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?
Monday, September 23, 2013
Monday, September 16, 2013
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.
"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.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
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....
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