My news piece for Samurai Jack's next adventure was just published on thenerdstash.com. Check it out here.
Much love.
Saturday, February 29, 2020
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
The Joke
"Jesus!" I thought, and by even picturing what my commute would be for a job that didn't give a rat's ass about me. After four years at Columbia, I was more than accustomed to utilizing the public transportation, and also the scene of many bits I've transcribed onto this blog. Hundreds of hours have been spent on those trains and city buses - many characters, but not one as such as tedious, pointless, and emotionally aggravating as my one-month position of a busser of a privileged restaurant near the lake front. The nameless restaurant will be called The Joke for this piece, sense it seems very fitting, at least for me.
To make a short story even shorter, here's the narrative brass tacks for the sake of venting and time management. Through a friend, I was brought on the first day to bus tables during the summertime of 2019. I trained for a few days as both a runner and a busser, paid and everything, and then it was time to get the actual payroll a-comin'. For some supernatural/insane reasoning beyond my control, the hours were being piled in for the already existing employees while I was rewarded with one-day shifts. For these shifts, I would be cut by 10, done by 11, on the train by 11:30, and home between 1 and 2 in the morning. I wasn't given breaks, instructions on how to get meals, and was neglected by the servers like some new kid walking into school and all the other brats are questioning his presence. Mocked by other bussers, talked down below a social class radar I would assume from the managers (with the horrendous and ill-tempered General Manager never acknowledging me - only with directions and demands). They were nice when the shift would begin, and when I was cut. In one month, they told me I can look for another part-time job since business is slowing down, and very nicely to be exact. After that brief talk, they never gave me another shift. They kept sending me employee emails, but I didn't dare glance if my name wasn't on the schedule.
Also the head chef is definitely an Angelica from the Rugrats cartoons: whiny, bitchy, and just why does she keep yelling at her fellow cooks? Are all head chefs this foul and unnecessary? There was almost no respect and complete favoritism. At the previous restaurant, it was mostly respect and love among the crew. And I'm aware that not all restaurants are the same, but you don't have to make things more stressful than they already are. I'll name her Thorny Cunt, because despite being a cute brunette with attractive tattoos and an oftentimes steady personality, she was also a real thorny cunt.
Recently, in the cold, I traveled to the woods with Rosie, a companion of mine who was down to watch me torch my uniform and toss it into the river. The obvious vices were in hand, along with a mini portable speaker to say, "Bon voyage, you rat bastards!" to the beat and heart of various tunes. It didn't last long, only to be disappointed when the wind would interfere with my cheap pyrotechnics.
We both went home and I contemplated on my actions and the justification for them. They were almost pointless, just like my employment at The Joke. I imagined myself one day stumbling in there and going straight for the bar. Bartender asks what I want, I tell him/her/it that I want the best beer here and an order of fries, I've heard they're very tasty here! Walks away, puts in order, and I'll be in the mode of what I can do to cause mayhem there. I can say the beer tastes like asswater with soap, and I smash it against the ground and exclaim, "Are you trying to poison me, you drunken slime?!" I can comment on the fries being undercooked and start pretending to feel grossed out of my mind, telling the other customers they're being tested like animals and the chefs are high on heroin in the back - there's drips of lazy slick in the food, men in suits! I could go streaking to the back and search for that assjunkie busboy who mocked my cleaning skills, the moronic son of a gun. OR...I can step onto the deck with two water bottles in hand, screeching that, "I'm the king of the world! AHHHH!"
But these are merely figments of pure fiction only I can dream and write about. Wishful thinking? Perhaps? Joy of thinking of doing? Absolutely. One day I will visit The Joke, talk about my employment, and get super hammered because it's like pulling broken teeth when discussing small matters with these folks. But a final cheers to a damned job is the fitting end, at least for these humans. I like my imagination more than my reality sometimes, and I suppose that's the lesson I can take away from this. Obviously search for a better job and work on my mental muck as well, but what more can I ponder on something that brings both questions and frowns to my day?
To make a short story even shorter, here's the narrative brass tacks for the sake of venting and time management. Through a friend, I was brought on the first day to bus tables during the summertime of 2019. I trained for a few days as both a runner and a busser, paid and everything, and then it was time to get the actual payroll a-comin'. For some supernatural/insane reasoning beyond my control, the hours were being piled in for the already existing employees while I was rewarded with one-day shifts. For these shifts, I would be cut by 10, done by 11, on the train by 11:30, and home between 1 and 2 in the morning. I wasn't given breaks, instructions on how to get meals, and was neglected by the servers like some new kid walking into school and all the other brats are questioning his presence. Mocked by other bussers, talked down below a social class radar I would assume from the managers (with the horrendous and ill-tempered General Manager never acknowledging me - only with directions and demands). They were nice when the shift would begin, and when I was cut. In one month, they told me I can look for another part-time job since business is slowing down, and very nicely to be exact. After that brief talk, they never gave me another shift. They kept sending me employee emails, but I didn't dare glance if my name wasn't on the schedule.
Also the head chef is definitely an Angelica from the Rugrats cartoons: whiny, bitchy, and just why does she keep yelling at her fellow cooks? Are all head chefs this foul and unnecessary? There was almost no respect and complete favoritism. At the previous restaurant, it was mostly respect and love among the crew. And I'm aware that not all restaurants are the same, but you don't have to make things more stressful than they already are. I'll name her Thorny Cunt, because despite being a cute brunette with attractive tattoos and an oftentimes steady personality, she was also a real thorny cunt.
Recently, in the cold, I traveled to the woods with Rosie, a companion of mine who was down to watch me torch my uniform and toss it into the river. The obvious vices were in hand, along with a mini portable speaker to say, "Bon voyage, you rat bastards!" to the beat and heart of various tunes. It didn't last long, only to be disappointed when the wind would interfere with my cheap pyrotechnics.
We both went home and I contemplated on my actions and the justification for them. They were almost pointless, just like my employment at The Joke. I imagined myself one day stumbling in there and going straight for the bar. Bartender asks what I want, I tell him/her/it that I want the best beer here and an order of fries, I've heard they're very tasty here! Walks away, puts in order, and I'll be in the mode of what I can do to cause mayhem there. I can say the beer tastes like asswater with soap, and I smash it against the ground and exclaim, "Are you trying to poison me, you drunken slime?!" I can comment on the fries being undercooked and start pretending to feel grossed out of my mind, telling the other customers they're being tested like animals and the chefs are high on heroin in the back - there's drips of lazy slick in the food, men in suits! I could go streaking to the back and search for that assjunkie busboy who mocked my cleaning skills, the moronic son of a gun. OR...I can step onto the deck with two water bottles in hand, screeching that, "I'm the king of the world! AHHHH!"
But these are merely figments of pure fiction only I can dream and write about. Wishful thinking? Perhaps? Joy of thinking of doing? Absolutely. One day I will visit The Joke, talk about my employment, and get super hammered because it's like pulling broken teeth when discussing small matters with these folks. But a final cheers to a damned job is the fitting end, at least for these humans. I like my imagination more than my reality sometimes, and I suppose that's the lesson I can take away from this. Obviously search for a better job and work on my mental muck as well, but what more can I ponder on something that brings both questions and frowns to my day?
Friday, October 25, 2019
Lance on Wattpad
A creative movement I worked on back in my junior year college has been fully uploaded to Wattpad. I wrote it during a writer's block moment at a time where I needed to craft something for a grade. I can't recall what exactly inspired this particular piece, but it's nonetheless something that my peers might expect from me: weird stuff.
It's a short story about a young man who gets into a messy situation just by going to the wrong place at the wrong time. All four parts are up.
Enjoy, guys.
Much love.
https://www.wattpad.com/story/202649551-lance-or-ill-lit
It's a short story about a young man who gets into a messy situation just by going to the wrong place at the wrong time. All four parts are up.
Enjoy, guys.
Much love.
https://www.wattpad.com/story/202649551-lance-or-ill-lit
Saturday, October 12, 2019
For Marion
The news was merely delayed when I first heard about it. My mother wanted me to ask my ex why there were so many officers on site near her house, in close proximity to Nagle Avenue. I told her I would, soon discovering that it involved Marion-Mario Tahiraj, a former Taft classmate and cinematographer that I had the pleasure of knowing. I remember back when he brought a vape after getting busted for possession. We shared the brand new pen under the tables at the cafeteria, hoping that the pigs-in-training wouldn't notice our fatuous activities. There was also a time when we were in the same group for a massive history project. We filmed it, with Marion coordinating the camera, music, editing, and further touches to finalize the assignment. Our teacher, Plencner, rewarded us with a B, and to me it was an achievement since no one else was up for making a film in such short time.
After high school, like most of the bastards moving up to higher education, we went our separate ways in an amicable but unacknowledged fashion - we simply stopped talking, no drama in the mix.
College rolls by, breaks in-between, the usual collegiate route.
Then the 18th of January in 2016 comes by, my friend is killed in vehicular warfare with a tree, due to the intoxicated irresponsibility of Mishel Lame, both were admitted into the same hospital, where Marion was pronounced dead.
There's not much I say can about Marion, only that he was sincerely a great guy to be around with. And despite how many times I try to imitate Herbert's voice from Family Guy, Marion would always do it better.
Take it up with whomever is up there, dude.
Much love.
https://link.kikitime.com/post/78e1f1f8-1dbd-4a44-9a8a-e1b053a9eae3
Saturday, October 5, 2019
Heart-stopping Contact
Retrieved Post from Deleted GREAT AMERICAN TRAGEDY Blog, a blog I worked on back in early college.
Heart-stopping Contact
She said that she wanted to look into the storefront to stop for a while in
order to catch a breather. I didn't blame her, our lungs desperately needed a
break from all of the smoking that we shared.
The storefront showcased three mannequins with different attires, all within
the square of bright red to enclose the window's darkness by shoving it
away. Whoever was in the back walking from one end of the hallway to the
other was oblivious to our stance.
We didn't move much, only to keep our temporarily loose balance intact. But
as we stood in front of the window, I caught a glimpse of her
everlasting eyes as they stared into mine. I felt the world spinning still
for one quick second, I felt my heart stop for two, and the eye contact merely
lasted for three. Those three seconds. Those damn three seconds killed my high,
because I felt the intensity of instant love, yet I had to ignore it. I was
becoming scared of the notion of falling in love in again. Okay, perhaps not
scared; perhaps not in the mood or mindset for it. I tried to fight off the thought
for a while, but that wonderful image crept back into my mind for the remainder
of the night.
She smiled a little and then proceeded to advance our walk, away from the
storefront. I shook myself awake from the heart-stopping contact, given the
fact that I lost my breath, pulse, and heartbeat altogether.
And the worst thing is, she'll ask me if I'm okay, and I'll continue to lie,
like I always have.
Heart-stopping Contact - https://link.kikitime.com/post/44ef17ed-b62d-4d39-8bc7-feb588624d96
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