I lost the job with the library. I can understand that my availability isn’t enough; I am only available three days a week. There was a possible compromise, and it had been discussed previously (“discussed” being defined as “you said it, but we decided your ideas are poo-poo pants before you walked in here”), but they would rather not continue with me in the library. There is a “new direction” the temporary directors want to take the program, and it is not compatible with how I think the program should go. They want to “challenge the children” with tasks and activities, “to better serve the needs of the children.”
Interesting, since these two weren’t ever even in the room with the children, have never spoken to them, or even generated a survey to find out what they need. These are the people who disliked the idea of my calling the children “my kids.” I guess being enthusiastic and proud of my job weren’t in their definition of a good coordinator.
Without observing the program, without talking to the kids, without any experience whatsoever concerning the program, they have decided that it isn’t good enough. So, what I gather from this is that W. and his current administration will have a future in the library arts and sciences, should they escape prison charges.
Fuck, now I have to update the bio information.
The job in Hell is my only employment. How I am keeping a noose from around my neck is beyond me.
-Zeepdoggie
31 July 2007
25 July 2007
An Addendum
An addendum to the previous blog: someone asked me if anyone at the library had access to my blog, and I said that one or two people might know about it. It was pointed out that this might hurt my chances of getting my job back. My response was thus:
Fuck it.
I don’t write this blog for a job, or to satisfy other people. It is done, solely, to satisfy me. I am not going to censor what I write in case it may upset someone who reads it. I write it to get stuff out of me that is better off not spinning around in my head, but exposed in some way. I can’t afford the therapy that someone said I needed; but I can afford this. Better out than in, as Shrek said.
This blog is my practice pad, my counselor’s couch, my stage and my shield. It is my connection to my friends and a way to let those who want to know what is up. But it is mine, and if it bugs you, then there’s more than just a passing reason for it.
I stand behind, before, and beside anything I have ever written here, because it had a validity and truth to it when I wrote it. May my feelings change? Of course they might. But that doesn’t invalidate them. Think on what Emerson said about consistency of thought:
“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.” (read the rest after for some really good stuff; and what is before it isn’t so bad, either.)
If this blog costs me a job, then it was a job I was bitching about, and therefore losing it might be seen as a blessing. The library thing was satisfying. But if the program is going to change into something that serves the library more than it serves my kids, then they can go to hell.
-Zeepdoggie
Fuck it.
I don’t write this blog for a job, or to satisfy other people. It is done, solely, to satisfy me. I am not going to censor what I write in case it may upset someone who reads it. I write it to get stuff out of me that is better off not spinning around in my head, but exposed in some way. I can’t afford the therapy that someone said I needed; but I can afford this. Better out than in, as Shrek said.
This blog is my practice pad, my counselor’s couch, my stage and my shield. It is my connection to my friends and a way to let those who want to know what is up. But it is mine, and if it bugs you, then there’s more than just a passing reason for it.
I stand behind, before, and beside anything I have ever written here, because it had a validity and truth to it when I wrote it. May my feelings change? Of course they might. But that doesn’t invalidate them. Think on what Emerson said about consistency of thought:
“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.” (read the rest after for some really good stuff; and what is before it isn’t so bad, either.)
If this blog costs me a job, then it was a job I was bitching about, and therefore losing it might be seen as a blessing. The library thing was satisfying. But if the program is going to change into something that serves the library more than it serves my kids, then they can go to hell.
-Zeepdoggie
24 July 2007
I'm Working Something Out
Fuck the library. Fuck the new boss. Fuck the old boss for being so cool and setting me up for disappointment. Fuck passive aggression and cowardice; just tell me if I have a job or not. Fuck the first job I had a positive emotional attachment to. Fuck working with women. Fuck working for women. Fuck my former co-workers. Better yet, don't. May the men avoid them as though their twats had teeth. Fuck them for wanting to fuck over MY kids. Fuck the people who think lying to kids is better than being honest with them. Fuck them for not listening to kids. Fuck that community, overripe with stagnation; a perfect example of a cold death universe; frozen in social entropy; the town that time forgot. Fuck my kids for being so great that I will miss them every day I am not working with them.
Fuck you if you think I am talking about you; if you think that, ask yourself why.
Fuck me for thinking that it would be all right. Fuck me for caring about my job. Fuck me for believing that those working there would want to do better by the kids. Fuck the pride I felt helping my kids with homework, with video games, with whatever I could help them with. Fuck me for remembering their birthdays when their parents forgot. Fuck me for trying to make a difference; fuck me for succeeding.
Fuck hope.
-Fuck Zeepdoggie
Fuck you if you think I am talking about you; if you think that, ask yourself why.
Fuck me for thinking that it would be all right. Fuck me for caring about my job. Fuck me for believing that those working there would want to do better by the kids. Fuck the pride I felt helping my kids with homework, with video games, with whatever I could help them with. Fuck me for remembering their birthdays when their parents forgot. Fuck me for trying to make a difference; fuck me for succeeding.
Fuck hope.
-Fuck Zeepdoggie
12 July 2007
Random Musings from Hell
On Sunday, during the floorset, I suffered what I think is a unique injury. While doing a rather complicated push-up involving an escalator and a steel bar, I do believe I strained my taint.
People ask me for directions all the time; sometimes I feel like being helpful, and sometimes I don't. When someone walks in to ask me for directions to the store kitty-corner to us, which is also a competitor, I cannot help but fuck with them. "Excuse me, but how do I get to (your competition)?"
"Oh, well, you head west down this street, and then, when you reach the next intersection, make a left. Head down the next two intersections, and make a left there, but stay on the same side of the street! Next, walk two blocks toward the Lake, and at that light, make a left. Then walk two blocks with the Lake on your right-hand side (that's east!), and make a left on the next corner. It should be at the end of that block, on the corner!"
"Thanks!"
"Do you need me to write that down for you?"
"No, I think I can remember it."
"Okay. Have a great day. I know I will!" Especially when I look across the street fifteen minutes later and see the dawn of realization on their faces.
Here's a tip, shopper. If you want directions to a store's competitor, don't just ask an employee of the store. Sure, I hate my job and a good portion of the products suck, but I take pride in what I do, and I am not alone. If you just come in asking me for directions, don't expect me, or any other retail person who gets paid by what they can sell, to be helpful. It would be like me asking you for the address of the person your significant other would rather be fucking. Now, if you come in, browse, ask for help and we just don't have what you are looking for, then I am generally happy to tell you where to go, with proper directions and everything. I can be a nice guy, but give me a reason to go against my common nature first.
I love how the whole operation just goes to shit when there's someone to impress around. Normally, we are a successful store, but when someone higher up the food chain shows up, the entire management team just loses all confidence in their and our ability to do what we do every day. Me, I ignore it. This muckity-muck is so much less important than an admiral, and I have cut wise to two of those without being busted back in rank, or even significantly yelled at. I just do what I always do; ignore the management, help the customers who look like they might actually buy something, and do the co-worker-harassment thing. Whenever I'm going to be working with people who are my boss, I always think the same thing: We all jerk off, and we all make stupid faces when we come. Seriously, next time you crank one out, just go and check yourself out in the mirror. Or film yourself, if the equipment is just laying around. You'll laugh for a week.
-Zeepdoggie
People ask me for directions all the time; sometimes I feel like being helpful, and sometimes I don't. When someone walks in to ask me for directions to the store kitty-corner to us, which is also a competitor, I cannot help but fuck with them. "Excuse me, but how do I get to (your competition)?"
"Oh, well, you head west down this street, and then, when you reach the next intersection, make a left. Head down the next two intersections, and make a left there, but stay on the same side of the street! Next, walk two blocks toward the Lake, and at that light, make a left. Then walk two blocks with the Lake on your right-hand side (that's east!), and make a left on the next corner. It should be at the end of that block, on the corner!"
"Thanks!"
"Do you need me to write that down for you?"
"No, I think I can remember it."
"Okay. Have a great day. I know I will!" Especially when I look across the street fifteen minutes later and see the dawn of realization on their faces.
Here's a tip, shopper. If you want directions to a store's competitor, don't just ask an employee of the store. Sure, I hate my job and a good portion of the products suck, but I take pride in what I do, and I am not alone. If you just come in asking me for directions, don't expect me, or any other retail person who gets paid by what they can sell, to be helpful. It would be like me asking you for the address of the person your significant other would rather be fucking. Now, if you come in, browse, ask for help and we just don't have what you are looking for, then I am generally happy to tell you where to go, with proper directions and everything. I can be a nice guy, but give me a reason to go against my common nature first.
I love how the whole operation just goes to shit when there's someone to impress around. Normally, we are a successful store, but when someone higher up the food chain shows up, the entire management team just loses all confidence in their and our ability to do what we do every day. Me, I ignore it. This muckity-muck is so much less important than an admiral, and I have cut wise to two of those without being busted back in rank, or even significantly yelled at. I just do what I always do; ignore the management, help the customers who look like they might actually buy something, and do the co-worker-harassment thing. Whenever I'm going to be working with people who are my boss, I always think the same thing: We all jerk off, and we all make stupid faces when we come. Seriously, next time you crank one out, just go and check yourself out in the mirror. Or film yourself, if the equipment is just laying around. You'll laugh for a week.
-Zeepdoggie
11 July 2007
A Possible Beginning
“This isn’t over; don’t think it is. It won’t end until I’m drinking from your heart.”
He sat before me as he said this, his long legs in front of him, hooked together at the ankles, the smooth black leather of his boots matching his poppy-black eyes.
The threat flowed from his mouth so incidentally that I didn’t even hear it. I’m a good listener, especially when I’m with someone I hate, but he was so relaxed, his demeanor flowed like oil from him. His arms were resting on the back of the bench, so I could see the emptiness of his short sleeves in that ugly, oversized brown bowling shirt. One button too many were undone, so I could see the border of tanned flesh and blue-veined chicken skin.
We had a history, long, dark and ugly, going back to Basic. But I figured, after last year, after what he took and who I killed, we were even. Or at least done.
It’s not like I’ve never been wrong before.
“So no truce?” I ask.
“What do you think?” he asks, and I get annoyed. It drove me nuts when someone would answer a question with a question. Be truthful, lie, be a smartass, whatever; just answer the fucking question!
“Did you hear me?” he asked, still just as casual as a Sunday out of church.
I hate it when it gets personal. It bodes poorly for business. And feelings get hurt, at the very least.
-Zeepdoggie
He sat before me as he said this, his long legs in front of him, hooked together at the ankles, the smooth black leather of his boots matching his poppy-black eyes.
The threat flowed from his mouth so incidentally that I didn’t even hear it. I’m a good listener, especially when I’m with someone I hate, but he was so relaxed, his demeanor flowed like oil from him. His arms were resting on the back of the bench, so I could see the emptiness of his short sleeves in that ugly, oversized brown bowling shirt. One button too many were undone, so I could see the border of tanned flesh and blue-veined chicken skin.
We had a history, long, dark and ugly, going back to Basic. But I figured, after last year, after what he took and who I killed, we were even. Or at least done.
It’s not like I’ve never been wrong before.
“So no truce?” I ask.
“What do you think?” he asks, and I get annoyed. It drove me nuts when someone would answer a question with a question. Be truthful, lie, be a smartass, whatever; just answer the fucking question!
“Did you hear me?” he asked, still just as casual as a Sunday out of church.
I hate it when it gets personal. It bodes poorly for business. And feelings get hurt, at the very least.
-Zeepdoggie
10 July 2007
I am so tired, I can't feel my teeth. I did a floor set at Hell, which was fun, but it has to be done when the store is closed. We worked from 1800-0300, and I didn't get home until 0430, and barely fell asleep at five. I haven't actually recovered yet; I played hooky, didn't go to class, and basically sat around, tuning some little things on Sylvie, researching a new bike for the winter, and fighting hard to not take a nap or fall asleep. Now, I am at the point where I am overtired. I keep missing the shift key, which makes me want to go at this all e. e. cummings style. no caps, just let the writing flow.
i've been trying to help someone buy a bike recently, and that's going like pulling teeth. maybe she doesn't really want a bike.
a lot of people i know have babies. i always wanted a big family, lots of sons, a few daughters. i haven't been with a woman who i would inflict my kid on in a long time. i don't think i could be a dad anyway; i am a 32 year old boy who only has examples of what not to do as a dad to go by.
this entry really sucks. i'll post it anyway, but it still blows. i hope you didn't get this far with the reading and all. i really hope you quit right after the teeth thing.
i just want to quit.
-zeepdoggie
i've been trying to help someone buy a bike recently, and that's going like pulling teeth. maybe she doesn't really want a bike.
a lot of people i know have babies. i always wanted a big family, lots of sons, a few daughters. i haven't been with a woman who i would inflict my kid on in a long time. i don't think i could be a dad anyway; i am a 32 year old boy who only has examples of what not to do as a dad to go by.
this entry really sucks. i'll post it anyway, but it still blows. i hope you didn't get this far with the reading and all. i really hope you quit right after the teeth thing.
i just want to quit.
-zeepdoggie
05 July 2007
What Train?
Asshole and I went to the 3rd of July fireworks, a long-standing tradition of ours that stretches back to when we were in high school, around the time that Marco Polo first brought gunpowder back to the western world. Sometimes, that’s how old I feel.
The fireworks were okay; it’s not an election year, so Richard II doesn’t spend as much money (usually four times as much). But we met up with some friends of Asshole’s, one co-worker and her friend, who is from Israel and did serve in the IDF. That is much cooler than any fireworks I have seen in a long time! Any thug gangsta out there, from any shitty, destroyed neighborhood in any inner city rife with violence and corruption is a total, utter pussy to any grandma living in Israel, especially if she’s a Sabra.
The night progressed; we had some drinks in a local pub, the Wabash Tap, in order to get out of the rain and let the mass transit crowd thin out. Eventually it did, and we said goodbye to our new friends and hopped on the Green Line; Asshole wanted the company on the train and offered to give me a ride home. Fuckin’ fraidy cat…
The conductor we had was hilarious! Every stop, he would inform the passengers and those waiting on the platform that it was a “Green Line Train to Harlem and Lake,” a minimum of seven times. He had to do this for two reasons: the signs on the train were stuck, displaying everything from purple to green to yellow lines (speaking of which, if the CTA really wants to save money, it should just dump the Skokie Swift; like, ten people ride it; get on Metra!); the second reason was for idiot dipshits who can’t (or won’t) listen, much like the example I will now put forth. We pull into the State/Lake stop, and the driver starts his mantra, along with some nice little inclusions, like “Ignore what the signs say, this is a Green Line train; it is NOT a Purple or Yellow or Brown Line train. It is a Green Line train; not a Purple line train.” The doors are open for several minutes while he’s letting people know. While the doors to our car are open, and during the conductor’s monologue, this utterly stupid, white man has been staring at the train, at the signs, inside the doors, looking completely bewildered. After the third iteration on the conductor’s message has been broadcast, Dipshit (who is wearing a polo that is sold at Hell) asks us, “Is this a Purple Line train?” Asshole and I just start laughing; everyone else stares at this guy like stupid is contagious. The doors shut before I could say, “Sure is! Hop on!”
What is this paranormal power white people have when it comes to ignoring what could be considered “the help?” When I am greeting, some of the things I say to white customers goes completely unheeded: when I wish them tumors; when I observe that sucking cock does make one deaf (must be all the changes in internal head pressure or something); that fools will buy anything; and so on. But if I tried to slide one of these past someone who actually cleans their own home, I’d get my pee-pee spanked.
Will someone who is rich and white explain this to me? I f I were you, I’d pay attention to what the “little people” are saying. How many figurative (and literal) Bastille’s must be stormed before the rich learn to fear and respect those “below” them?
I love it when a blog gets away from me.
-Zeepdoggie
The fireworks were okay; it’s not an election year, so Richard II doesn’t spend as much money (usually four times as much). But we met up with some friends of Asshole’s, one co-worker and her friend, who is from Israel and did serve in the IDF. That is much cooler than any fireworks I have seen in a long time! Any thug gangsta out there, from any shitty, destroyed neighborhood in any inner city rife with violence and corruption is a total, utter pussy to any grandma living in Israel, especially if she’s a Sabra.
The night progressed; we had some drinks in a local pub, the Wabash Tap, in order to get out of the rain and let the mass transit crowd thin out. Eventually it did, and we said goodbye to our new friends and hopped on the Green Line; Asshole wanted the company on the train and offered to give me a ride home. Fuckin’ fraidy cat…
The conductor we had was hilarious! Every stop, he would inform the passengers and those waiting on the platform that it was a “Green Line Train to Harlem and Lake,” a minimum of seven times. He had to do this for two reasons: the signs on the train were stuck, displaying everything from purple to green to yellow lines (speaking of which, if the CTA really wants to save money, it should just dump the Skokie Swift; like, ten people ride it; get on Metra!); the second reason was for idiot dipshits who can’t (or won’t) listen, much like the example I will now put forth. We pull into the State/Lake stop, and the driver starts his mantra, along with some nice little inclusions, like “Ignore what the signs say, this is a Green Line train; it is NOT a Purple or Yellow or Brown Line train. It is a Green Line train; not a Purple line train.” The doors are open for several minutes while he’s letting people know. While the doors to our car are open, and during the conductor’s monologue, this utterly stupid, white man has been staring at the train, at the signs, inside the doors, looking completely bewildered. After the third iteration on the conductor’s message has been broadcast, Dipshit (who is wearing a polo that is sold at Hell) asks us, “Is this a Purple Line train?” Asshole and I just start laughing; everyone else stares at this guy like stupid is contagious. The doors shut before I could say, “Sure is! Hop on!”
What is this paranormal power white people have when it comes to ignoring what could be considered “the help?” When I am greeting, some of the things I say to white customers goes completely unheeded: when I wish them tumors; when I observe that sucking cock does make one deaf (must be all the changes in internal head pressure or something); that fools will buy anything; and so on. But if I tried to slide one of these past someone who actually cleans their own home, I’d get my pee-pee spanked.
Will someone who is rich and white explain this to me? I f I were you, I’d pay attention to what the “little people” are saying. How many figurative (and literal) Bastille’s must be stormed before the rich learn to fear and respect those “below” them?
I love it when a blog gets away from me.
-Zeepdoggie
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