meet the new job, same as the old job

.

i've never talked much about what i do for a living, because at my age and level of education, i'm not particularly proud of it.

suffice it to say i'm sorta like a racehorse [or kobe steer, depending on your point of view]--i spend most of my so-called working day in luxuriantly idle pasture, surfing the internet or engaged in other similarly self-serving pursuits in anticipation of that moment when some million-dollar partner or other may [or may not, depending on the day] require my highly-specialized ass to drop everything and fly like the wind RIGHT NOW.

when that moment comes, i'm all-of-a-sudden extremely important--until the moment passes, and i'm relegated to the back burner once more.

*    *    *    *    *

it's a sweet deal on its face--good salary, 7-hour day and lots of perks.  top-tier medical, dental and vision plans are basically free, and there's the generous [by non-union standards, anyway] 401(k).

and then there's the little things:

the subzero on the right is constantly replenished with every variety of soft drink and bottled water imaginable

while the one on the left is mostly devoted to orange juice, lemonade and [three kinds of] milk--oh, and there's all the starbucks coffee you can swill, if you're into that sorta thing.

and every day at five, there's a spread laid out very much like this [although, sorry--you caught this one at the tail-end]:

fresh popcorn, lots of snacks, usually tons of other food all over the place.  lunch and dinner are always made available, delivered, from a variety of vendors.  and later, when you need to burn off all those calories

there's the fitness center, free to all employees

complete with lockers, showers and towel service.

[i.e., once you're in the building, they really don't want you to leave.]

 *   *    *    *    *

this week i billed a total of 8.75 hours, and put in maybe another 5 or 6 on general non-billables; the rest of my time was mine.

the week before was roughly similar, and if the past is any indication of the future, next week probably will be about the same.

*   *    *    *    *

back when i first fell into this line of work, i was thrilled beyond belief--great pay and perks for little effort and even less responsibility; what's not for a brilliant underachiever to like, right?

back then i couldn't for the life of me understand why all my well-paid co-workers constantly bitched about their jobs, but now i get the learned helplessness.

see, if you're good enough to do what we do, you're gonna get paid ridiculously well, enjoy short days and an extraordinarily easy working life for the entirety of your career...

and never go any higher.

understand, this isn't some sudden new realization on my part, and i've never, ever complained about the devil's bargain i knowingly struck so long ago.

of course--and just like them--back when i first started doing this shit i thought i'd only be in it a for a couple of years, too.

that gilded cage, it gets a little tight after awhile.

the other screamingly important thing i need to talk about tonight

.

his new schedule sucks, my new schedule sucks--what can i say, i miss my baby

[and yeah i am totally shitfaced and yeah i will totally deny i ever posted this tomorrow and yeah i can't wait to see you sunday night no matter how late it turns out to be what's your goddam point?]

semi-sober update:

(1) all things considered, the fact that i could even find and open photoshop, much less locate the three necessary pics, crop, re-size and competently combine them into the above image and subsequently upload same and triumphantly hit "publish" before stumbling off to bed is testament to...well, something.  and i demand points from the universe for this accomplishment, goddammit.


(2) getting home from my new job at 1:30 am and starting to drink is, i'm finding, materially different from getting home from my old job at 9:30 pm and starting to drink; in fact, you might call it an unsustainable trend.

let's talk about cordoba house a minute

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the thing i find most interesting about this story is that i'm just now finding out about it.

because it's been in the works for awhile, this thirteen-story monument to the religion of peace, proposed for a site in the shadow of ground zero, named for the 8th-century great mosque of cordoba which represented the previous pinnacle of islamic penetration into western civilization, and [although you'd be hard-pressed to discover this factoid in any of the current crop of stories circulating about this abomination] originally slated to open its doors on september 11, 2011.

the muslims are skillfully downplaying the whole thing:

For us, it's a symbol, a platform that will give voice to the silent majority of Muslims who suffer at the hands of extremists. A center will show that Muslims will be part of rebuilding lower Manhattan.

aided and abetted, of course, by the liberals--this choice quote from a commenter on the subject at joe.my.god:

actually, i couldn't narrow it down to just one--you gotta go read the whole thread--it's fuckin' priceless. and as you do, remember that these queer apologists for a religion which would happily put them to death for their perversions are the self-same self-righteous assholes who freely and viciously condemn american christians for beliefs that are a tenth as harsh [whatever--guess if you're brown and foreign, you're exempt from gay criticism].

is there any legal way to stop this madness?  i dunno, and that's not the goddam point.  the goddam POINT is, nobody's really tried--there has been no concerted, organized hue and cry from the general populace of the united states of america.  in fact, in one of the stories i came across tonight, i found the following poll:

notice how they qualified the "no" option--because that'd be the only possible reason any reasonable person could object, right?

think about that for a minute, and then ask yourself how your grandparents' generation would've reacted in 1950 had the japanese humbly sought to erect a monument to the rising sun anywhere within a thousand miles of pearl harbor, much less with a scheduled opening on the tenth anniversary thereof--keeping in mind, of course, that your grandparents had just fought the last war that america actually won.

for those of you who don't think the enemy are watching and carefully gauging the level of our fat, lazy indifference to their every encroachment, i just wanna say...

nah, fuck it--you deserve to go down.

because i live to make my friends feel better

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t__: hmmm
t__: i'm upset that i feel upset
mkf: what's upsetting you, my pet?
t__: well....i recently friended my ex on facebook
mkf: ok…
t__: and he fucking looks more hot than he did back then AND he has a hot bf
t__: so i felt...something...envy, bitterness...anger? maybe i dunno
mkf: the bastard--how dare he?
t__: and i was thinking to myself..well, WHY do i feel these things, is this saying something about my life?
mkf: look, that's pretty natural
t__: but I broke up with him
mkf: yep, and he was supposed to have withered on the vine ever since, having never gotten over you
mkf: he should be fat, despondent and alcoholic
t__: exactly
t__: bingo
mkf: oh wait--that's me
t__: noooo
t__: we never dated =P
mkf: well, if we HAD, you'd be very pleased at the way i've deteriorated
t__: thanks, i feel better now

not too bad, actually

.

on my way outta work tonight, dragging the last of my shit outta the communal fridge i spot the fresca, immediately flash to this guy, and grab a couple cans to go.

and lest you be tempted to question my choice of vodka--what can i say, sometimes you just gotta say cost be damned and go for the good stuff.

razor boy

i hear you are singing a song of the past
i see no tears
i know that you know it may be the last
for many years

what is it about this song that has haunted me from the first time i heard it back in high school?

maybe it's the arrangement--that cool, elegant juxtaposition of latin marimba and grand ole opry pedal steel that struck my virgin adolescent ears with such novelty and grace.

or maybe it's the words--steely dan's lyrics were always obscure, but this song is clearly all about the sorta stoic concession to loss which has been my specialty since childhood.

whatever--it's what came up on shuffle tonight at just the right point in order to become the inspiration for the sorta too-truthful drunken post which will cause sober-mkf to cringe tomorrow [another specialty of mine, in case you hadn't noticed].

the angry blogger, part 2

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anybody who drives faster than you is a maniac. anybody who drives slower than you is an asshole.

george carlin

there's this one spot on narrow, twisting benedict canyon drive--in fact, the only one--where i have a chance to pass all the slow-moving assholes god has chosen to scatter in my path that day, and thus have a shot at making it to work on time. but only if the timing's right, and i have the balls.

and i always have the balls.

it works like this: if the light turns red at clear view as i round the bend, i don't hesitate, knowing that this is god's freebie to me that day.

as everyone ahead of me obediently slows to a stop, i slip into the always-empty left-turn lane and accelerate, trusting that by the time i pull abreast of the lead car at full speed, god will have turned the short light from red to green, thus allowing me, his chosen one, to spurt like greased lightning between whatever slow-ass motherfucker(s) he has cunningly placed ahead of me and whoever he has arranged to have coming at me in the other direction.

everybody honks [and it always scares the shit outta v when he's with me] but god and i don't care--we're too deep in the game.

* * * * *

i know i'm supposed to be agnostic, and i usually am--except whenever i get behind the wheel and prepare to do battle with a great and mischievous almighty whom i am convinced not only exists, but is playing against me by placing slow-moving, obstructive (and often erratically asian) motorized obstacles in my path whenever i attempt to make my single-minded way from point a to point b.

[and yes of course i realize this makes me the star of my own truman show--what's your goddam point?]

* * * * *

i have a great and very forgiving job, the exception being that if i'm late more than three times a month, there are serious and material consequences.

in the hands of any sensible, rational driver, my commute would take at least 40 minutes, which is probably why i rarely if ever manage to make it outta the house with more than 35 minutes to spare.

* * * * *

once outta benedict canyon, it's two lanes and i'm in my element--i slalom down third street around the slow-movers all the way from beverly hills to downtown with all the precision, arrogance and grace of an olympic skier--each car that pulls out in front of me at 20 mph a challenge, each barely-made stoplight a triumph.

of course by the time i pull into the parking garage at work i'm red-faced and seething, fists bruised from pounding the steering wheel, hoarse from screaming at all the slow-moving assholes and with visible veins pulsing in my temples--but by god, i usually make it.

could i leave home five minutes earlier? yeah i suppose, but what fun would that be?

_________________

this post was supposed to have fallen somewhere between this one and this one--don't ask me why i didn't hit "publish" way back when [because god knows i've proudly published worse].