I was looking for a job, and then I (didn't) found (find) a job.

I'm in a restaurant on the northwest side of Chicago. I say that, but I can't be sure. I haven't lived in the city long enough to say anything with much confidence as far as geography is concerned. I do know that the unopened Italian restaurant's kitchen, in which I am standing, alone, frantically shoving a three pound ball of unusable flour, salt, brown sugar, and water into a giant black trashbag hanging from the side of a storage shelf, is a good three miles north of my apartment. But it's also a good three miles east. But, I'll still stick with saying it's in the northwest sector of the city, because my house is "way west," as it's described by my friends that live here.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. The ruse had been set up perfectly, and the plan was fully laid out, even written out in pen on an old sheet of notebook paper folded neatly in my back pocket. I would come in, make some dough, make a pizza, shove it down the owners' throats, then sit back and collect my paycheck for a month before having to quit and leave for tour. And at a job that was slated to pay 50K/year, that would've been one hefty check. I don't know how much, but the word hefty keeps springing to mind.

The problem is that the interview went too well. Sometimes, in situations of dire awkwardness, rather than clamming up and shutting down, I turn on the charm, extra charmy. There's no rhyme or reason to this peculiar trait of mine, and I cannot control when it may show itself. Of course, there have been many occasions that I have wished for it to come to my aid, to no avail. For instance. In this particular situation, though, I can only attribute it to the fact that I am new to the city, desperate for a job, and willing to do almost anything to achieve what seems to be, at this point, a week and a half into my search, a nearly insurmountable task.

I showed up to this address in response to an ad on Craig's List. The ad mentioned ever so casually that this Italian restaurant was looking for pizza cooks who had experience with hand tossed dough. "No problem," I thought, seeing as how every pizza place I've ever worked at (which admittedly is only two) used hand tossed dough exclusively. There is no doubt that I have tossed more than my share of pizza dough into the air with my hands. This was a shoo-in, a no brainer; it was any number of bad cliches about the ease of doing something. This was a slam-dunk-sure-thing-hole-in-one-lonely-50-year-old-woman-at-the-bar. What?

It wasn't easy finding the place. When I finally did locate the building, directly across the street from an aging cemetary that I learned had been there since this area was still considered the suburbs, I realized that the reason it was so hard to locate was because there were two giant mounds of dirt and a bulldozer right in front of the building. I used this as my excuse for being late as I walked in the door to meet the owner, though that wasn't true at all. I was just late. Instead of being met with the low chatter and clinking forks and glasses of a lunchtime bustle, I saw dust hanging lazily in the rays of sun that barely penetrated plate glass windows that were butcher papered over, protecting them from the layer of fresh maroon paint that had just been applied, if smell was any indication.

This was not a good sign. I was looking for a job that I could start immediately. However, I'd driven all the way over, and the owner, whose name I'll change here- let's call him... Jum- was extremely affable, and, as Digable Planets said, the vibe here was very pleasant, so I decided to see this situation to its ultimate conclusion, whatever that could be.

Jum and I were alone in this fairly sizable restaurant, and we sat at a small table in the middle of the room. He explained to me that they were putting the finishing touches on the place, and hoped to be open sometime in October. The bulldozer outside, he said, was in the process of fixing their water line, which had been damaged and never repaired by the building's owner. He also "explained a little bit about the job," you know, like every hiring manager says.

In addition to bartenders and servers, I realized all too quickly that the job I was applying for was not "pizza cook," but instead, "Master Pizza Chef." My foot tapped out code on the tile floor while I filled out the application(Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here. -stop- Now. -stop- ). Jum sat across from me in silence while I hurriedly scribbled out the banal information that no one ever looks at. He must have sensed the strangeness of the situation, too, because at some point he told me not to worry about the question and answer part of the application ("What is Customer Service?).

We then began a fairly lengthy discussion about pizza that really should never happen anywhere. It's moments 15 minutes into a tangent on the crispiness of pizza dough that put your life into perspective. But, like I said, it went too well. If there's one thing I can do really well, apparently it's convincing a new restaurant owner that I know way more about the craft of pizza making than I really do. This is why at the end of the interview he asked me to come in next week to cook for him and the other owners. "Shit," I thought. "Sure!," I said.

_____________________

The thing is, I do know the difference between ounces and fluid ounces. One measures volume and one measures weight. Today, one hour into my very own two hour, special dough recipe that I did not retrieve from the internet at 2:30 a.m. last night, drunk, I become terrifyingly aware that I do not know the difference between ounces and fluid ounces. I realize one hour into my very own two hour, special dough recipe that I did not retrieve from the internet at 2:30 a.m. last night, drunk, that the reason my dough is so sticky and grossly unmanageable is that, instead of measuring out 29.5 ounces of high quality, more expensive than necessary flour, I only measured out 29.5 fluid ounces of the stupid shit. In actuality, I'm the stupid shit.

An audible "Fuck!" passes my lips, and though we are separated by a giant kitchen door with a plexiglass window and about thirty yards, I can sense the owners, Jum and... Noncy (a late arrival, the full blooded Italian of the bunch- I know she can smell floundering) turning to look in my direction. Determined to waste as many expensive, fresh ingredients as possible, and to satisfy my own mind, which keeps telling me, somewhere back there, that this project can still be salvaged ("Nothing's fucked here, dude."), I furiously measure out the additional 3 1/2 cups of flour I initially shorted my amazing recipe and add it in to the stainless steel mixing bowl, and begin the process of suffocating the already gasping dough. When that doesn't fix it immediately, I rush to the sink and dump scalding water into the bowl, and start kneading the doomed mixture like a kitten on a head full of coke, burning my hands in the process.

Were there a military man behind me to gently rest his hand on my shoulder and say, "He's already dead, son," I may not have tried for as long as I did to resuscitate my dreams for a high paying job, but no such apparition appears, so it isn't until five minutes later, when hard chunks of the original dough began to flake off and mix with the milky mess of the "new" dough that I realize I am finished. I briefly toy with the idea of bolting out of the restaurant with the expensive fresh mozzerella and this really nice knife they've provided me with until I realize I put my real address on the application.

I have just scooped out the gory mess into the trashbag and am washing the bowl which gave birth to the hellish creation when Jum comes into the kitchen, and, as if sensing something wrong, asks, "How's it going? Is the dough coming along alright?"

As I turn to face him, a piece of dough, at once both hard as glass and runny as phlegm, falls from its perch on my now ruined shirt and plops onto the floor. Our eyes fix there, just for a moment, then meet.

Your eyes. Chapter One.

"You don't want to see this," your eyes say. This is the reason your eyes give for not allowing you to roll them back into the cavernous recesses of your skull. "You wouldn't want to see what's back here."

Your eyes have become quite presumptuous of late.

Your eyes say, "Look over here," and so you do. They ask if you would like to see something unimaginable, and you nod in affirmation. You realize the question is merely a courtesy, since you have no control over where they direct your vision, anyhow.

Presently, they are showing you a dusty keyboard covered in a thin layer of dog hair (likely a short-haired breed), red clay dirt, and old rice. You assume the keyboard is attached to an ancient computer from days past and an overweight, yawning monitor, bearing forgotten images of spreadsheets and outdated resumes forever on its unlit screen, together with a ceaselessly blinking rectangle of lime green light in the top left corner. But, it is impossible to be sure at this moment, since your eyes are insistent on keenly noting every detail of the keyboard.

Your eyes ask if you remember the password, but, before even waiting for an answer, quickly rattle back and forth from left to right, as if shrugging off a dumb question, sighing. This unexpected motion leaves you momentarily dizzy as the keyboard swims back into focus.

"I'll just do it," your eyes say.

Sometimes at night you are awoken by your eyes' movement inside your head, their chaotic rustling and shuffling jarring you from peaceful rest. You attempt to look in on them- not to reprimand, but simply to get an idea of just what it is they are doing. This never works. Your eyes force the lids back down over themselves and wait, still and silent, until the rest of your body falls instinctually back to sleep.

Other nights, you awake to an inky darkness unlike any you have ever experienced. Your eyes are immeasurably quiet, and, although you know what has happened, it takes your reaching up with tired hands to touch the gaping sockets before you are roused out of slumber enough to realize that your eyes are gone again. Each time this occurs you are at once frightened and furious, and you bound out of bed with vast intent, until you realize the futility of beginning a frenzied manhunt for your eyes without the aid of the eyes themselves. It is a delicate, confusing situation that causes much angst.

Defeated, you sink back into bed and either stare at the ceiling or close your eyelids over that which is not there. You are not sure. You clutch a sweaty pillow and wait for sleep, for your eyes.

NOW you see what happens when nothing happens.

I'm back. I'm back. I will start posting blogs again. No longer will I be checking statcounter.com to see who's viewing my blog, nor will I be responding to comments left on this fucking blog. Furthermore, I will not speak to you about blog postings at the bar, at dinner, or at work. I do not want to talk to you about my blog postings. I do not want to know that you are reading this. I want only to know that you are reading this. Please do not speak or write to me about this blog. I cannot talk about it, or recognize any inference that you are aware of it.

I mean no offense to anyone, especially as the only people that are reading it are people that I truly care about, but I cannot write honestly and with my normal devil-may-care attitude if I know that I might have to explain myself, laugh about something, or reiterate a point about a previous post at a later date. I just can't do it.

Ever since my aunt gave me an article to read over Christmas that had something to do with Time or People awarding 'Person of the Year' to YOU, the blogger (complete with a mirror on the cover of the magazine), I have been utterly disgusted by whatever it is that calls itself the blogosphere. I mean, I haven't even been able to read my sister's blog. And I love that blog, you assholes! I want nothing to do with it, and yet, here I am.

I have many things, DAILY, I mean, are you kidding, HOURLY, that I want to talk shit about, but I just don't want to literally talk about them. That's why I write about it here. Please, PLEASE, just don't ask me about anything you see here. If I go on a press junket to promote this blog, then, please, by all means, ask away. Until then, just read it and take it for what it is. I don't mean to be a dick, but seriously, I'm a dick.

This is all I'll say about this. Obviously, I wouldn't have a blog if I didn't want a lot of people to read and appreciate it- that's the narcissist's mission. But, do I really have to recap it with you at the bar two days later? I don't want that. Let's just let it be what it is: A filling of time until each of our inevitable deaths. So, with that being said, until next time, you poor fools,

Sorry so sloppy!,

Glummy McGlib.

LYLAS!

When Victor's mother died, I offered to drive him home, since I knew he didn't have a car or the necessary funds to purchase the Greyhound ticket to get back down to the southernmost reaches of Mexico. Plus, I was sick of my job, and after he left, I would be the only one left of the original crew, and all the new people just didn't get it.

Although the extent to which we had spoken over the previous 9 months included only the phrases, "Listo!", "All todo?", and "No bueno!", the look he shot me after our manager Manuel translated my offer into Spanish conveyed an understanding not recognized by either of us during that time. He smiled, said, "Si," and that was that.

I picked him up from a house he shared with three other distant members of his family the following morning at 5 a.m., and we headed west on I-20, towards El Paso.

Mushpit.

Many of you have written me emails asking about my inclination to urinate on the floors and walls of establishments such as Starbucks. “Why would you do that?” “Is that true, hahaha? Seriously, it’s not, is it?” Friends, it is. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t go out of my way to patronize such establishments, of which Starbucks is but one place in a long list of such businesses, but, should I find myself placed, however unsatisfactorily, in said establishment, I do admit that I indulge myself in this unsavory practice- an at least funny, if not wholly ineffectual form of protest against the shiny floor, soft-lit culture we’ve created for ourselves.

“What about the workers making 6 bucks an hour that have to clean it up? They’re not the ‘corporation’ you’re ‘raging’ against, man.” Fuck ‘em. They chose that job, and so, in my mind, they are that corporation. Ipso Facto. Fuck ‘em. This is the sort of dumb, unproductive ideology that so many attribute to punk rock, but don’t misunderstand me here. Although I have embraced and adopted whatever stereotypical image “that lifestyle” conjures up in any given mind, and in fact even wrote a song about this very subject called “Vote with Your Piss” in an old band of mine, I will not have this process, which is an amalgamation of years of dissatisfaction, disgust and apathy towards our terrible habits as human beings honed down to one hot, 45 second spray of steam and waste, tainted by being pigeonholed into the by now near meaningless term “punk.” Nope, punk or not, this one’s all mine. I take full credit.

Now, for the majority of you, I’m sure this still isn’t the answer you were looking for. You’re looking for some form of understanding, some way to relate. Perhaps you’re curious- maybe it is the case that you just simply want to feel the way that I feel. After all, that is the only way to truly understand someone’s thoughts. The human condition.

And with that in mind, I can only offer an example. I’m resigned to the notion that this is an all or nothing stance. You’ll either get it or you won’t. You’ll either understand or be even more baffled than you were previously. You’ll either be fer me or agin’ me. There shall be no grey area. And I’m okay with that.

The following interaction took place today at an establishment called Potbelly Sandwich Works, a place whose name I hate to even say, for reasons not clearly defined in my own head, but I think it has something to do with the fact that it highlights and casts a warm, friendly corporate overtone to the absolute gluttony of American consumption patterns. They make sandwiches, shakes, soups and chili that are just on the verge of being overpriced. Many would argue this point, which is why the prices are on the verge. Save your comparative sandwich shop pricing for a time when you’re looking to cater a bar mitzvah or something. I don’t care.

The setting: Aforementioned sandwich shop. 2 p.m. Enter Jonathan and Rebecca.

“Hey guys! And how we doing today?!” Another reason to hate this place is that corporate policy dictates that employees must not only feign happiness, but moreover, act like they give a shit about the customer’s daily lives.

“Fine.”

“Great! What can I get for you guys today?”

“I’ll have the pizza with no mushrooms,” Rebecca said.

“Will that be on white or wheat, ma’am?”

“White, please.”

“Got it. Pizza on white, no mush,” the overbearingly friendly man rattled back. “And you, sir?”

“Uh, I’ll have the pizza, too. On wheat, though. And no mushrooms, either.”

“Pizza on wheat, no mush?”

“Yeah, no mushrooms,” I said, the bile creeping its way up the back of my throat.

The overbearingly friendly man puffed his chest out just a little, and I caught a flash of his fraternity days coming back to him for just a moment. He caught my gaze, looked at me in a way that one might call severe, and sternly says, “Pizza on wheat, No MUSH.”

Sighing, I replied, “Yup.”

Rebecca and I shuffled down the line, and I muttered to her, “If he says ‘no mush’ one more goddamn ti-“

“TWO PIZZAS NO MUSH COMING THROUGH!”

"Or to see if you're about to get mugged. Either one. Probably both."

The following words were written nearly two years ago, but somehow seem to resonate even more now than they did at the time they were written. To wit:

"Sorry. I'm about as good at keeping committments to myself as I am with keeping in contact with friends and family that aren't directly in my line of sight each day. It has been well over a month since my last entry, and much has happened- many things that are exciting, many things that anger me, hopes for the future, longing for the past, and yet it all adds up to a general sense of anxiety coupled with the gripping weight of desperation and ennui. I hope to summarily and inadequately recount these events in the near future, but I feel a duty to finish my thoughts on my trip to New York, which, although essentially uneventful, seems important to wrap up, since it is the case that I almost never finish any writing project that I set out on."

And so, as history continues to repeat itself, the continuation of a story recounted by countless people on countless occasions, in countless times, cities, countries, lifetimes. Just filling in the ever-expanding gaps, if only until this too dissolves and requires one more recollection in another time, place, to fill space and accrue validation for the seeker. And on and on...

"We eventually found the right train and made our way back to 67th and Colombus. Turning the corner, we saw a huge line of people, and there were two minutes left on the clock. I suppose we made it just in time. Or were we two minutes too late? Regardless, we walked the half block to the end of the line. Two production assistants were checking people in, and promptly asked if I was there to audition. Two other fellows meandered up behind Rebecca and I and waited for their turn to be checked off the list. Just then, the P.A.'s made an announcement to the newcomers that they were all filled up, making me the last person in line. Is this a good twist of fate, or a portent of doom?

I took it as a good sign, especially since I still had forms to fill out for the audition. One of the questions was, 'What would Meredith Viera find most interesting about you?' This was a question I was confounded over. How am I supposed to know? I don't really care about her life, and I just naturally assumed she wouldn't care about mine. So, my response was that the Millionaire line was the longest one I'd ever been in, which turns out not to be true, as I waited in line with my sister and her friends for hours when I was in fourth grade to get New Kids on the Block tickets.

Nonetheless, it wouldn't matter in the long run since I would go on to fail the qualifying exam to get onto the show. The test was thirty questions in ten minutes, and I knew in the first two minutes that I was doomed. It turns out that the central reason for going to New York was the most negligible, inconsequential aspect of the journey. I was happy to get out of there so quickly, actually. The atmosphere in the testing room had the distinct feel of school, and I was instantly out of my element and anxious to leave. Not to mention that Rebecca had left me at the door and was now wandering around the city by herself, which made me inexplicably uncomfortable.

On the way into the testing room, a flamboyantly gay man who cut in front of me in line was proudly strutting with our sheeplike herd, which incidentally was paraded around nearly a whole city block before being admitted into the building, gleefully announcing to the total world of strangers around him and across the street that he was auditioning for Millionaire. I hung my head in shame.

Surrounding me in the testing room was a true melting pot. Every type of person imaginable, save the Brown University dyke type, the anarcho-punk (my personal favorite), and the anarcho-hippie (my least favorite). I was definitely one of the younger ones in the melange. I was seated at a table with all men, who ranged in age from 25-60. Directly across from me was a portly- well, why mince words- a fat, balding man with vibrato to spare. An insecure joker, he tried to lighten an already casual and [the network's idea of a] fun, loose atmosphere- complete with late twentysomething test proctors and various other hip looking P.A.'s. He made 'funny' quips and asides in between every sentence the proctor spoke. He raised his hand and asked one of those 'funny because the answer is obvious' questions.

At the end of the test, his wit and charm proved no match to his utter inability to pass the test, just like the other 85 out of 100 people that didn't, myself included. On the table were official 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire?' pencils that we all took the test with. Most everyone around me that failed the test were palming their pencils or putting them in their bags as a small memento of yet another failure in their lives, and I followed suit.

As we shuffled out amidst post-test banter about the Missy Elliot question and who led the Zapatistas, the fat man, however, grabbed every spare pencil from each table he passed. At last glance, he must have had at least twelve of these things, and he stealthily stashed them in his fake designer shoulder bag.

As we exited the building, a woman near me asked simple directions to a nearby street, to which I responded that I wasn't from New York. She said, 'Me neither,' and continued to look at me in earnest. So, I gave her directions that I found out not five minutes later were completely wrong. Oh well. I walked up the street to a Starbucks that Rebecca had gotten coffee at earlier, thinking she may have taken refuge in the only place vaguely familiar to her. Not finding her there, I waited for the restroom to free up so I could crap, which, although I didn't really feel the need to do, I liked the idea of a free restroom in the middle of the city, and the fact that it was Starbucks was the crown jewel in the equation. I made sure to pee on the wall and floor before I sat on the toilet.

_______

I turned the corner and gathered my bearings. I fished a wadded piece of paper out of my pocket and found the nearest pay phone, which turned out to be about a block away, strangely. I had Rebecca's calling card number, and I needed to use it to call her cell phone so we could meet up. I dialed the number, and glancing at the PIN number on the paper, something seemed wrong. Then I remembered- days earlier, as we were traveling, she had at some point rattled off the PIN in the midst of a conversation. I couldn't believe it, but I actually remembered that part of the PIN had four two's in it, and the piece of paper that she had written the number down on for me only contained three.

I marvelled at my remarkable listening and memory skills, and said a quiet, 'Fuck yeah,' as I grinned to myself and dialed Rebecca's cell phone. As the line clicked to connect, I glanced around at my surroundings, y'know, like you do when you're on a payphone. A single moment between daily dealings when one is at rest, when one can take in the world around them and observe the chaos with which they are involved. Or to see if you're about to get mugged. Either one. Probably both.

Crazily, fatefully, my eyes instantly fell directly on Rebecca, half a block away and across a major intersection, walking perpendicularly to my line of vision, out of the possible hundreds in my line of sight. An audible gasp hit the back of my throat. I slammed the phone down and raced along the busy sidewalk, y'know, as one sees in the city sometimes and wonders, 'Where the fuck are they going in such a hurry?' or 'What'd he do? What's he running from?'

I thought about this as I zipped around professionals and professional transients. I always thought people ran through the city to get to an important meeting or class or court date, but as I ran through the crosswalk and hurried up behind Rebecca and slipped my hand through her pocketed arm, I realized that nine times out of ten it's probably for a girl. I couldn't believe I found my girlfriend in the middle of Manhattan by sheer sight alone. She kissed me and we walked around the city, past Central Park again, and eventually, we found our way back to the subway where we boarded the train to Jersey and returned to our hotel to clean up.

New York Retrospective: A Brief Pictorial.