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.
Oh, I was very much of a piece with the joints themselves. It was one big motorcycle-riding, death rock family at that point. I did have a metermaid cart though.
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 glad you were not shot, unlike one of my high school teachers when he was working at one over the summer. Poor guy didn't make it, a sad outcome of the sad fact that his days of shitty jobs had to continue after he became a credentialed public school teacher.
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.
Hahaha, I know, what a dickish thing to say!
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.”
I worked mainly at Townsend but also floated around to DV8, 1015 Folsom, all the bigger clubs.
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!!!
Thanks for reading!
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.
Oh, I was very much of a piece with the joints themselves. It was one big motorcycle-riding, death rock family at that point. I did have a metermaid cart though.
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
Thank you Dr. Heintz!
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.
I miss you Mo D! Call me baby!
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 was born on OCTOBER 9, 1967. You do the math. I probably was 16 and not 15. I worked at the 7-11 for a while.
I'm glad you were not shot, unlike one of my high school teachers when he was working at one over the summer. Poor guy didn't make it, a sad outcome of the sad fact that his days of shitty jobs had to continue after he became a credentialed public school teacher.
I've done the math. At the point when Lennon died in December 1980 you were 13 years old.
Oh shit. OK, then, it was the anniversary of Lennon's death, but why the hell do you care so much?
Because I love your writing. I have your books, and have read all of your Critical Shopper, Salon and NYRB pieces. That's why.
Always good to get your viewpoint, Sir!
I appreciate you!