I'm unemployed

The Big Lebowski
Officer: And what do you do sir?
Dude: I'm unemployed

I like this quote because not only does it pertain to the subject matter, but the dude answers the question like being unemployed is his occupation.


And now the weekend is behind us except when one joins the unemployment club, which is me as of, to the best of my knowledge, last Friday although I haven't heard back from my ex-employer.  This is the first time in my life I find myself jobless, and it feels phenomenal.  Don't get me wrong; I like to work, in fact, I was brought up by parents who worked their asses off doing laborious and menial jobs, and their work ethic rubbed off on me until last week when I said "fuck it".  It was a decision that crept from the back of my mind over a period of time only to dictate my actions, plus parking in Russian Hill is brutal and the two buses I would normally take was another pandemonium I avoided to keep my sanity intact, which I did because once I got home from not going to work I went straight to the Hoha to drink, watch the Giants game, and hang out with a couple of ultra cool people.
     The bar was semi packed.  The regulars were present of course as well as non regulars but still Richmond locals.  We talked idle conversation, the climate, hardly strictly coming up, movies, and tech. Actually Natalie and Jon talk about tech while I stare at nothingness in front of me or pretend to give a shit of what the unfamiliar jargon they reiterate. And I'm almost sure they do it on purpose just to leave me in the darkness. I don't really mind it though; they're good company, and it's fun to observe.
    On the way home we stop by the corner store for more booze as the routine goes. Up stairs we get a game of darts going. I win. And at some point we trek back to the corner store for more booze. We talked and bullshitted more and drank more and played more darts, Good times. To my surprise, I wasn't as hammered as I should'v been since I got home on my own two feet despite the incremental distance, a matter of blocks.  But I was pretty fucking beat when I got  home.  Could this be what unemployment is like everyday?

In continuation of the last blog

Band- Operation Ivy

"Success is obedience to a structured way of life"

My primary job required repeated tasks like every other job in there. On that particular day, I was lucky enough to have worn a newer pair of shoes rather than my old faded black dilapidated slip on's, which are ravaged with holes.  I sacrificed comfort for uncomfortable yet durable shoes yet don't regret it.  Had I worn my regular kick ass vans, the bus ride home on the 38 would have been an extravagant nightmare more than the usual delirium of riding the muni when it's like a cat in heat for commuters.  By the end of my shift, my shoes were soggy as well as the lower part of my pants.  The whole dishwashing room is like a water ride without the thrill unless the thrill is helping others free of admission for everyone
    I was also fortunate enough to have reliable gloves on. Not the worthless plastic gloves a fifteen year old wanker uses as a substitute for a condom but the more durable long lasting synthetic material doctors should use.  Even with the help of the gloves the hot water still pierced my hands as I gathered up the steaming hot trays for yet another round of back and forth routine work.  I hauled the trays from my insular end through  the narrow urethra of a one way lane that opens up to the back end of the dining room where the designated soldier takes the load to the front of the line.  Most of the time I handled the trays, and the most frequent utensil were the small blue plastic cups that presented another challenge.  Unlike the trays that had to be stacked like lego blocks, the cups had to remain tucked into the square plastic rack and taken up to the front. The most difficult part was getting past the narrow walkway because it had to be done with enough accuracy and celerity of motion.  Each time I made my way back through the narrow corridor with the cup-racks in hand, I tilted the rack approximately 45 degrees; 50 degrees would've most likely tilted the cups out of their slots thus producing a big fucking disorder, and an acute 40 degrees would've surely caused me to inadvertently bump into my comrade working on the cramped line, the same lady who asked me for help; she's not the type of lady who takes kindly to stupid accidents. In fact it seems to me that every individual, volunteer and non-volunteer, who works at Glide has an important job that he/she will complete as we are all defined to have a purpose set by circumstance, obedience, and a structured way of life.  By the end I was able to successfully complete me job flawlessly without disruption  and acting to get things done on time and without delay.  I was successful because I was obedient to the structure I was placed in, I advantageously manipulated the shitty structure I was placed in. This is the wisdom of everyday life for everyone.

Glide: Working washing dishes

Leftover Crack- "We were crack city rocking in the Tenderloin Gutter..."


In a moment of sporadic randomness, the head lady who works in the dishwashing facility, a black woman of substantial age, asked for my help- actually it was more of a command than simple request.  She asked me to help her wash dishes, cups, etc... The dishwashing room is a tiny humid foxhole at the opposite end of the kitchen past the large dining area.  I agreed to helping her although it's not like I had much of a choice; I'm only there to help and be of service to others.
       I've done this type of work before, so it's not like I'm a neophyte in this line of work. The last restaurant I worked in, I occasionally helped the dishwasher at the end of the night with the remaining wretchedly dirty dishes, pots, pans, silverware, trays, containers, and every other utensil used by a human being. This hot and hellish chamber is the asshole of the restaurant.  Not only is it located near the back, but also serves to be the landfill for unfinished portions of food and the squalidness of it all amounts to human waste- consumption's whore. The humidity is nearly unbearable. It's a box that traps heat, waste, and the stench of human sweat yet this Tartarus of a room and laborer performs an indispensable function like any other component in a well oiled machine, and without him it would be a shitty mess- a shitter that stops flushing.  I've seen men's hands turn coarse and gradually erode to a state of flaccidness.  The abrasive metal sponge and scorching hot water, replete with sanitizing chemicals, all contributes to the slow wither demise of the hands, and a laborer who loses the use of his hands loses purpose.
      Glide's dishwashing chamber differs significantly from those built inside most restaurants.  The machine itself that cleans and sanitizes looks like a small replica of a gigantic real life car wash mechanical beast with all the pre set phases included. The dirty trays, silverware, and containers are first rinsed using a pressurized sprayer then sent into the mouth of the metal beast where the process to make pristine is utilized. Once that's finished, it exits through the back end of the mechanism looking nearly new yet wet like a pornstar's vag. This phase is repeated at least a couple times until I've gathered sufficient trays to transfer to the person who transports all clean objects to the front of the assembly line, like a fucking well oiled machine, the initial stage of the cycle....

Bar Talk

Over the course of my drinking career I've had many conversations with people, mostly strangers, that have somehow remained in my memory.  It's impossible to remember the conversation word for word especially after a heavy night of drinking, which is why I write from the banks of my memory.  These are people who exist and may as well be characters in a story.  Their names have been changed.

This is dedicated to Ralph Hart. I'll see  you on the otherside my friend.

Bar: 3300 Club
Characters: Mr. Hart, Memo, Goldie.


Mr. Hart: How ya doin Goldie?
Goldie: Hey baby, I'm doing great.
Mr Hart. This is my boy Memo, heir to Di Napolis, Memo meet Goldie.
Memo: Hi, nice to meet you.
Goldie: Hey baby how the fuck are you?
Memo: Good thanks, nice bar you got here. It's my type of place, dark and seedy.
Goldie: We do our best to keep it that way. What can I get you?
Memo: I'll have a Guinness please. This is a cool spot Mr. Hart. It's a nice change from the Pub.
Mr. Hart: Yea it's cool. Goldie and me go way back. I be knowin her for a long ass time.
Memo: No shit, huh?
Mr. Hart. Yea, when she was toe up I helped her move all her shit out of her apartment.
Goldie: It's true. This motherfucker moved my shit when I was crying my eyes out, and I had to get the fuck out of there.
Memo: Damn, so you actually did physical labor at one point in your life.
Mr. Hart. Shit man, that's cold. I like workin but my bad hip don't allow me to. Don't she look like Goldie Hawn?
Memo: Who the fuck is Goldie Hawn Mr Hart?
Mr. Hart: Shit man, you never seen Goldie Hawn on T.V. and shit?
Memo: I don't really watch T.V. Mr. Hart. Most of what is on it is crap. But anyway the name sounds familiar. What movie was she in?
Mr. Hart: Shit man you should know I don't keep up with Hollywood.
Memo: Dude she was a star over 30 fucking years ago. I think you have one of her movies in your ample movie collection. The movie with the fucking boat and the captain. Does it ring a bell Mr. Hart?
Mr. Hart: Yea you right.
Memo: I know I'm right. You watched it recently when I came up to play chess.
Mr. Hart: So you think she looks like Goldie Hawn?
Memo: A faint resemblance. Perhaps the Goldie Hawn of San Francisco.
Mr. Hart: So you would do her?
Memo: How did I know you were about to ask me that? I know, it's because you're a man, a perverted old black man.
Mr. Hart: Relax man its only a question. Man I know you like them cougars. You don't know it yet but I do. I seen the way you look at Miss. Bobbit.
Memo: You're fucking crazy, lay off the drugs Mr. Hart.
Goldie: Can I start you on another Guinness hon?
Memo: Sure, thanks.
Mr. Hart: Shit man you trippin. Just admit it.
Memo: You're the one who is tripping Mr. Hart knowing your history. Where were you in the 60's.
Mr. Hart:  Hell Yea, I was in the fucking City. The City was the place to be back then. We was all smoking joints and dropping acid on Haight and in the park.
Memo: You fucking hippie.
Mr. Hart: I ain't no hippie. Anyway its different now. Yawl can't recreate that time and place.  Now everyone wants to come to the City to live here. The rent here is so high it's fucking ridiculous, an arm and a leg. And why? Because when they think if San Francisco, they think of the hippies, drugs, music, counter culture lifestyle but that's all in the dust now, and it ain't coming back.  Nowadays people be too caught up in cell phones they don't know what's going on around them or some other technology that distracts them from reality.  Back in the day we didn't have no fucking cell phones. All we needed was bell bottoms, a joint, and your voice.  And getting laid was easy as hell. Like I said man, a different time and place.
Memo: I kind of resent my generation's obsessive relationship to technology.  I'm just waiting for Skynet to take over and unleash an ungodly war on humans.
Mr. Hart: Man you trippin.
Memo: I wish I was tripping.
Mr. Hart: You just need to loosen up around women that's all. Let's go out for a smoke.

The Hoha

Music: Deviates

Come With Me- "Those who have suffered will understand that pain is welcome when its all you have left"


We all have our neighborhood bar(s) which is the go to place to drink, hang out, shoot pool, waste time, and play our own brand of crappy music. For me the Hoha is the beginning, middle, and end; it's the local spot for us locals of the Outer Richmond but strangers are welcome.  Many times the Hoha is my initial drinking spot where I start and end my drinking route. It's a good place to drink to avoid the shoals of people unlike North Beach or the Mission.  The atmosphere is friendly, usually, and the locals know each other being friends and neighbors.  I met a girl there by chance who literally lives across the street from me.
      The location itself is ideal, and it's hard to imagine it not there.  The Balboa theater is directly across the street, restaurants are conveniently situated on that long Balboa strip that runs from about 38th down to 34th, and of course the cafes, also present is the produce market, flower shop, salon, yoga studio, corner store, shipping/video rental store, bank, and a super strange yet random Egyptian nightclub place, which, for all I know, is a discreet meth lab confined within the walls.  On the outer wall is an illustration a Pharhaoh, and I swear on my unholy grave I've never seen anyone leave or enter the place. I frequently walk to the corner store or the Hoha and pass by it at night but not a single soul is present.  But I do hear Middle Eastern twangy music once in a while.
     It's so nice to be able to walk to a bar you like and walk back home.  That's the best thing, for me, about local spots, that and the people who make it possible.  To be able to carry my drunk ass home meaning hiking up a kind of steep hill. I've never been so intoxicated that I resorted to taking a cab home, and I'm proud of that.  The locals are cool people. I've met most of them but I'm bad with names.  Sometimes I think of them of a cast of characters in movie and the scene is the Hoha. The same faces appear and reappear like its all been pre determined.  The repetition of it all can be irritable yet that's what local must mean to a lot of people- the same old faces and the same old scenario, the old comfort zone.
    My old routine when I first moved here was to celebrate the (Black) Sabbath by going to the Hoha every Sunday morning for a bloodymary extra spicy.  This drink is a hit or a miss for me.   It just comes down to the bartender and each ingredient included. Luckily, my bartender, bless her heart, makes a killer bloodymary.  And it's the perfect breakfast drink too since it's a meal in a glass. I use to drink so many bloodymary's that I spoiled it for myself, which is something unprecedented in my history of drinking.
I've had many a good times at the Hoha like when I watched the Giants win the world series in 2012. Thinking back on it, it feels like a dream. The place swelled up with Giants fans cheering concentrating strictly on the game and ultimate victory.  After the game, people were sweeping the streets with brooms and making elated noises that even the Pharoahs heard.  Can we do it again?

Glide

Sublime: " Got to find a reason, reason things went wrong, got to find a reason why my money's all gone"


I was told that I'm too valuable to work the mechanical jobs.  I've worked various duties at Glide, and they all range in effort and lack of effort, there is no try only automatic movement.
       Glide is all about work and the different types of work involved in order to utilize efficiency to serve homeless community. Often shifting from one foot to another to pass the time (Phillip Levine).  When I started volunteering at Glide several months ago, I was assigned to the assembly line, Henry Ford was a purveyor of this system that used workers to systematically build model T's while simultaneously leaving his subservient's docile and alienated, hence the term "alienated labor" coined by Marx.  A total of eleven people work on the assembly line, sometimes ten that I've noticed.  Each person does two things except for the corner guy/girl. They all stand at a station facing each other with a transparent glass barrier in between. The first tray, and all subsequent trays, pass through every station to end up at the hands of the guest.  The initial tray begins at the inner side of the glass within the quartered section of the kitchen that houses the food section. The person at the head serves the main course, which is a choice of the regular default mash up or the vegetarian version of the mash up. I personally very much find it a luxury to have the choice of a meatless meal.  A choice of bread and vegetables is offered followed by salad and/or fruit; the tray is now half way home.  Next it's passed through the threshold and into the outer section of the glass facing the dining room progressively making its way back.  A plastic cup is added; water is the only beverage offered where one each table a pitcher full of it sits and is constantly being refilled by volunteers.  Beyond the cups, fruit is usually given, pear, apple, tangerine, orange, or watermelon are the most common, and we discard rotten fruit.  Next comes the salt and pepper packets, which for me was a tedious fucking job.  I'm reminded of one regular older lady who always works salt and pepper like her name is engraved on it.  I'm convinced she mastered the art of serving micro packets of elemental grains which helps make mass produced food more tolerable.  It's too bad they don't also offer habanero hot sauce.  They tray now journeys to the corner guy. This person, bless their heart, never adds anything to the food and instead maneuvers it beyond the 90 degree corner and onto the next person who completes the cycle by handing it to next hungry man or woman.  Each section has it's distinct purpose, and if one fails the goddamn plane crashes into the mountain.
      I want to digress on the function of corner person.  I'm almost certain that this position is the most mechanical job in the entire facility if one were to distinguish levels of mechanical aptitude.  The precise movement of the hands directing the tray of food to its adjacent destination requires minimal brain activity.  I use my brain more in my sleep, yet it's such an integral function within the whole equation that if it's omitted the entire operation would run much less smoothly like a screw that unfastens causing inefficiency and an epic headache.  Cogs in the system is what it is to the widest sense.  Passing down a tray is ridiculously easy for a cognitive person yet to build a machine to emulate this task would take an extraordinary amount of time, talent, money, and maintenance. All sorts of esoteric components make up the internal structure of an electrical device. How many computers have you built? Circuit boards, intricate wiring configurations, and computer chips are just some things to think about. And yet a human being can do this duty without so much as grasping with the hands the plastic plate and lightly nudging it along.  Now imagine doing this for eight hours a day or longer everyday for thirty years cooped up inside an automotive factory. That is how a human being is stripped of his/her mental faculties; that is how zombies are made.

Alone

Nirvana Unplugged

Jesus don't want me for a sunbeam


Alone in the world
Solitude a comfort
Hidden from the light's eye
Love an unknown addiction
Alcohol takes over
Live for today, die tomorrow
The memories remain to be a karmic solution
Beware the threat of complacency
The City will set you free