I’m an ESL teacher in New York City and was recently told that I was being “terminated” for speaking Spanish in my English class. I said loudly “Hasta la vista baby and I’ll be back!” to my boss, who alerted the security guard.
While the world needs you as a writer, I submit that you are NOT untalented at non-writing gigs--as your DIY pharma rep Jäegermeister character demonstrates. (I wonder which clubs you worked at and if I might’ve ever seen you.) But thanks for the pro tip: avoid gigs whose key requirement is “pizzazz.”
The specificity of this piece transported me to my series of crappy non-artist jobs that polluted my twenties! Ha. Why are there so many horrific ways to make money? Thank you!!!
I’m not going to be as prolific as Jonathan Kieran on my comment. It’s just not in me. I’ll say: wild. Insane. Unique. Polar opposite of my experiences at 15 in 1980 which - own-horn-tootin’ - I’m drafting now. Thank you for sharing the stories.
Hahahaaa, the cocaine employers! My cocaine employer story: it was a restaurant, the kind that keeps the condiments on the tables; I was a bartender (who, incidentally, salutes you on your brilliant Jagermeister ploy). One day the owner came in right before we opened and -- mottle-faced and shaking with rage -- screamed at the head waitress, "Those mustard jars are all TOO FULL! I want you to go around & take a tablespoon of mustard out of every. single. one. of them RIGHT NOW!!"
It seems every shitty job has its moment of bliss or triumph, even if it’s just exacting a modicum of revenge. When I was a UPS driver’s assistant, I was chased by various breeds of enraged canines the full length of rural Carmel Valley driveways every damn day with only clipboard-fu to save my brown jumpsuited ass. But I got to talk to Doris Day. Over her gate intercom. * psssht * “Leave it at the gate” * psssht * I figure I broke even.
Nice piece, although if you were 15 when you worked at 7-11, and you gave away a six-pack when Lennon died (1980) that would make you born in 1965 not 1967 as stated on your Wiki page.
I’m an ESL teacher in New York City and was recently told that I was being “terminated” for speaking Spanish in my English class. I said loudly “Hasta la vista baby and I’ll be back!” to my boss, who alerted the security guard.
While the world needs you as a writer, I submit that you are NOT untalented at non-writing gigs--as your DIY pharma rep Jäegermeister character demonstrates. (I wonder which clubs you worked at and if I might’ve ever seen you.) But thanks for the pro tip: avoid gigs whose key requirement is “pizzazz.”
The specificity of this piece transported me to my series of crappy non-artist jobs that polluted my twenties! Ha. Why are there so many horrific ways to make money? Thank you!!!
I’m not going to be as prolific as Jonathan Kieran on my comment. It’s just not in me. I’ll say: wild. Insane. Unique. Polar opposite of my experiences at 15 in 1980 which - own-horn-tootin’ - I’m drafting now. Thank you for sharing the stories.
Ok, I definitely went to DV8 and 1015 Folsom a couple of times. I’m sure you classed up the joints.
It ain't never Copasetic having a SLAVE U dont like. Butt U gotta...Meanwhile, I'm here for these kinda literary drops.
What a marvelous essay. It was just so funny. You were on my favorite kind of writer, able to talk about the tragic with just such droll wit
Hahahaaa, the cocaine employers! My cocaine employer story: it was a restaurant, the kind that keeps the condiments on the tables; I was a bartender (who, incidentally, salutes you on your brilliant Jagermeister ploy). One day the owner came in right before we opened and -- mottle-faced and shaking with rage -- screamed at the head waitress, "Those mustard jars are all TOO FULL! I want you to go around & take a tablespoon of mustard out of every. single. one. of them RIGHT NOW!!"
I loved your Jager-boldness! This operation appears in my memoir as well. Love you Cinch.
living for the glimmer on that taffeta
It seems every shitty job has its moment of bliss or triumph, even if it’s just exacting a modicum of revenge. When I was a UPS driver’s assistant, I was chased by various breeds of enraged canines the full length of rural Carmel Valley driveways every damn day with only clipboard-fu to save my brown jumpsuited ass. But I got to talk to Doris Day. Over her gate intercom. * psssht * “Leave it at the gate” * psssht * I figure I broke even.
Nice piece, although if you were 15 when you worked at 7-11, and you gave away a six-pack when Lennon died (1980) that would make you born in 1965 not 1967 as stated on your Wiki page.