a time for me to come in a meet the group of people Carrie refers to as "us" (who's us? what us is this? I never really found out).
About a month later, Carrie calls me again just to make sure I'm still planning on coming in. I tell her "yes," and blow yet another opportunity to find out exactly what it is that I've agreed to do. This happens partly because she called while I was suffering from my massive sinus infection and I, for a period of a week and a half or so, hated life and partly because, as a general rule, I'm bad at stuff.
Last Friday, I went to meet with Carrie. I went to the Schmirch Fabrics office, told the receptionist that I had an appointment with Carrie and then sat down in the holding area, reading all about upcoming events in the September 2005 issue of Grand Rapids Magazine. Turns out, I missed what promised to be a totally awesome Aerosmith concert two years ago. How will I find the strength to go on?
Carrie walks into the room to greet me. When I see Carrie, I wonder if Schmirch Fabrics is breaking child labor laws by employing this fourteen year old child. She ushers me into the conference room to meet everyone. "Don't worry," she tells me, "there's only going to be seven of us."
Seven women ranging in age from the fourteen year old Carrie to 50ish. A whole range of shapes and sizes. As diverse a group as you can get from seven Dutch women who work in the office of a fabric and upholstery company.
As I walk into the room I hear titters of "Oooh, he's tall!" and "Oh good the costume will fit!" and "Oh, the beard will work great!" It's weird to be ogled like a piece of meat. It's even weirder to be ogled like a piece of meat that someone wants to put in a funny hat and a pair of fake boots.
So I sit down at the head of the table and say 'hi' to everyone, more confused than ever about what it is they want me to do. It was like a scene from The Office, with the party planning committee interviewing entertainers for the big Christmas party. If only there had been a Pam in the room to share in my embarrassment for everyone else in the room.
"Has Carrie told you what we want you to do?" asked woman 3.
"Uhm, not really," I admitted my cluelessness.
It was then explained to me that what they needed was someone to announce their Renaissance themed office party, so they wanted me to come in in a week, put on some Renaissance garb and read a proclamation to the assembled Schmirch Fabric employees. 'Oookay,' I thought, 'sounds simple enough, if not altogether kind of ridiculous.' "Oh, alright, sure," I said. "Have you ever done anything like this before?" asked woman 5.
"I mean, I've acted before . . . I've never done something like this, exactly, but I've worn purple tights so it's not like I'm unaccustomed to looking silly in front of crowds of strangers." This inspired more giggling.
"Oh, we won't make you wear tights," said woman 2. I was kind of disappointed. Not because I love wearing tights or anything, but because, frankly, my legs look really good in tights. I'm just saying.
Anyway, woman 7 pulled a sheet of paper out of her folder and slid it over to me and then woman 4 said, "We don't want to put you on the spot here, but would you mind, y'know, standing up and giving us a reading, maybe?" Now, in an audition (which this ostensibly was), I generally expect to have to, y'know, audition so asking me to read is not so much 'putting me on the spot' as it is asking me to do the thing that I was asked to come in and do. So, I take the script, I stand up (more titters from woman 5 and 7, who came in late and as such didn't get to marvel at my height earlier) and I look at the script.
Because, of course, it's all Renaissance-y, it's typed in some Renaissance-y font which is good, because if it were in a more readable script, I wouldn't have understood that it was supposed to be Renaissance-y and would have read it wrong. The script begins "Hear Yee, Hear Yee." Yup. "Yee."
So, I start reading the script in my big Renaissance-y voice and the titters begin again "Oooh, my!" "It sounds even better than I thought it would!" I read about half of it and the titters grew to a crescendo so I stopped. "Oh that's great!" "Thank you for doing that!" Clap, clap, clap, applause, applause, applause.
"Alright, great! That's going to be just perfect. Just perfect." says woman 5.
"We've got everything set, the only question is, how much to pay you. I don't want to put you on the spot, but how much would you normally get paid for something like this?"
Because I'm Dutch and because I've been poor all my life, and because my family ever only talked about money as a problem, I'm really bad about talking about money. It makes me very uncomfortable. Especially when it comes to evaluating my value. 'How much would I normally get for something like this?' Something like this has, to my knowledge, never really been done by anyone ever. It's like asking "How many people are usually killed in a Martian attack?"
I yammered out some "ye--err--idunn--uhm" and, sensing my continued cluelessness and discomfort, young little Carrie came to my rescue and said "How about $50 dollars?" Honestly? I was hoping for more. Not that I deserved it, but I've gotten used to getting paid $100 an hour for gigs and I thought maybe these people were just clueless enough to over-estimate my worth. And they did, just not as much as I would like them to. Realizing that $50 for three minutes of work was probably more than fair, I took the offer.
Yesterday, at 9am, I drove down to Schmirch Fabrics. I met Carrie and was scuttled off into the conference room yet again. She quickly drew all of the curtains and, motioning to a series of plastic bags and a box formerly used for stationary, she says "There's your costume stuff. I'll give you ten minutes or so to put it on. I'll knock before I come back in." I start pulling things out of the bags, fearful that without having taken a single measurement from me, or even asking what size I wear, a costume has been picked out for me. I was fairly certain that this was going to fit about as well as the infamous Cap'n Crunch outfit I wore for Schmeritage Theatre Groups '02 production of Hamlet.
I needn't have worried, though. These women are used to upholstering large pieces of furniture, so finding the right amount of fabric to cover my orangutan-like physique was no problem. The costume fit fine. And while I had been expecting something Renaissance-y, it turns out their idea of Renaissance-y is much more in keeping with my idea of Pirate-y. The inside label of the shirt actually called it a "Buccaneer" shirt. Granted, it wasn't a very tough looking pirate, but a nancy pirate is still a pirate.
Once I was all pirated up, I opened up the stationary box (by which I mean both that it was once used to hold and transport paper products and that it was itself immobile) and pulled out the hat contained therein. This supposed Renaissance-y hat looked like an Indian Jones hat with three ostrich feathers attached to it. It was neither Renaissance-y nor particularly Pirate-y, but it was most definitely big pimpin'.
I was coached by woman 5 on exactly how to conduct myself, then Carrie came back and taught me how to do a page (they wanted to have me do it so that no one would recognize the voice) to tell everyone to gather in the warehouse by the time clock in five minutes. While we waited for the right time to do the page, Carrie went and got Steve. I don't know why she got Steve, as his only purpose seemed to be joining Carrie and I in the conference room, gawking and making me feel very uncomfortable. I'm awkward enough meeting new people, but meeting new people while hiding in a fabric company conference room and wearing a pirate costume and Indian Jones' pimped out hat is about as 'awkward turtle' as you can get. He didn't even have any questions for me. And of course, the only question I had for him was "Why the hell are you here? Can't a guy dress up like a pirate in peace for five minutes?!"
So, time came to make the page. I successfully managed to work the type of multi-line phone that I send five hours a day operating, impressing young Carrie once again with my mad skills. Then, she lead me to the back hall way and up a metal staircase to a grated floor where I was to wait for her signal and then head out to the balcony and begin to read my proclamation.
As I stood there, fully exposed to members of my awaiting audience (probably the thing that makes me most uncomfortable as a performer is having audience members see me in costume when I'm not supposed to be seen. It even makes me uncomfortable when other actors are seen by the audience before it's time. I'm talking to you, John Schmoley.) I heard the people below speculating on what was going on. "Maybe it's someone dressed as Santa" one already drunk employee suggested. Apparently, she had seen my boots, or maybe the red pirate vest I was wearing, or perhaps even my beard or my girth and decided that, in fact, I was not a pimpin' pirate, but Jolly Ol' St. Nick. "Come on out, Santa, and get it over with!" Sweet Jeebus, I was being heckled before I even started!
Then, from below me, I hear Carrie whisper calling to me "Dave, go. Go." So, I stroll out to the balcony and twelve feet below me are all twenty employees of Schmirch Fabrics. And Steve and women 's 1-7 had already seen me. 'Well, dozen Schmirch Fabric employees,' I thought to myself, 'prepare to be amazed!'
As instructed, I walked up, blew the dollar store trumpet I had been given, set it on the ground next to me, then removed my hat and gave a big bow to the citizen of the Schmirch realm below. I pulled the scroll out of my belt and, as a juxtaposition to the pimpin' pirate look, I read out the scroll in my big Renaissance-y voice. Then, I bowed again, turned and left. Never have I left a crowd quite so dumbfounded/ put out to have had their precious fabric related work time interrupted for something so ridiculous.
Back in the conference room, Carrie informed me that "Everyone is so excited now! They can't believe they have to wait a week for the picnic!" "Well, great," I said. "Sounds like it's going to be a lot of fun," I lied. She tossed me $50, which, of course I will be reporting to the IRS as earned income, and asked if I needed to see her for anything before I left. I told her I didn't think so, thanked her, offered up my services should she ever need another bearded pirate, to which she smiled politely but offered no kind of empty affirmation that she might, in fact, call again and then she left me to change back into my street clothes.
'Do other actors do shit like this?' I thought to myself as I boxed up Indy's plumed hat. 'Hell, does anyone do shit like this?' I kind of figured they probably don't. But, hey, I got fifty bucks for dressing up like a pirate, when was the last time any of you schmucks did that?
Yeah, that's what I thought.
*the names have been changed to protect myself from liable charges.
**Thanks, by the way, Lynne.
08 September 2007
Archive: Braces?!
When I went to see my would-be oral surgeon, first we addressed the issue of my wisdom teeth (decision: take the bastards out) and then he discussed what to do about my vestigial baby tooth (see Impacted Wisdom).
There are three possible solutions:
1) Leave it, let it be and pray* it doesn't lead to pain, misery and loss of other teeth further down the road; 2) while I'm under having my wisdom teeth out, he can take that one out too and then eventually when the baby tooth rots away we can stick a fake one in its place; or 3) I can see an ortho, have the baby tooth removed and then pull the correct tooth into place with braces. Yes, braces.
The latter, Doc explains, is the best solution for my teeth. The best solution?! See, I have a hard time seeing that because (and I'm about to reveal one of those universally known but seldom voiced truths): Adults with braces are the saddest, most hated minority on the planet**. Adults without teeth are less embarrassing to look at.
And while I'm not judging any of you out there that, as adults, have had braces, I will say this: I hate you.
Sorry.
Let me try that again: being around you makes me uncomfortable. And it's not just me, it's everyone who has any ounce of self-respect. If you are over the age of 18 and you have braces, every other person you encounter feels sorry for you and wishes not to be near you. I didn't want to have to say it, but if I didn't, who would? I know it hurts to hear, but that doesn't make it any less true.
Perhaps my hatred of adults with braces stems from the fact that when I was younger my dad's mistress (in her early 20's) got braces. And of course, I had to see her every week in church with those ridiculous metal scaffolds in her mouth. Perhaps that's the root of all this venom, but I don't think so. I think that just allowed me to tap into this, perhaps, single universal truth: Adults with braces are to be hated and scorned, pitied and possibly even shipped off to special colonies for as long as they have braces so as not to expose any regular people like you and me to the horror.
I tell you, if an adult with braces were a circus freak, I would actually be so repulsed that I'd skip their cage and spend twice as long looking at the more dignified freaks. Like Lobster Boy or the Human Torso.
The idea that I might have to be that pariah walking around with metal on his teeth who's unable to eat Peanut M&M's for a year has me reeling. I would sooner vote for President Bill O'Reilly, Vice President James Dobson and their Chief of Staff Toby Keith than get braces.
Part of that may be my vanity. Despite the fact that I'm a bizarre looking man with the physique of an orangutan who lacks the ability to properly dress himself, I'm still a very vain person. I can handle knowing that I'll never have any sort of muscle tone or even sleeves that fit right but the idea that I might have to have braces is just too much for me.
Seriously. Braces?! There is no god.
* I wanted to interrupt him and say "Thank you sir, but I am not a praying man," but the way he kind of sneered when he said it made me sort of love this man. Ironically, of course, this is the course of action I ultimately chose.
**and I say that being a member of at least one other hated minority.
There are three possible solutions:
1) Leave it, let it be and pray* it doesn't lead to pain, misery and loss of other teeth further down the road; 2) while I'm under having my wisdom teeth out, he can take that one out too and then eventually when the baby tooth rots away we can stick a fake one in its place; or 3) I can see an ortho, have the baby tooth removed and then pull the correct tooth into place with braces. Yes, braces.
The latter, Doc explains, is the best solution for my teeth. The best solution?! See, I have a hard time seeing that because (and I'm about to reveal one of those universally known but seldom voiced truths): Adults with braces are the saddest, most hated minority on the planet**. Adults without teeth are less embarrassing to look at.
And while I'm not judging any of you out there that, as adults, have had braces, I will say this: I hate you.
Sorry.
Let me try that again: being around you makes me uncomfortable. And it's not just me, it's everyone who has any ounce of self-respect. If you are over the age of 18 and you have braces, every other person you encounter feels sorry for you and wishes not to be near you. I didn't want to have to say it, but if I didn't, who would? I know it hurts to hear, but that doesn't make it any less true.
Perhaps my hatred of adults with braces stems from the fact that when I was younger my dad's mistress (in her early 20's) got braces. And of course, I had to see her every week in church with those ridiculous metal scaffolds in her mouth. Perhaps that's the root of all this venom, but I don't think so. I think that just allowed me to tap into this, perhaps, single universal truth: Adults with braces are to be hated and scorned, pitied and possibly even shipped off to special colonies for as long as they have braces so as not to expose any regular people like you and me to the horror.
I tell you, if an adult with braces were a circus freak, I would actually be so repulsed that I'd skip their cage and spend twice as long looking at the more dignified freaks. Like Lobster Boy or the Human Torso.
The idea that I might have to be that pariah walking around with metal on his teeth who's unable to eat Peanut M&M's for a year has me reeling. I would sooner vote for President Bill O'Reilly, Vice President James Dobson and their Chief of Staff Toby Keith than get braces.
Part of that may be my vanity. Despite the fact that I'm a bizarre looking man with the physique of an orangutan who lacks the ability to properly dress himself, I'm still a very vain person. I can handle knowing that I'll never have any sort of muscle tone or even sleeves that fit right but the idea that I might have to have braces is just too much for me.
Seriously. Braces?! There is no god.
* I wanted to interrupt him and say "Thank you sir, but I am not a praying man," but the way he kind of sneered when he said it made me sort of love this man. Ironically, of course, this is the course of action I ultimately chose.
**and I say that being a member of at least one other hated minority.
25 August 2007
Archive: It's hot in here
It's been a hot summer here in Michigan. Maybe not the worst on record, but still pretty damn hot. Here's the thing: all summer, I've been hearing complaints about the cold. Just one more of the joys of house managing.
Unless you're in an outdoor amphitheatre at noon in July, theatres are cold places. This is universally true for both playhouses and filmhouses. If you go to see Julius Flaxbarr on Venus, bring a sweatshirt. That's just the way it goes. In point of fact, movie theatres were the first major industry to embrace climate control so if you've been to one at any point since Birth of a Nation was released, you may have noticed that that the room is cooler than it is outside (or warmer if it's cold outside).
Apparently, a lot of people are not aware of this. And because of their ignorance, I get to hear them bitch. I'm a house manager, it's what I do.
At my theatre, the A/C is run through a computer that I don't have access to. It's not even in the building. Since the theatre is part of a college campus, I have to call down to Campus Safety when we have a problem with the A/C and then they have to call the on-call maintenance person. While some of the maintenance people can access the A/C from their home computer*, many of them have to drive from their homes down to campus to do anything about the problem. Suffice it to say, it's not the most expedient process around. And when 800 old person nipples are poking through 400 old person shirts, expediency is of the essence. But, even if I call when I get the first complaint (which, of course, you never do because that's a woefully small sample group) it can take between ten minutes and half an hour (at best) before something happens. In the meantime, they continue to bitch. At me.
And this has been going on all summer. There were nights when, during intermission, people would actually line up at the box office to issue their complaints about the cold. Invariably, the conversation went like this:
First cold patron: "Hey, it's really cold, could you do something about that? I mean, it's freezing in there."
Me: "I'll call right now, it should get better very soon."
Second cold patron [referring to previous patron]: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "Yes, I've made the call, it should be getting better shortly."
Third cold patron [referring to previous patron]: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "Yes, I've made the call, it should be getting better shortly."
Fourth cold patron [referring to previous patron]: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "Yes, I've made the call, it should be getting better shortly."
Fifth through Two Hundred Forty-Third cold patron: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "BRING A SWEATER, ASSHAT!"
'But, oh wise and wonderful Dave,' you ask, 'why not find a more permanent solution rather than putting yourself through this routine night after night, destroying your will to live and your tenuous grasp on sanity until you are locked away in an institution, defecating into adult diapers and chewing your own lips off?'
Don't think we didn't try that, oh delectable and clever reader. We asked maintenance to up the temperature level at which the air kicks in. "Okay," they said and adjusted the A/C threshold ONE WHOLE DEGREE! Miracle of miracles, that one degree made all the difference in the world! Thank you, you brilliant and efficient keepers of heat! What would we do without you?!
. . .
Yeah, so when that didn't work, they actually came down to the building to assess the situation. Turns out, the sensor that tells the air when to kick in was blocked. Blocked, and then heated by a monitor that was set in front of it. Let's all take a moment to thank the numb-nuts who set that little rig up, shall we**?
Armed with that knowledge, the situation was corrected. Kind of. You see, as soon as the audience's collective testicles were able, once again, to exit the abdominal cavity they had sought shelter in, the actors started to complain about it being too hot. DISCLAIMER: I love the cast of the show in question. Almost all of them are really great people as well as great performers. I mean no offense to any of them in particular or in general. I'm sure it was startling, after three weeks in the space, to all of a sudden find themselves not performing in an ice box. They worked very hard during the show, sang, danced and all that stuff I will never be able to do, and they did it all in Victorian garb. But, it's not like these people had never been on stage before. It's not like any of them had any right to expect that after a three hour show during which they sang (Sondheim, no less) and danced in heavy costumes under hot lights that they wouldn't get HOT! Hell, the top of Act II was a song about it being hot! I'm not really a method actor, but it could have worked for them.
The best part is, after we had raised the temperature and the actors started complaining about the heat, the audience didn't stop complaining about the cold. Yeah, that was a fun weekend in my world.
So, okay, that's all taken care of. That show departed, a new one came in and they actually, honest to Dog, fixed the temperature. Do I still get one or two complaints about the cold every so often? Yeah, sure, but in greatly reduced numbers and with greatly reduced frequency. And there are more people seeing this show, so statistically that's an even more significant a reduction. Instead, I have to deal with incidents like the one I had last night.
The house is open, the show hasn't started yet, everything is going fine. The volunteer working the concessions stand waves me over and I see there's a lady waiting at the stand who is clearly the subject of whatever problem I'm meant to resolve. Before I can even speak, before the words, "how can I help you?" have even formed in my brain she says to me "It's not as cold in there as it is out here, is it?!" There's real venom here, I note to myself. I explain to her that it's a separate system and it's a different temperature inside the house***. "Last time I was here we left at intermission because it was SO COLD!" She's eyeing me like a Tauntaun that she wants to tear open and climbing inside for the warmth. "We've fixed that problem, the temperature is just right in there now," I explain. "Well it is SO COLD out here that I sent my husband to the car to get a blanket!" How does she want me to respond? 'Uhm . . . awesome?' 'You finally came prepared you raging harpy?' Instead I tell her to let me know if there are any problems and ask that she enjoy the show.
Astonishingly, after she actually WENT INSIDE THE THEATRE she didn't complain anymore. Not that preemptive harpy-ism isn't useful at times, but could you cut a brother some slack here? Geez.
Here's the real kicker, though: on Thursday night, when I was in class and consequently not house managing, we had a campus-wide electrical burp. The lights flashed and that was about it. But somehow that little electron indigestion caused the computer system that runs the air to go all screwy. While the air in the lobby and the green room kept working, the air in the house didn't.
Ideally, in a touch of My Name is Earl style karma, every single one of those bastard asshats that had bitched to me all summer about the theatre being too cold would have been here Thursday night. I realize, of course, that that was not the case and many innocent people suffered but, if even one of the people who came up to me doing exaggerated "burr" gestures or bit my head off about the cold before they even sat down was in the house on Thursday, it was all worth it.
In conclusion: Next time you go to the theatre, be it a movie or a live performance, BRING A GODDAMN SWEATER!
*Because that TOTALLY makes more sense than giving direct access to the people in the goddamn building in question.
**That and the decision to make the air disbursement system into a series of massive phalluses that hang down twenty feet further than they need to and spoog frozen hate directly onto the balding heads of our patrons.
***I don't really know why they keep it so cold in the lobby, and frankly, I don't care. I pick my battles and the lobby just doesn't rank.
Unless you're in an outdoor amphitheatre at noon in July, theatres are cold places. This is universally true for both playhouses and filmhouses. If you go to see Julius Flaxbarr on Venus, bring a sweatshirt. That's just the way it goes. In point of fact, movie theatres were the first major industry to embrace climate control so if you've been to one at any point since Birth of a Nation was released, you may have noticed that that the room is cooler than it is outside (or warmer if it's cold outside).
Apparently, a lot of people are not aware of this. And because of their ignorance, I get to hear them bitch. I'm a house manager, it's what I do.
At my theatre, the A/C is run through a computer that I don't have access to. It's not even in the building. Since the theatre is part of a college campus, I have to call down to Campus Safety when we have a problem with the A/C and then they have to call the on-call maintenance person. While some of the maintenance people can access the A/C from their home computer*, many of them have to drive from their homes down to campus to do anything about the problem. Suffice it to say, it's not the most expedient process around. And when 800 old person nipples are poking through 400 old person shirts, expediency is of the essence. But, even if I call when I get the first complaint (which, of course, you never do because that's a woefully small sample group) it can take between ten minutes and half an hour (at best) before something happens. In the meantime, they continue to bitch. At me.
And this has been going on all summer. There were nights when, during intermission, people would actually line up at the box office to issue their complaints about the cold. Invariably, the conversation went like this:
First cold patron: "Hey, it's really cold, could you do something about that? I mean, it's freezing in there."
Me: "I'll call right now, it should get better very soon."
Second cold patron [referring to previous patron]: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "Yes, I've made the call, it should be getting better shortly."
Third cold patron [referring to previous patron]: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "Yes, I've made the call, it should be getting better shortly."
Fourth cold patron [referring to previous patron]: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "Yes, I've made the call, it should be getting better shortly."
Fifth through Two Hundred Forty-Third cold patron: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "BRING A SWEATER, ASSHAT!"
'But, oh wise and wonderful Dave,' you ask, 'why not find a more permanent solution rather than putting yourself through this routine night after night, destroying your will to live and your tenuous grasp on sanity until you are locked away in an institution, defecating into adult diapers and chewing your own lips off?'
Don't think we didn't try that, oh delectable and clever reader. We asked maintenance to up the temperature level at which the air kicks in. "Okay," they said and adjusted the A/C threshold ONE WHOLE DEGREE! Miracle of miracles, that one degree made all the difference in the world! Thank you, you brilliant and efficient keepers of heat! What would we do without you?!
. . .
Yeah, so when that didn't work, they actually came down to the building to assess the situation. Turns out, the sensor that tells the air when to kick in was blocked. Blocked, and then heated by a monitor that was set in front of it. Let's all take a moment to thank the numb-nuts who set that little rig up, shall we**?
Armed with that knowledge, the situation was corrected. Kind of. You see, as soon as the audience's collective testicles were able, once again, to exit the abdominal cavity they had sought shelter in, the actors started to complain about it being too hot. DISCLAIMER: I love the cast of the show in question. Almost all of them are really great people as well as great performers. I mean no offense to any of them in particular or in general. I'm sure it was startling, after three weeks in the space, to all of a sudden find themselves not performing in an ice box. They worked very hard during the show, sang, danced and all that stuff I will never be able to do, and they did it all in Victorian garb. But, it's not like these people had never been on stage before. It's not like any of them had any right to expect that after a three hour show during which they sang (Sondheim, no less) and danced in heavy costumes under hot lights that they wouldn't get HOT! Hell, the top of Act II was a song about it being hot! I'm not really a method actor, but it could have worked for them.
The best part is, after we had raised the temperature and the actors started complaining about the heat, the audience didn't stop complaining about the cold. Yeah, that was a fun weekend in my world.
So, okay, that's all taken care of. That show departed, a new one came in and they actually, honest to Dog, fixed the temperature. Do I still get one or two complaints about the cold every so often? Yeah, sure, but in greatly reduced numbers and with greatly reduced frequency. And there are more people seeing this show, so statistically that's an even more significant a reduction. Instead, I have to deal with incidents like the one I had last night.
The house is open, the show hasn't started yet, everything is going fine. The volunteer working the concessions stand waves me over and I see there's a lady waiting at the stand who is clearly the subject of whatever problem I'm meant to resolve. Before I can even speak, before the words, "how can I help you?" have even formed in my brain she says to me "It's not as cold in there as it is out here, is it?!" There's real venom here, I note to myself. I explain to her that it's a separate system and it's a different temperature inside the house***. "Last time I was here we left at intermission because it was SO COLD!" She's eyeing me like a Tauntaun that she wants to tear open and climbing inside for the warmth. "We've fixed that problem, the temperature is just right in there now," I explain. "Well it is SO COLD out here that I sent my husband to the car to get a blanket!" How does she want me to respond? 'Uhm . . . awesome?' 'You finally came prepared you raging harpy?' Instead I tell her to let me know if there are any problems and ask that she enjoy the show.
Astonishingly, after she actually WENT INSIDE THE THEATRE she didn't complain anymore. Not that preemptive harpy-ism isn't useful at times, but could you cut a brother some slack here? Geez.
Here's the real kicker, though: on Thursday night, when I was in class and consequently not house managing, we had a campus-wide electrical burp. The lights flashed and that was about it. But somehow that little electron indigestion caused the computer system that runs the air to go all screwy. While the air in the lobby and the green room kept working, the air in the house didn't.
Ideally, in a touch of My Name is Earl style karma, every single one of those bastard asshats that had bitched to me all summer about the theatre being too cold would have been here Thursday night. I realize, of course, that that was not the case and many innocent people suffered but, if even one of the people who came up to me doing exaggerated "burr" gestures or bit my head off about the cold before they even sat down was in the house on Thursday, it was all worth it.
In conclusion: Next time you go to the theatre, be it a movie or a live performance, BRING A GODDAMN SWEATER!
*Because that TOTALLY makes more sense than giving direct access to the people in the goddamn building in question.
**That and the decision to make the air disbursement system into a series of massive phalluses that hang down twenty feet further than they need to and spoog frozen hate directly onto the balding heads of our patrons.
***I don't really know why they keep it so cold in the lobby, and frankly, I don't care. I pick my battles and the lobby just doesn't rank.
26 June 2007
Archive: How I became Pro-Life
The phone rings.
I answer.
Me: Hello?
Recorded Voice: Hello, I'm calling to conduct a survey about abortion. If are not interested in taking part in the survey, simply hang up.
Me: [doesn't hang up]
R.V.: If you consider yourself pro-life, anti-abortion, press 2.
Me: [doesn't press 2]
R.V.: If you consider yourself pro-choice, pro-abortion rights, press 9.
Me: [still listening to make sure I have it right]
R.V.: Again, if you are pro-life, press 2 and if you are pro-choice, press 9.
Me: [presses 9]
R.V.: [now much happier] Thank you for being pro-life!
Me: Huh?! [presses 9 again]
R.V.: We at Right to Life of Michigan are excited to have you. Through this survey, we are building a coalition of 5 million households. We have a wonderful opportunity to repeal abortion rights. We have enough votes in both the House and the Senate--
Me: [hits again 9.]
R.V.: We at Right to Life of Michigan are excited to have you. Through this survey, we are building a coalition of 5 million households. We have a wonderful opportunity to repeal abortion rights. We have enough votes in both the House and the Senate--
Me: [decides to hold on so I can speak to a real person and fix up this egregious error]
R.V.: If you would like to make a contribution to help us take away the rights of women,* press 6.
[long pause while I wait for another option.]
R.V.: [silence]
Me: [mashes down 9]
R.V.: Thank you for agreeing to contribute to our cause! You'll be receiving a mailing from us shortly!
Me: What the--? But I didn't--! I PRESSED NINE! NIIIIIIIINE!!
*this may not have been the exact words the recording used. But then again, it may have been.
I answer.
Me: Hello?
Recorded Voice: Hello, I'm calling to conduct a survey about abortion. If are not interested in taking part in the survey, simply hang up.
Me: [doesn't hang up]
R.V.: If you consider yourself pro-life, anti-abortion, press 2.
Me: [doesn't press 2]
R.V.: If you consider yourself pro-choice, pro-abortion rights, press 9.
Me: [still listening to make sure I have it right]
R.V.: Again, if you are pro-life, press 2 and if you are pro-choice, press 9.
Me: [presses 9]
R.V.: [now much happier] Thank you for being pro-life!
Me: Huh?! [presses 9 again]
R.V.: We at Right to Life of Michigan are excited to have you. Through this survey, we are building a coalition of 5 million households. We have a wonderful opportunity to repeal abortion rights. We have enough votes in both the House and the Senate--
Me: [hits again 9.]
R.V.: We at Right to Life of Michigan are excited to have you. Through this survey, we are building a coalition of 5 million households. We have a wonderful opportunity to repeal abortion rights. We have enough votes in both the House and the Senate--
Me: [decides to hold on so I can speak to a real person and fix up this egregious error]
R.V.: If you would like to make a contribution to help us take away the rights of women,* press 6.
[long pause while I wait for another option.]
R.V.: [silence]
Me: [mashes down 9]
R.V.: Thank you for agreeing to contribute to our cause! You'll be receiving a mailing from us shortly!
Me: What the--? But I didn't--! I PRESSED NINE! NIIIIIIIINE!!
*this may not have been the exact words the recording used. But then again, it may have been.
08 June 2007
Archive: Cheese and Brownies
Last night around 11 o'clock, I found myself filling up tiny plates of cheese and brownies because the unappreciative guests at our opening night reception hadn't seen fit to fatten themselves with enough of our spread. Why cheese and brownies, you ask, and not cheese and crackers? I haven't the faintest fucking clue. Who does that? Who says "Hey, you know what'll go great on hunks of Gouda? Brownie wedges!" Apparently, our caterers think like that. "Oh, and hey, throw, like, four strawberries in there too."
Next question: Given the presence of an abundance of delicious cheese and brownies what kind of person, in good conscience, turns down free plates of cheese and brownies? My guess is, it's the kind of person who also drives past a "Free Kittens" sign and doesn't sigh with sadness because they can't take them all home. That or someone who is both diabetic and lactose intolerant. In either case, whatever else may be said about such a person, this is not someone I'd be comfortable voting for. A cheese and brownie hating person could not fairly represent a cheese and brownie loving constituency. I'm sorry Amy Kaechele, I could not in good conscience vote for you now (though I thought your hair looked fetching last night). And you know who else couldn't vote of you if they knew about your cheese and brownie bashing? The state of Wisconsin, that's who. Or fat people. I'm sorry, it had to be said.
If that hurts, well, all I can say is maybe you need to rethink your cheese and brownies platform.
That is all.
Next question: Given the presence of an abundance of delicious cheese and brownies what kind of person, in good conscience, turns down free plates of cheese and brownies? My guess is, it's the kind of person who also drives past a "Free Kittens" sign and doesn't sigh with sadness because they can't take them all home. That or someone who is both diabetic and lactose intolerant. In either case, whatever else may be said about such a person, this is not someone I'd be comfortable voting for. A cheese and brownie hating person could not fairly represent a cheese and brownie loving constituency. I'm sorry Amy Kaechele, I could not in good conscience vote for you now (though I thought your hair looked fetching last night). And you know who else couldn't vote of you if they knew about your cheese and brownie bashing? The state of Wisconsin, that's who. Or fat people. I'm sorry, it had to be said.
If that hurts, well, all I can say is maybe you need to rethink your cheese and brownies platform.
That is all.
02 April 2007
Archive: The Video Store Strikes Back!
In August of last year I posted a blog about how I didn't get a job at a video store because I'm not a Nazis. Alright, maybe that's not entirely fair: I actually didn't get the job because I don't LOOK like a Nazis (they would have hired me no matter my feelings on fascism so long as I looked like I hated freedom). If you haven't read that blog do check it out, it's a classic.
So this weekend I went back to the video store, not to apply for a job, but to rent movies. I hadn't been there for a while because I haven't had time to watch a movie in ages and, frankly, because in the age of Netflix video stores are largely unnecessary relics-- fossils from an age best forgotten. Y'know, like churches.
Anyhow, what did I see behind the counter at Nazis Video? Oh, dear reader, I'm almost afraid to say, lest my revelation cause fainting amongst the delicate womenfolk. But, alas, I feel compelled, fainting spells notwithstanding, to reveal the hard, disturbing truth. Steel yourselves.
Behind the counter at the video store was (drum roll) . . . A GUY WITH A BEARD! Now granted, he had that gross-ish chin strap beard and wasn't rocking the full-on hobo look that I've got going, but still, he undeniably had facial hair!
Can you imagine the amount of business that place is losing by having employees with hair on their faces? Man, I guess I'm glad now that I don't work there, they'll be bankrupt in a matter of days!
Parents were shielding their children's faces from the beard as they quickly fled the store . . . young women were turned into whores at the sight of the beard . . . even I, manly though I may be, felt a flood of regurgitated food in my throat when I imagined having to hand money to the bearded monster behind the counter.
What is this world coming to when men are allowed to give into their baser animal selves and grow hair upon their chins? And more importantly, what type of store would employ such a monster?
So this weekend I went back to the video store, not to apply for a job, but to rent movies. I hadn't been there for a while because I haven't had time to watch a movie in ages and, frankly, because in the age of Netflix video stores are largely unnecessary relics-- fossils from an age best forgotten. Y'know, like churches.
Anyhow, what did I see behind the counter at Nazis Video? Oh, dear reader, I'm almost afraid to say, lest my revelation cause fainting amongst the delicate womenfolk. But, alas, I feel compelled, fainting spells notwithstanding, to reveal the hard, disturbing truth. Steel yourselves.
Behind the counter at the video store was (drum roll) . . . A GUY WITH A BEARD! Now granted, he had that gross-ish chin strap beard and wasn't rocking the full-on hobo look that I've got going, but still, he undeniably had facial hair!
Can you imagine the amount of business that place is losing by having employees with hair on their faces? Man, I guess I'm glad now that I don't work there, they'll be bankrupt in a matter of days!
Parents were shielding their children's faces from the beard as they quickly fled the store . . . young women were turned into whores at the sight of the beard . . . even I, manly though I may be, felt a flood of regurgitated food in my throat when I imagined having to hand money to the bearded monster behind the counter.
What is this world coming to when men are allowed to give into their baser animal selves and grow hair upon their chins? And more importantly, what type of store would employ such a monster?
29 March 2007
Archive: Mean and Honest
This afternoon I received the following message from a classmate of mine:
Hey Dave! I know this is fairly random, but I am writing a paper on the misconceptions and stances of Pro Choice and Pro Life organizations. As a fighting Pro Choice believer, I was hoping you could write me up a brief somethin somethin explaining how you view members of Pro Life and the Pro Life organization in general. If you could do that I would really appreciate it and it would add some awsome spice to my paper. Thank you so much! Hope to hear from ya soon.
I responded:
When do you need it and how much do you need?
Moments later, I received this message:
As much as you care to give me and as soon as you can get it to me :) Basically I am showing how both sides are misrepresented by the other side and by society. How Pro Choice are labled as baby killers and Pro Life are labled as bible thumpers. So be as mean as you want, just give me your honest opinion about the Pro Life organization :)P.S. THANK YOU SOOOOO MUCH!!
Do you see the same problem that I did? Look closer.
Yeah, there it is: she's asking me to be an example of how "my side" misrepresents the other side. Yeah . . . Perhaps she's just tipping her hand too much or maybe she thinks I'm even more of a rabble rouser than I really am, in either case, I'm not loving the scenario. I love too that she wants me to be as mean as I want but give my honest opinion, the underlying assumption being that my honest opinion will be mean.
Take a look at the response I offered her and let me know what you think:
I am Pro Choice. I believe in a woman's right to choose when she wants to have a baby. I believe that denying women that choice is unfair and unconstitutional. That being said, I am pro life in a very literal sense.
I am all for life. I hope everyone lives for as long and as happily as possible without infringing on anyone else's right to do the same. The semantic issue raised by the term "Pro Life" is one of my biggest problems with the "Pro Life" camp-- because it implies that the opposition is "Anti-Life" or "Pro Death." I'm not Pro Death. I'm not even Pro Abortion. I wish there were no need for abortions and that only people that wanted to and were ready to have children would get pregnant. I also wish George Bush were a gas station attendant instead of the president and that I owned the patent on a cheap, renewable energy source but that doesn't make it true. The simple fact is not everyone who finds themselves pregnant is in a position to provide for a child (and no, adoption is not a suitable solution. Don't believe me? Check out the statistics on the number of children up for adoption and the number of children actually being adopted). So, I support a woman's right to choose (should she become pregnant) whether or not she wants to carry the pregnancy to term. I also support a man or a woman's right to choose to have anything removed from his or her body that he or she is not prepared to support for 18 years.
I view the opposing side in the abortion argument not as "Pro Life" but as "Anti-Choice" and I disagree with their argument. But, I don't think they're crazy. Certainly the Anti-Choice camp has its zealots, like abortion clinic bombers and people who murder doctors (killing someone to show them how much you hate killing somehow doesn't seem like the sanest tactic) but that's the fringe element. Most of the opponents of a woman's right to choose are very good people-- which may be more credit than many of them would give to us Pro Choicers. Then again, maybe not.
The argument comes down to a fundamental disagreement over what constitutes human life. Ultimately, I think they have their science wrong. A collection of cells does not equal a human. A fetus is not a baby. A zygote is not a baby. I believe life is that precious little time between birth and death and I believe it's that period of time we should be focusing on. The Anti Choice camp seems much more interested in the period between fertilization (and an hour or so before) and extraction. My biggest criticism of them is simply that their goal seems to be to bring every pregnancy to term with little regard as to what happens next.
I truly applaud the "Pro Life" movement, though, for acting on their convictions. If they believe that a zygote is a human life then it would be shameful of them not to try to preserve it. I disagree with their definition of human life, but I agree with them about its importance. To me, though, seeing that each human has as happy a life as possible is far more important than just making sure every pregnancy ends with a birth. It's a question of quality of lives versus quantity of lives. For me, quality will always win.
Hey Dave! I know this is fairly random, but I am writing a paper on the misconceptions and stances of Pro Choice and Pro Life organizations. As a fighting Pro Choice believer, I was hoping you could write me up a brief somethin somethin explaining how you view members of Pro Life and the Pro Life organization in general. If you could do that I would really appreciate it and it would add some awsome spice to my paper. Thank you so much! Hope to hear from ya soon.
I responded:
When do you need it and how much do you need?
Moments later, I received this message:
As much as you care to give me and as soon as you can get it to me :) Basically I am showing how both sides are misrepresented by the other side and by society. How Pro Choice are labled as baby killers and Pro Life are labled as bible thumpers. So be as mean as you want, just give me your honest opinion about the Pro Life organization :)P.S. THANK YOU SOOOOO MUCH!!
Do you see the same problem that I did? Look closer.
Yeah, there it is: she's asking me to be an example of how "my side" misrepresents the other side. Yeah . . . Perhaps she's just tipping her hand too much or maybe she thinks I'm even more of a rabble rouser than I really am, in either case, I'm not loving the scenario. I love too that she wants me to be as mean as I want but give my honest opinion, the underlying assumption being that my honest opinion will be mean.
Take a look at the response I offered her and let me know what you think:
I am Pro Choice. I believe in a woman's right to choose when she wants to have a baby. I believe that denying women that choice is unfair and unconstitutional. That being said, I am pro life in a very literal sense.
I am all for life. I hope everyone lives for as long and as happily as possible without infringing on anyone else's right to do the same. The semantic issue raised by the term "Pro Life" is one of my biggest problems with the "Pro Life" camp-- because it implies that the opposition is "Anti-Life" or "Pro Death." I'm not Pro Death. I'm not even Pro Abortion. I wish there were no need for abortions and that only people that wanted to and were ready to have children would get pregnant. I also wish George Bush were a gas station attendant instead of the president and that I owned the patent on a cheap, renewable energy source but that doesn't make it true. The simple fact is not everyone who finds themselves pregnant is in a position to provide for a child (and no, adoption is not a suitable solution. Don't believe me? Check out the statistics on the number of children up for adoption and the number of children actually being adopted). So, I support a woman's right to choose (should she become pregnant) whether or not she wants to carry the pregnancy to term. I also support a man or a woman's right to choose to have anything removed from his or her body that he or she is not prepared to support for 18 years.
I view the opposing side in the abortion argument not as "Pro Life" but as "Anti-Choice" and I disagree with their argument. But, I don't think they're crazy. Certainly the Anti-Choice camp has its zealots, like abortion clinic bombers and people who murder doctors (killing someone to show them how much you hate killing somehow doesn't seem like the sanest tactic) but that's the fringe element. Most of the opponents of a woman's right to choose are very good people-- which may be more credit than many of them would give to us Pro Choicers. Then again, maybe not.
The argument comes down to a fundamental disagreement over what constitutes human life. Ultimately, I think they have their science wrong. A collection of cells does not equal a human. A fetus is not a baby. A zygote is not a baby. I believe life is that precious little time between birth and death and I believe it's that period of time we should be focusing on. The Anti Choice camp seems much more interested in the period between fertilization (and an hour or so before) and extraction. My biggest criticism of them is simply that their goal seems to be to bring every pregnancy to term with little regard as to what happens next.
I truly applaud the "Pro Life" movement, though, for acting on their convictions. If they believe that a zygote is a human life then it would be shameful of them not to try to preserve it. I disagree with their definition of human life, but I agree with them about its importance. To me, though, seeing that each human has as happy a life as possible is far more important than just making sure every pregnancy ends with a birth. It's a question of quality of lives versus quantity of lives. For me, quality will always win.
08 March 2007
Archive: May I be struck by lightning
One week ago, my school was struck by lightning. It happened just hours after I had taken a theology midterm, which has lead me to one of two possible conclusions: a) the building was struck by lightning because it's tall and has a lightening rod or 2) there is a god and I upset it with my theology midterm.
If the latter is correct, we learn one of two things about said deity: a) its aim is off-- the lightning stuck the Academic Building (yes, THE Academic Building, we only have the one) whilst I sat in the box office of the Performing Arts Center and marveled at the pretty, pretty lights and several minute long thunder roll that followed or 2) its timing is off-- the lightning struck several hours after I had completed my midterm, thus failing in its attempt to stop me.
This remarkable event proves, I dare say, even more effectively than Darwinian evolution or Einsteinian relativity could, that either the universe is controlled by physical laws that conform to reason and empirical evidence or it is controlled by an impotent magic man in the sky with bad aim or lousy timing.
I leave it to you, dear reader, to decide which is the more likely of the two hypothesis.
Oh, and ever since the lightning strike, the phones have been wonky campus wide. If god did it, clearly he hates land lines . . . or possibly it is a Protestant god lashing out at this damnable Catholic college by denying them phone service for a week. Again, I leave it to you to decide.
If the latter is correct, we learn one of two things about said deity: a) its aim is off-- the lightning stuck the Academic Building (yes, THE Academic Building, we only have the one) whilst I sat in the box office of the Performing Arts Center and marveled at the pretty, pretty lights and several minute long thunder roll that followed or 2) its timing is off-- the lightning struck several hours after I had completed my midterm, thus failing in its attempt to stop me.
This remarkable event proves, I dare say, even more effectively than Darwinian evolution or Einsteinian relativity could, that either the universe is controlled by physical laws that conform to reason and empirical evidence or it is controlled by an impotent magic man in the sky with bad aim or lousy timing.
I leave it to you, dear reader, to decide which is the more likely of the two hypothesis.
Oh, and ever since the lightning strike, the phones have been wonky campus wide. If god did it, clearly he hates land lines . . . or possibly it is a Protestant god lashing out at this damnable Catholic college by denying them phone service for a week. Again, I leave it to you to decide.
22 February 2007
Archive: Hey, there's something on your forehead.
I don't know if I've mentioned this before or not, but I am not religious. No, really, it's true. I don't subscribe to any religious creeds, I don't believe in any gods, goddesses or other supernatural hoodoo.
I was, however, raised in the Christian Reformed Church, sent through Christian schooling from preschool to high school and now I attend a Catholic college. Grand Rapids, Michigan, where I was born and raised, is to the Christian Reformed Church what Vatican City is to the Catholic Church . . . except without the guards in silly pumpkin pants.
I am no stranger to the doings of religious folk. I actually find that I know the bible a great deal better than many people who believe that it's the word of their god. Now, my knowledge of other world religions is considerably less than it is for Christianity . . . point of fact, I'm pretty clueless when it comes to eastern religions and would never claim to have anything but the coarsest of understandings of Islam (I do, however, know that Mormonism is not a world religion but a cult and one in which its members wear magical underwear, but that's an issue for another blog) BUT, I do feel that I have a pretty good understanding of Christian rites and rituals.
That being said, can anyone explain to me what the flying fuck is up with Ash Wednesday?!
In my Prot upbringing Lent wasn't so big of a deal. Mostly it meant all the old ladies at church would wear a lot more purple for a month or so and my dad's bakery would make a killing on Fat Tuesday. I know some Prots do the ash thing, but it wasn't a big part of my experience.
The Catholics, it seems, go ga-ga over this bizarre ritual. Don't get me wrong, as far as bizarre rituals go I think consuming the literal flesh and blood of a man (who never actually existed) as a way of showing your holiness beats the pants off of smudging one's forehead once a year, but Ash Wednesday is still weird.
What's it all about? And how long are you supposed to keep that gunk on your face? All day yesterday I was surrounded by mature adults walking around looking like they had head-butted Pigpen. It was hard to quell my maternal urges to lick my thumb and swab their heads with it so they could look like respectable young men and women.
So can anyone explain the ashing to me? Is it just the priests' way of evening the score? 'I gotta wear this asinine robe all year, now's your turn to look like a douche!' What's the significance? And also, I'm intensely interested in the political and social aspect. Do the ash faces look down on the cleanly? (Yes, I know, you NEVER judge because that's god's job but realistically, is there social ramifications for those who don't proudly bear the sign of the cross upon their forehead?) Is it a Star-Bellied Sneech kind of thing? And maybe most importantly: Where does the ash come from? Does it transubstantiate into the remains of Joan of Arc or something?
Fill me in here, would you?
I was, however, raised in the Christian Reformed Church, sent through Christian schooling from preschool to high school and now I attend a Catholic college. Grand Rapids, Michigan, where I was born and raised, is to the Christian Reformed Church what Vatican City is to the Catholic Church . . . except without the guards in silly pumpkin pants.
I am no stranger to the doings of religious folk. I actually find that I know the bible a great deal better than many people who believe that it's the word of their god. Now, my knowledge of other world religions is considerably less than it is for Christianity . . . point of fact, I'm pretty clueless when it comes to eastern religions and would never claim to have anything but the coarsest of understandings of Islam (I do, however, know that Mormonism is not a world religion but a cult and one in which its members wear magical underwear, but that's an issue for another blog) BUT, I do feel that I have a pretty good understanding of Christian rites and rituals.
That being said, can anyone explain to me what the flying fuck is up with Ash Wednesday?!
In my Prot upbringing Lent wasn't so big of a deal. Mostly it meant all the old ladies at church would wear a lot more purple for a month or so and my dad's bakery would make a killing on Fat Tuesday. I know some Prots do the ash thing, but it wasn't a big part of my experience.
The Catholics, it seems, go ga-ga over this bizarre ritual. Don't get me wrong, as far as bizarre rituals go I think consuming the literal flesh and blood of a man (who never actually existed) as a way of showing your holiness beats the pants off of smudging one's forehead once a year, but Ash Wednesday is still weird.
What's it all about? And how long are you supposed to keep that gunk on your face? All day yesterday I was surrounded by mature adults walking around looking like they had head-butted Pigpen. It was hard to quell my maternal urges to lick my thumb and swab their heads with it so they could look like respectable young men and women.
So can anyone explain the ashing to me? Is it just the priests' way of evening the score? 'I gotta wear this asinine robe all year, now's your turn to look like a douche!' What's the significance? And also, I'm intensely interested in the political and social aspect. Do the ash faces look down on the cleanly? (Yes, I know, you NEVER judge because that's god's job but realistically, is there social ramifications for those who don't proudly bear the sign of the cross upon their forehead?) Is it a Star-Bellied Sneech kind of thing? And maybe most importantly: Where does the ash come from? Does it transubstantiate into the remains of Joan of Arc or something?
Fill me in here, would you?
25 October 2006
Archive: Now I'm a Baby Killer
I go to a Catholic college. This week at my Catholic college is "Pro-Life Week" (or as I like to call it "Preaching to the Choir Week" or "What Separation Between Church and State? Week"). It's an entire week of campus-wide emotional appeals involving t-shirts with pictures of transluscent fetuses on them, posters about how every unwanted child will magically be wanted once it's put up for adoption, and a cemetary of tiny crosses placed in the field usually reserved for games of Ultimate Frisbee.
They do this every year and every year the fundie Catholics at the school nod their heads and smile as they walk through the embryo museum marveling at how much that gelatenous blob looks like a person. Meanwhile, those radicals on campus like myself who believe that women are people too and should have basic rights shake our heads and try to choke back the vomit gurguling in our throats.
This year, a handful of students decided to do something about it. They didn't put mini wire hangers on all the mini crosses like I suggested (By the way, if all the mini markers for the dead babies are crosses does that mean they're assuming that all the dead babies were Christian? What about the little Jewish embryos? Shouldn't there also be mini Stars of David or mini crescents for the Muslim babies? That doesn't really seem fair.) Instead, a couple of my friends set up a dignified, silent protest wherein we all stood around the mini cemetary holding pro-choice signs. Dignified signs too, they said things like "Proud Catholic for Choice" and "Keep Abortion Legal" and "The Government has no Right to Legislate Morals." They really did a great job. I suggested that we give a sign to the statue of "the virgin" Mary which stands behind the field of mini crosses. Specifically I wanted to have her hold a "I wish I could have had an abortion" sign. [Note: I was totally kidding about that. I don't think Mary would have wanted an abortion. Point of fact I don't think 'Mary' even existed.]
I got there at about 9:15 this morning. Cold as Hell. A bunch of folks had already been out there for twenty minutes or so in the cold, wet and dark. Frankly, it felt great. It was nice to be doing something . . . even if that something was being quiet and innert. We intended it to be a silent protest so that there could be no screaming matches. We talked to each other and people who came up and struck nice, rational conversations, but we weren't there to fight with anyone. And for the most part, we didn't have to. Many people (especially faculty and staff) waved, gave thumbs up or cheered as they drove by. I was really impressed by the support we got. Even some people from the anti-choice group came over and thanked us for staging our protest in such a great way. That was really awesome and I sincerely hope we've opened doors to real discourse on campus.
Of course, there were the people who referred to us as "Those Goddamn Pro-Choice people" (which I wasn't really hurt by, but some of the religious folks in the group seemed to feel the sting a bit) and a couple of people who called us all "Baby Killers." I guess they thought we were actually performing abortions right there on their field of mini crosses . . . which would have been an interesting choice, but probably not a great way of generating dialogue. We also had a group of girls come over and pray really loudly in front of the Mary statue. I briefly considered going over to them and praying loudly to Zeus, that he might smite the unbelievers with his wicked cool thunderbolts, but ultimately I decided not to. Mostly because one of the prayer warriors was a co-worker of mine and I figured it'd be awkward enough already.
The most exciting part of the day, though, was fairly early in the morning when we had our only completely irrational screamer. She had driven by a couple of times and I guess the third time was the charm because she slammed on her brakes, hopped out of her car, leaving the door open and stood in the middle of the street screaming at us. She was upset because we were staging our protest right in front of "Touchdown Mary" (which just makes it sound oh, so scared). I walked over and handed her one of our prepared statements (our plan for dealing with unruly) she told me that she didn't want anything from us people, she didn't want to hear it. So, we tried to explain that we weren't protesting Mary we were protesting the mini cemetary that they had put in front of Mary. If they had put up their mini crosses elsewhere we would be elsewhere.
She didn't want to hear it. She was ashamed for us.
I said, "M'am, will you please calm down." "Don't call me m'am!" she hollered, the very breath of Hell expelled from her mouth. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name. What is your name?" I call people m'am and sir all the time. I work in retail, it's what I do. Should I have said "Hey, lady calm the fuck down"? Probably. But I didn't and I didn't mean to offend her with 'm'am.' Of course once I knew it upset her my stupid brain wouldn't let my mouth stop saying it. But what the hell, it's not like I was going to lose any more points with her so it didn't really matter.
She foamed at the mouth for a while. Some non-sense about how the Blessed Touchdown Virgin would disapprove and how could we do this on a Catholic Campus, Jesus hates us, statues are magical, protests are evil blah blah blah. She finished by saying "I am ashamed for you all" [can you really be ashamed for someone else? I really think it's purely a personal thing but anyway . . .] "and I will pray for you all!" Bev, my fellow heathen and I both called out "Please don't!" and as she headed back to her car I said "But you do whatever you feel like you gotta do." Once in her car she called at me "Oh, real mature, muttering things at me as I walk away." I hadn't muttered but sometimes balls of rage work as effective earplugs so I called back to her "I didn't mean to mutter. I said 'Please don't pray for me, but you do whatever you feel like you have to do." She damned me again or something and then drove off to continue her rant elsewhere on campus.
I can't wait for the next protest.
They do this every year and every year the fundie Catholics at the school nod their heads and smile as they walk through the embryo museum marveling at how much that gelatenous blob looks like a person. Meanwhile, those radicals on campus like myself who believe that women are people too and should have basic rights shake our heads and try to choke back the vomit gurguling in our throats.
This year, a handful of students decided to do something about it. They didn't put mini wire hangers on all the mini crosses like I suggested (By the way, if all the mini markers for the dead babies are crosses does that mean they're assuming that all the dead babies were Christian? What about the little Jewish embryos? Shouldn't there also be mini Stars of David or mini crescents for the Muslim babies? That doesn't really seem fair.) Instead, a couple of my friends set up a dignified, silent protest wherein we all stood around the mini cemetary holding pro-choice signs. Dignified signs too, they said things like "Proud Catholic for Choice" and "Keep Abortion Legal" and "The Government has no Right to Legislate Morals." They really did a great job. I suggested that we give a sign to the statue of "the virgin" Mary which stands behind the field of mini crosses. Specifically I wanted to have her hold a "I wish I could have had an abortion" sign. [Note: I was totally kidding about that. I don't think Mary would have wanted an abortion. Point of fact I don't think 'Mary' even existed.]
I got there at about 9:15 this morning. Cold as Hell. A bunch of folks had already been out there for twenty minutes or so in the cold, wet and dark. Frankly, it felt great. It was nice to be doing something . . . even if that something was being quiet and innert. We intended it to be a silent protest so that there could be no screaming matches. We talked to each other and people who came up and struck nice, rational conversations, but we weren't there to fight with anyone. And for the most part, we didn't have to. Many people (especially faculty and staff) waved, gave thumbs up or cheered as they drove by. I was really impressed by the support we got. Even some people from the anti-choice group came over and thanked us for staging our protest in such a great way. That was really awesome and I sincerely hope we've opened doors to real discourse on campus.
Of course, there were the people who referred to us as "Those Goddamn Pro-Choice people" (which I wasn't really hurt by, but some of the religious folks in the group seemed to feel the sting a bit) and a couple of people who called us all "Baby Killers." I guess they thought we were actually performing abortions right there on their field of mini crosses . . . which would have been an interesting choice, but probably not a great way of generating dialogue. We also had a group of girls come over and pray really loudly in front of the Mary statue. I briefly considered going over to them and praying loudly to Zeus, that he might smite the unbelievers with his wicked cool thunderbolts, but ultimately I decided not to. Mostly because one of the prayer warriors was a co-worker of mine and I figured it'd be awkward enough already.
The most exciting part of the day, though, was fairly early in the morning when we had our only completely irrational screamer. She had driven by a couple of times and I guess the third time was the charm because she slammed on her brakes, hopped out of her car, leaving the door open and stood in the middle of the street screaming at us. She was upset because we were staging our protest right in front of "Touchdown Mary" (which just makes it sound oh, so scared). I walked over and handed her one of our prepared statements (our plan for dealing with unruly) she told me that she didn't want anything from us people, she didn't want to hear it. So, we tried to explain that we weren't protesting Mary we were protesting the mini cemetary that they had put in front of Mary. If they had put up their mini crosses elsewhere we would be elsewhere.
She didn't want to hear it. She was ashamed for us.
I said, "M'am, will you please calm down." "Don't call me m'am!" she hollered, the very breath of Hell expelled from her mouth. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name. What is your name?" I call people m'am and sir all the time. I work in retail, it's what I do. Should I have said "Hey, lady calm the fuck down"? Probably. But I didn't and I didn't mean to offend her with 'm'am.' Of course once I knew it upset her my stupid brain wouldn't let my mouth stop saying it. But what the hell, it's not like I was going to lose any more points with her so it didn't really matter.
She foamed at the mouth for a while. Some non-sense about how the Blessed Touchdown Virgin would disapprove and how could we do this on a Catholic Campus, Jesus hates us, statues are magical, protests are evil blah blah blah. She finished by saying "I am ashamed for you all" [can you really be ashamed for someone else? I really think it's purely a personal thing but anyway . . .] "and I will pray for you all!" Bev, my fellow heathen and I both called out "Please don't!" and as she headed back to her car I said "But you do whatever you feel like you gotta do." Once in her car she called at me "Oh, real mature, muttering things at me as I walk away." I hadn't muttered but sometimes balls of rage work as effective earplugs so I called back to her "I didn't mean to mutter. I said 'Please don't pray for me, but you do whatever you feel like you have to do." She damned me again or something and then drove off to continue her rant elsewhere on campus.
I can't wait for the next protest.
12 August 2006
Archive: How I kept myself from getting a job . . .
About a month and a half ago, I dropped off an application at the video store a block from my house during my "apply anywhere there's an opening within three miles of the house" phase. I had done video store work before (at the store right across the street from the one I was now applying to) and am a massive film geek so it seemed like a good fit. Moreover, of course, it was close enough I would be able to walk to work thus making Al Gore happy, which is something I strive to do daily.
A couple of weeks after dropping off my application I got a call from a store manager (or maybe assistant manager . . . I'm not entirely certain because as it turns out, this place has a bigger hierarchy than Amway) and set an interview for the following week.
This interview was like none other I have ever had for a mindless, part-time customer service job (and I've had my share of mindless jobs and/or interviews). Having worked at a video store before, if I had to interview someone for the position I would ask things like: What letter comes after J? and what's the name of that movie where Christopher Walken plays an evil angel? and how much change do you give someone on a 99-cent rental when they give you $20.00? Oh, and how much do you know about adult movies, 'cuz people are gonna ask?
That's it. That's all you have to know to work in a video store. It's a nice job, don't get me wrong. You get to talk about movies all day and alphabetize things, which are easily my two favorite activities in the world. Sure, people skills are nice to have in that kind of environment, but no one goes into a video store expecting to see anything other than employees who are pimple-faced socially inept boys who recently graduated high school and do nothing but masturbate and play EverQuest in their parents' basement. In my initial interview though, I was asked things like: "Tell me about a turning point in your life," and "tell me about a mentor you've had," and "tell me about your home life," and "tell me where you'd like to be in five years." It's always a bad sign when a question begins with "tell me about" and doesn't end with a question mark.
But y'know what? It was a great interview. Or at least, I did very well with it. I'm a communications major, not to mention an actor, so I know how to do this kind of crap and I do it well. So, the manager/ possibly-assistant-manager told me he'd talk to the district manager and then give me a call to set up a time for me to take an aptitude test.
Aptitude test? WTF? But, whatever, right? I'm plenty apt.
So, the next week I have to skip out of the other job I've started in the meantime to go back to the video store and take an aptitude test. 'Should take about half an hour,' the guy told me. Wrong. Almost an hour and a half. And it's not that I was slow; it was a timed test, I wasn't allowed to be slow. And still, it was an hour and a half. You don't tell someone who's coming in to take a timed test that it's only half an hour when you know damn well it's almost three times that. It's a TIMED test so there's no excuse!
And, again, what do we need to know to work at a video store? The alphabet and how to type small numbers into a computer. And what was on the test? Among other things, hardcore math problems. Now maybe if I were not of the calculator generation I would have been able to do some of the math problems in my head or even on scratch paper, but as it stands I have not had to do any math aside from simple addition or subtraction without the benefit of an electronic brain far superior to mine since I was in fifth grade! I took my last math class ever two years ago and aced it without a problem. But asking me to do math without a calculator is like asking me to ready a printing press to publish this blog. I know how to do it on a computer; I should be able to do it without too.
Despite the math portions of the test (and wholly because of the reading and alphabetizing portions), I passed the test and was told that on Monday the district manager would be calling to set up an interview.
TWO WEEKS LATER . . . I finally get a call from a woman who I thought was the district manager but turned out to be something lesser but higher than the guy who asked about my goals and aspirations and made me take a fucking math test. We make an appointment for Saturday afternoon. I go down there, dressed to impress and ready to go. Now mind you, by this time I have another job (which doesn't pay very well, but it's still a job) and I'm a week away from starting school, and a month away from auditioning for a show that would pretty much rule out working nights so it's mostly moot. They've been stringing me along for the better part of the summer, I'm not in dire need of a job anymore and I really don't want to work until midnight during school because the evenings are the only time I'll get to see my wife, but I still go because maybe, just maybe, we can work something out.
I sit down with not-so-much-the-actual-district-manager Chris and she asks me to 'tell her a bit about myself." So I do the whole song and dance, 'I live just down the street with my wife and cat, I'm in school, going to be a teacher in a couple of years yadda yadda yadda.' She asks me about my availability, I tell her that I'm currently working another job during the days, but that might be gone once the summer rush is over etc. Then, she too asks me about my home life. What do people want to hear when they ask that? And why is it any of their business anyway? What, do they think I'm going to say 'My wife is really supportive in helping me kick the crack and so is my girlfriend'? I really wanted to turn it around and say, "Tell me about your home life," but at this point, I still had reason to be optimistic.
Then she says to me: "I think that's all the questions I have to ask, but could you wait here a moment?" Of course I can. She walks away. Comes back a few minutes later with the ever-elusive Actual District Manager Chris who sits down and says very directly that if I were to work here I would have to adhere to a strict dress code. I said, "No problem, I like dressing up." "You see," she says, "this is a conservative company [my skin crawls] and we expect out male employees to be clean shaven and have short hair, I just want to make sure that that's not going to be a problem because I don't want to waste your time," which is funny, of course, because if they had been paying me for all of these tests and interviews I would have earned a descent paycheck by now.
I told her that that's hard because I do act and sometimes that requires me to have facial hair or grow my hair out like you presently see it, and moreover, I haven't had my hair as short as the male employees here since I was their age. Then she tells me that if I wanted to work there, I would have to "conform" to their standard, and if I couldn't "conform" then I may not be a good fit there . . .
I think it was the word "conform" that kicked in my stupid gene.
My life flashed before my eyes. And I explained, using a great measure of restraint, that I wasn't sure I was willing to "conform" to their 1950's ideal of what a good citizen looked like and that though I would be willing to cut my hair from what it is now and trim the facial hair, I thought it was ludicrous to ask that I have to keep it that way. Moreover, this 'conservative' company that is apparently offended my male genes which produce facial hair offers a wide selection of adult films and wasn't that a little hypocritical? So my hair is longer than you'd like, what do you say to applicants who are too fat? Must they be turned away as well? (Turns out, they have no officially policy on fat) I asked why she was allowed to have hair that touched her collar and how she would feel if the company dictated her hair length. She explained that she would have to decide which was more important to her and that it wasn't that they wouldn't hire me because of my hair; it's that I was choosing to not be hired by not getting a shave and a haircut. I told her that in every other way I would be perfect for this job. I know how to do the work, I know movies and I'm damned good at customer service. Isn't it absurd that my personal appearance clean and well dressed albeit kind of hairy is the only thing keeping me from getting a job for which I'd be a perfect fit?
I kept my anger in check though I was fuming inside. I acknowledged that I was cognizant that it was not her rule; she simply had to enforce it but that it was a terribly unenlightened rule and that hopefully someday the powers that be will break out of their '50s mentality. I apologized for having wasted their time, which I only did in the hope that she'd reciprocate and I could tell her just how much of my time she had wasted but instead she told me that I hadn't and she was sorry that the company and I weren't a good fit.
What I've come to conclude is this: throughout all the preliminary interviews they were trying to figure out if I would fit into their conservative christian ideal (we'll just ignore the porn in the back) by asking about my family and my aspirations etc. and so on. Of course they couldn't ask me right out: Are you some kind of godless vegetarian pinko peacenik and none of my answers betrayed the fact that I deny the holy spirit, vote democratic and my wife didn't take my last name so they just assumed I was a 'good christian' sort.
What it all boils down to, though (vast right wing conspiracy or no) is that if I had just shut the hell up and gotten a hair cut I'd have a nice mindless job that was close to home and would help pay be bills. Sure, I would have been a sell out, but is that so bad? Must I wave my freak flag? It's one thing when my ideals keep me from eating meat, going to Mel Gibson movies or letting people slide when they assume everyone has an imaginary friend named Jesus, but long hair doesn't even qualify as an ideal. My wife likes the hair, but in asking me to cut it, it's not like they were forcing me to bow toward Mecca or eat a baby.
I guess what I'm saying is: I feel like a real ass.
A couple of weeks after dropping off my application I got a call from a store manager (or maybe assistant manager . . . I'm not entirely certain because as it turns out, this place has a bigger hierarchy than Amway) and set an interview for the following week.
This interview was like none other I have ever had for a mindless, part-time customer service job (and I've had my share of mindless jobs and/or interviews). Having worked at a video store before, if I had to interview someone for the position I would ask things like: What letter comes after J? and what's the name of that movie where Christopher Walken plays an evil angel? and how much change do you give someone on a 99-cent rental when they give you $20.00? Oh, and how much do you know about adult movies, 'cuz people are gonna ask?
That's it. That's all you have to know to work in a video store. It's a nice job, don't get me wrong. You get to talk about movies all day and alphabetize things, which are easily my two favorite activities in the world. Sure, people skills are nice to have in that kind of environment, but no one goes into a video store expecting to see anything other than employees who are pimple-faced socially inept boys who recently graduated high school and do nothing but masturbate and play EverQuest in their parents' basement. In my initial interview though, I was asked things like: "Tell me about a turning point in your life," and "tell me about a mentor you've had," and "tell me about your home life," and "tell me where you'd like to be in five years." It's always a bad sign when a question begins with "tell me about" and doesn't end with a question mark.
But y'know what? It was a great interview. Or at least, I did very well with it. I'm a communications major, not to mention an actor, so I know how to do this kind of crap and I do it well. So, the manager/ possibly-assistant-manager told me he'd talk to the district manager and then give me a call to set up a time for me to take an aptitude test.
Aptitude test? WTF? But, whatever, right? I'm plenty apt.
So, the next week I have to skip out of the other job I've started in the meantime to go back to the video store and take an aptitude test. 'Should take about half an hour,' the guy told me. Wrong. Almost an hour and a half. And it's not that I was slow; it was a timed test, I wasn't allowed to be slow. And still, it was an hour and a half. You don't tell someone who's coming in to take a timed test that it's only half an hour when you know damn well it's almost three times that. It's a TIMED test so there's no excuse!
And, again, what do we need to know to work at a video store? The alphabet and how to type small numbers into a computer. And what was on the test? Among other things, hardcore math problems. Now maybe if I were not of the calculator generation I would have been able to do some of the math problems in my head or even on scratch paper, but as it stands I have not had to do any math aside from simple addition or subtraction without the benefit of an electronic brain far superior to mine since I was in fifth grade! I took my last math class ever two years ago and aced it without a problem. But asking me to do math without a calculator is like asking me to ready a printing press to publish this blog. I know how to do it on a computer; I should be able to do it without too.
Despite the math portions of the test (and wholly because of the reading and alphabetizing portions), I passed the test and was told that on Monday the district manager would be calling to set up an interview.
TWO WEEKS LATER . . . I finally get a call from a woman who I thought was the district manager but turned out to be something lesser but higher than the guy who asked about my goals and aspirations and made me take a fucking math test. We make an appointment for Saturday afternoon. I go down there, dressed to impress and ready to go. Now mind you, by this time I have another job (which doesn't pay very well, but it's still a job) and I'm a week away from starting school, and a month away from auditioning for a show that would pretty much rule out working nights so it's mostly moot. They've been stringing me along for the better part of the summer, I'm not in dire need of a job anymore and I really don't want to work until midnight during school because the evenings are the only time I'll get to see my wife, but I still go because maybe, just maybe, we can work something out.
I sit down with not-so-much-the-actual-district-manager Chris and she asks me to 'tell her a bit about myself." So I do the whole song and dance, 'I live just down the street with my wife and cat, I'm in school, going to be a teacher in a couple of years yadda yadda yadda.' She asks me about my availability, I tell her that I'm currently working another job during the days, but that might be gone once the summer rush is over etc. Then, she too asks me about my home life. What do people want to hear when they ask that? And why is it any of their business anyway? What, do they think I'm going to say 'My wife is really supportive in helping me kick the crack and so is my girlfriend'? I really wanted to turn it around and say, "Tell me about your home life," but at this point, I still had reason to be optimistic.
Then she says to me: "I think that's all the questions I have to ask, but could you wait here a moment?" Of course I can. She walks away. Comes back a few minutes later with the ever-elusive Actual District Manager Chris who sits down and says very directly that if I were to work here I would have to adhere to a strict dress code. I said, "No problem, I like dressing up." "You see," she says, "this is a conservative company [my skin crawls] and we expect out male employees to be clean shaven and have short hair, I just want to make sure that that's not going to be a problem because I don't want to waste your time," which is funny, of course, because if they had been paying me for all of these tests and interviews I would have earned a descent paycheck by now.
I told her that that's hard because I do act and sometimes that requires me to have facial hair or grow my hair out like you presently see it, and moreover, I haven't had my hair as short as the male employees here since I was their age. Then she tells me that if I wanted to work there, I would have to "conform" to their standard, and if I couldn't "conform" then I may not be a good fit there . . .
I think it was the word "conform" that kicked in my stupid gene.
My life flashed before my eyes. And I explained, using a great measure of restraint, that I wasn't sure I was willing to "conform" to their 1950's ideal of what a good citizen looked like and that though I would be willing to cut my hair from what it is now and trim the facial hair, I thought it was ludicrous to ask that I have to keep it that way. Moreover, this 'conservative' company that is apparently offended my male genes which produce facial hair offers a wide selection of adult films and wasn't that a little hypocritical? So my hair is longer than you'd like, what do you say to applicants who are too fat? Must they be turned away as well? (Turns out, they have no officially policy on fat) I asked why she was allowed to have hair that touched her collar and how she would feel if the company dictated her hair length. She explained that she would have to decide which was more important to her and that it wasn't that they wouldn't hire me because of my hair; it's that I was choosing to not be hired by not getting a shave and a haircut. I told her that in every other way I would be perfect for this job. I know how to do the work, I know movies and I'm damned good at customer service. Isn't it absurd that my personal appearance clean and well dressed albeit kind of hairy is the only thing keeping me from getting a job for which I'd be a perfect fit?
I kept my anger in check though I was fuming inside. I acknowledged that I was cognizant that it was not her rule; she simply had to enforce it but that it was a terribly unenlightened rule and that hopefully someday the powers that be will break out of their '50s mentality. I apologized for having wasted their time, which I only did in the hope that she'd reciprocate and I could tell her just how much of my time she had wasted but instead she told me that I hadn't and she was sorry that the company and I weren't a good fit.
What I've come to conclude is this: throughout all the preliminary interviews they were trying to figure out if I would fit into their conservative christian ideal (we'll just ignore the porn in the back) by asking about my family and my aspirations etc. and so on. Of course they couldn't ask me right out: Are you some kind of godless vegetarian pinko peacenik and none of my answers betrayed the fact that I deny the holy spirit, vote democratic and my wife didn't take my last name so they just assumed I was a 'good christian' sort.
What it all boils down to, though (vast right wing conspiracy or no) is that if I had just shut the hell up and gotten a hair cut I'd have a nice mindless job that was close to home and would help pay be bills. Sure, I would have been a sell out, but is that so bad? Must I wave my freak flag? It's one thing when my ideals keep me from eating meat, going to Mel Gibson movies or letting people slide when they assume everyone has an imaginary friend named Jesus, but long hair doesn't even qualify as an ideal. My wife likes the hair, but in asking me to cut it, it's not like they were forcing me to bow toward Mecca or eat a baby.
I guess what I'm saying is: I feel like a real ass.
13 July 2006
Archive: Weak Stomach Reaction
Recently, a number of people have posted a bulletin with the headline "Don't look if you've got a weak stomach" (or some variation thereof). The bulletin asks a number of questions which I will now endeavor to answer.
1. Why do we sleep in church but...when when the sermon is over we suddenly wake up?
In my experience, born and raised in the Christian Reformed Church, very few people slept through the sermons . . . which is not because it was a raucous good time or anything like that. There was no "Amen"ing or hand clapping, just good ol' three point sermons. My father, however, was a strong exception to this rule. I can't recall a single church service where my father remained awake. As for why he slept, I have only these conjectures to offer: a. He was tired from working long hours at his bakery and committing acts of fraud and adultery all week; b. he believed his presence in church was more important than his attention, after all, his god really only cared about the headcount, or; c. it was important that he be seen at church so that all of the other people coming to church to be seen would know him to be a good, pious man. It's likely a combination of all of these things and, to some extent these (at least the latter two) are the reasons why many people attend church and either sleep or simply tune out. If you really believe god is everywhere, what the hell does church attendance matter? Sure, catholics aren't really allowed to read the bible themselves, but protestants are, so what's to stop them from worshipping at home and occasionally picking up a Philip Yancy to help clarify things? How does that parable about the two men praying in the temple go? The one man shouts out his prayers so that he'll be heard and people will know he's a true believer -- there's a lot of that, I think in church attendance today, as well as people with jesus fish on their cars and whatnot-- "Look at me! I'm a christian! jesus loves me and I love him back, but in a totally not gay way, of course!"
2. Why is it so hard to talk about God but so easy to talk about sex?
Well, first off, I think if it really were easy to talk about sex in this country we'd be better off. Instead we stigmatize it and make it something dirty, something not proper in certain company. Thanks for that, Puritans.
Secondly, I don't think people find it hard to talk about god at all. Listen to talk radio sometime. Look at bumper stickers. Everyone's talking about their relationship with god. Except, of course, with those who disagree with them. Believers have a very hard time, I've found, talking about god with skeptics, because (and feel free to challenge me on this) they hate to be challenged on their beliefs. It's really what separates the skeptics from those who believe blindly. Skeptics love to be challenged, it's what we do, we constantly re-examine and re-evaluate things -- that's why science is so much fun. Whereas believers avoid that sort of thing, hence their belief in things that don't stand up to evaluation (again, talk to me about this if you disagree).
3. Why are we so bored to look at a Christian magazine..but so easy to read a playboy magazine?
As a Playboy subscriber, I have to say, it actually is worth reading for the articles. Let's face it, 'steamy pictorials' all pretty much look the same, but the articles and interviews in each are new and interesting. Again, if we didn't have such an unhealthy view of sex in this country, Playboy would not be something people hide under their mattresses.
I can't speak to christian magazines but my guess would be that if, in fact, people are bored by them, they are probably boring. Just a guess.
4. Why is it so easy to ignore a Godly myspace messages...yet we repost the nasty ones?
This is just an offensive question, because it assumes that things that are not "godly" (which, one can probably safely assume means "overtly christian in nature") are "nasty." There's a heck of a lot of gray area, friends, between "godly" and "nasty" (and, I would suggest that a great deal of "godly" messages, this original post included, are rather "nasty").
5. Why are churches getting smaller...but bars and clubs are growing??
Oh yes, churches are in such danger in this country. *rolls eyes* C'mon people, that's a stupid, stupid thing to say.
First off, there is a movement (and has been for some time now) to make churches larger and larger. Mega-churches that seat thousands are all over the place so churches have quite literally gotten bigger. And, take it from someone that knows, if you need to find an open bar in Grand Rapids, Michigan on a Sunday, good luck! but if you want a church we have hundreds upon hundreds to choose from.
And do not give me that Bill O'Reilly 'secularists are taking over our country,' bunk. If that were true (and oh, that it were true) we wouldn't have an evangelical president, science would not be on the defensive in classrooms around the country, gay marriage would not have been amended against in every state where it was put to a vote and churches would not have the tax free status they have abused for so long. Hell, you can't spend a dollar in this country without inadvertently acknowledging a god.
6. Think about it...are you going to repost this or ignore it because you think you'll get laughed at?
I did think about it. No, I will not repost it (at least not in its original form). But I will also not ignore it. And really, do christians fear getting laughed at (or worse) for admitting their beliefs? Because if they do, that's just crazy paranoia. They are the majority in this country! Understand that. This persecution complex must be some kind of crazy wish for martyrdom.
christians are running this country. All three branches of government (both state and federal) belong overwhelmingly to christians. Get over this notion that you are the underdog, bravely touting your beliefs to a world that hates and fears you, because it's simply not so. You are in charge. It is people of opposing faiths and those of us without religious belief that are the outcasts. It's tragic that atheists so often have to keep their lack of belief to themselves in order to keep their jobs, friends and family while christians accuse them of being the persecutors.
The post ends with this:
Just remember God is always watching you.
repost this "dont look if you've got a weak stomach"if you truly love God and you know he's always there.The Lord said " deny me in front of your friends and i will deny you in front of my father".
Lovely. Scare tactics. Trying to guilt people into reposting because 'god already knows you've read this, and if you don't repost it he will be very angry with you, and you wouldn't like him when he's angry.' It's an appeal to irrational fear (or simply guilt) and I hate it.
Now, I have not posted this to be anti-christian and I certainly hope I didn't offend those of you who originally posted this message. I am posting this to engage in a dialogue. According to the post, we have a hard time talking about god. Well, I don't and I invite any of you to talk about it with me. Those of you who agree with me, I'd like to hear from you, but mostly I'd like to hear from those of you who don't. Let's talk about this without making it personal or getting angry at each other. I won't try to convert you if you don't try to convert me, instead let's just talk.
I've said my piece.
1. Why do we sleep in church but...when when the sermon is over we suddenly wake up?
In my experience, born and raised in the Christian Reformed Church, very few people slept through the sermons . . . which is not because it was a raucous good time or anything like that. There was no "Amen"ing or hand clapping, just good ol' three point sermons. My father, however, was a strong exception to this rule. I can't recall a single church service where my father remained awake. As for why he slept, I have only these conjectures to offer: a. He was tired from working long hours at his bakery and committing acts of fraud and adultery all week; b. he believed his presence in church was more important than his attention, after all, his god really only cared about the headcount, or; c. it was important that he be seen at church so that all of the other people coming to church to be seen would know him to be a good, pious man. It's likely a combination of all of these things and, to some extent these (at least the latter two) are the reasons why many people attend church and either sleep or simply tune out. If you really believe god is everywhere, what the hell does church attendance matter? Sure, catholics aren't really allowed to read the bible themselves, but protestants are, so what's to stop them from worshipping at home and occasionally picking up a Philip Yancy to help clarify things? How does that parable about the two men praying in the temple go? The one man shouts out his prayers so that he'll be heard and people will know he's a true believer -- there's a lot of that, I think in church attendance today, as well as people with jesus fish on their cars and whatnot-- "Look at me! I'm a christian! jesus loves me and I love him back, but in a totally not gay way, of course!"
2. Why is it so hard to talk about God but so easy to talk about sex?
Well, first off, I think if it really were easy to talk about sex in this country we'd be better off. Instead we stigmatize it and make it something dirty, something not proper in certain company. Thanks for that, Puritans.
Secondly, I don't think people find it hard to talk about god at all. Listen to talk radio sometime. Look at bumper stickers. Everyone's talking about their relationship with god. Except, of course, with those who disagree with them. Believers have a very hard time, I've found, talking about god with skeptics, because (and feel free to challenge me on this) they hate to be challenged on their beliefs. It's really what separates the skeptics from those who believe blindly. Skeptics love to be challenged, it's what we do, we constantly re-examine and re-evaluate things -- that's why science is so much fun. Whereas believers avoid that sort of thing, hence their belief in things that don't stand up to evaluation (again, talk to me about this if you disagree).
3. Why are we so bored to look at a Christian magazine..but so easy to read a playboy magazine?
As a Playboy subscriber, I have to say, it actually is worth reading for the articles. Let's face it, 'steamy pictorials' all pretty much look the same, but the articles and interviews in each are new and interesting. Again, if we didn't have such an unhealthy view of sex in this country, Playboy would not be something people hide under their mattresses.
I can't speak to christian magazines but my guess would be that if, in fact, people are bored by them, they are probably boring. Just a guess.
4. Why is it so easy to ignore a Godly myspace messages...yet we repost the nasty ones?
This is just an offensive question, because it assumes that things that are not "godly" (which, one can probably safely assume means "overtly christian in nature") are "nasty." There's a heck of a lot of gray area, friends, between "godly" and "nasty" (and, I would suggest that a great deal of "godly" messages, this original post included, are rather "nasty").
5. Why are churches getting smaller...but bars and clubs are growing??
Oh yes, churches are in such danger in this country. *rolls eyes* C'mon people, that's a stupid, stupid thing to say.
First off, there is a movement (and has been for some time now) to make churches larger and larger. Mega-churches that seat thousands are all over the place so churches have quite literally gotten bigger. And, take it from someone that knows, if you need to find an open bar in Grand Rapids, Michigan on a Sunday, good luck! but if you want a church we have hundreds upon hundreds to choose from.
And do not give me that Bill O'Reilly 'secularists are taking over our country,' bunk. If that were true (and oh, that it were true) we wouldn't have an evangelical president, science would not be on the defensive in classrooms around the country, gay marriage would not have been amended against in every state where it was put to a vote and churches would not have the tax free status they have abused for so long. Hell, you can't spend a dollar in this country without inadvertently acknowledging a god.
6. Think about it...are you going to repost this or ignore it because you think you'll get laughed at?
I did think about it. No, I will not repost it (at least not in its original form). But I will also not ignore it. And really, do christians fear getting laughed at (or worse) for admitting their beliefs? Because if they do, that's just crazy paranoia. They are the majority in this country! Understand that. This persecution complex must be some kind of crazy wish for martyrdom.
christians are running this country. All three branches of government (both state and federal) belong overwhelmingly to christians. Get over this notion that you are the underdog, bravely touting your beliefs to a world that hates and fears you, because it's simply not so. You are in charge. It is people of opposing faiths and those of us without religious belief that are the outcasts. It's tragic that atheists so often have to keep their lack of belief to themselves in order to keep their jobs, friends and family while christians accuse them of being the persecutors.
The post ends with this:
Just remember God is always watching you.
repost this "dont look if you've got a weak stomach"if you truly love God and you know he's always there.The Lord said " deny me in front of your friends and i will deny you in front of my father".
Lovely. Scare tactics. Trying to guilt people into reposting because 'god already knows you've read this, and if you don't repost it he will be very angry with you, and you wouldn't like him when he's angry.' It's an appeal to irrational fear (or simply guilt) and I hate it.
Now, I have not posted this to be anti-christian and I certainly hope I didn't offend those of you who originally posted this message. I am posting this to engage in a dialogue. According to the post, we have a hard time talking about god. Well, I don't and I invite any of you to talk about it with me. Those of you who agree with me, I'd like to hear from you, but mostly I'd like to hear from those of you who don't. Let's talk about this without making it personal or getting angry at each other. I won't try to convert you if you don't try to convert me, instead let's just talk.
I've said my piece.
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