Last Man Standing

Not to brag, but about 4 people have been fired from my Hockey merchandise gig and I got promoted to the "Walkie Rider" My feet still kill me from about 2 PM onward but at least I can accomplish more in the time I'm there.
I don't know what the secret to keeping this job is. I'm still pretty flaky and distracted but I've learned the computer interface and some of the secrets to boxing odd items. I do not like the job. I hate it pretty passionately, but that's normal. It's repulsive to me that some 11 year old American wants to buy a pair of shorts with a built in jock strap because he wants to be safe playing hockey. Well, after dealing with hockey equipment for 3 weeks I can say that hockey players are a bunch of fucking sissies. Knee pads? Elbow guards? Cock guards? Throat guards? Padded wrist guards? What's wrong? If the puck hits your wrist will you not be able to jerk off your boyfriend?

The thing is this...I'll keep it simple so you hockey players can keep up...WHEN MORE PEOPLE GET INJURED MAKING YOUR EQUIPMENT THAN PLAYING THE GAME THEN YOU ARE OFFICALLY MORE OF A SISSY THAN A 50 YEAR OLD ASIAN SEAMSTRESS.

I guess when a game requires so much equipment to protect you from getting hurt during the game and that game only involves a stick, a puck, and a net, then what the fuck? A pro hockey player couldn't make a single piece of his equipment. An Asian seamstress probably couldn't play hockey but I guarantee her job is more dangerous and taxing than playing hockey. I guarantee it. Hell, MY job is more taxing than playing hockey and I don't do shit compared to the seamstress in Thailand or China. Ooooh, three 20 minute periods. Wow! You could play your entire game during the time I take a break from my 12 hour job. Goalie equipment is like a NASA space suit. Why? So Mrs. Nancy Don't Hurt Me can stand directly between the puck and the goal. Uh....

Whatever. Hey, let's employ thousands of people so some guy can play hockey and not get bruised. That's a great idea. That makes sense. Maybe one day they'll promote me to the Rugby equipment department...oh, wait a second...the only equipment in Rugby is the ball.

Alright, enough hating.

Bleak Bleak Outlook

The mental junk that I digested today makes my head spin. I can't repeat it all here because if you watch television or get sucked into a lurid CNN Crime story then you know what I'm talking about. Death, cannibalism, rape, murder, war, pollution. Call me sensitive, but it's too much. I started laughing inappropriately during a "True Crimes" type piece on TV in the break room. "When we return," the commentator said, "We'll learn how this man raped his daughter every day for two years, faked his own death and then preyed on girls at a local high school after getting honorably discharged from the army..." I laughed out loud. It bordered on insane laughter (I think my sense of humor is returning after a 12 month absence) and everyone else just shook their heads. I was appalled of course, but the way it was presented as so intentionally macabre and then the very next image is a woman doing push ups. "Do you have flabby triceps? Well, you can firm up in less time than it takes to wash your hair!"

I laughed and laughed.

None of this adds up. I'm sorry for not adjusting or assimilating but it's not realistic anymore to ignore the culture I'm in. The culture is not insane, it's diabolically manipulative. There is no way in the world you would accidentally get a creepy story about a serial rapist sandwiched between a bunch of cheerful frozen pizza and Viagra ads. No. No way is that accidental. In Orwell's worst nightmare did he not imagine media would sink to the depths it is at right now.

I don't want to stick my head in the sand because this is a serious serious disease that's being inflicted on Americans. The price we are paying for free Simpson's episodes is our mental health. DO you understand? This is a mental health issue and it's national and in my opinion it has reached unacceptable status. It makes me feel like I can't really coexist with anyone who isn't deeply troubled. Are we that numbed? The worst part is that I worked for 12 hours and only had about 9 minutes of access to the world...and it still polluted my brain~!

So, I'm looking for answers. Yes, the news picks the most lurid and grotesque stories to cover. When a couple plays checkers on the couch and then goes to sleep...the news doesn't make a story about it. I get it. But holy Jesus do they have to scrape the absolute bottom of the human trough for content? It's a drug, plain and simple, to go from jaw dropping astonishment and horror of atrocities to "Happy Meal at McDonalds fills you up and makes you smile!"
You see? It's like, chemically, your brain wants to eat McDonalds as an antidote to the rape suicide sodomy story you just watched. AND CBS KNOWS THAT! Those motherfuckers! No chance can they plead innocent to this kind of mass manipulation. Rupert Murdoch, there is a special torture chamber in hell awaiting you. 1000 televisions will play Fox news while Larry King shits in your mouth. For eternity.

Sorry. I promised myself I would stay positive but I got excited. My apologies, Rupert. Keep up the good work!

Where was I? Oh, yeah...the thing is that when you turn your back on the media, which is something I recommend, then you will not be able to reach the people who are sucked into it. You have to plumb the depths to learn the secrets of the deep and map the way back out. I don't want to get spiritual on your ass but there is a chasm called Corporate Media and it is swallowing everyone's soul. The only way to solve the problem is to go to the source and return, leaving some bread crumbs so people can follow you out.

I don't mean that as a life goal. I mean that is something to do while I'm saving up money to move to Guatemala, where they worship some guy named Jesus.

Please, unplug and go outside. And while you are out there do not rape or cannibalize anyone. No exceptions! Please. By exiting this page you legally promise to behave yourself. Write a letter to your mother for god's sake!

Ode to an Unknown Seamstress

Chinese Lady with nimble slave fingers,
we are separated by 10,000 container ships of hockey pucks
an ocean of petroleum dildos
and toaster ovens
and microchips
I feel your presence in every youth size mesh practice jersey,
the goalie masks you tended with your beautiful hands
and passed down the road to me, your secret American lover.
Where do your thoughts go, lonely lady, when the 11th hour of your shift clicks off
and the silence of the assembly table becomes like a hum of angels and you can not focus?
Do you think of me in my cardboard kingdom, absently picking 44 delicious padded wrist guards for a sporting goods store in San Diego?
You placed them in a box with tender mercies and now I touch what your fingers touched. You can not pass a message across these oceans because
likely you would lose your job for acting independently. But I know you have thought about it.
What would you say to me?
What color are your eyes?
Where do you live, my love?
What are your dreams?
How can I help you?
I am here for you always and receive only the fullness of your love and desire for love in the tremendous volume of boxes filled with skate blade cozies and jock straps and roller blade stickers.
You focus on that needle pounding the goalie knee pads like a Samurai slicing the chaos away with his holy blade. I am your slave forever, Chinese lover.


Zhōngguó nǚ núlì yǔ língqiǎo de shǒuzhǐ,
Wǒmen xiānggé 10000 qūgùnqiú túlún jízhuāngxiāng chuán
1 Hǎiyáng shíyóu jiǎ yángjù
Kǎo lú hé kǎo miànbāo jī
Hé wēi xīnpiàn
Wǒ juéde měi yīgè qīngnián wǎng guīmó de zuòfǎ qiú yī nín de guānglín,
Shǒuményuán miànzhào nǐ hé nǐ dì měilì de shǒu wǎngwǎng
Bìng tōngguò le wǒ de dàolù shàng, nǐ de mìmì měiguó qíngrén.
Nǐ de xiǎngfǎ qù nǎlǐ, jìmò de nǚshì, dāng nǐ diǎnjī guānbì 11 xiǎoshí lúnbān
Hé jíhuì biǎo chénmò biàn de xiàng yīgè tiānshǐ, hēng hēng, nǐ bùnéng zhòngdiǎn shì shénme?
Nǐ xiǎngqǐ wǒ zài wǒ de zhǐbǎn wángguó, xīnbùzàiyān de tiāoxuǎn le yījiā tǐyù yòngpǐn shāngdiàn zài shèngdìyàgē 44 měiwèi de hù wàn diàn?
Nín fàngzhì zài yǔ cíbēi xiāng nèi, xiànzài nǐ de shǒuzhǐ chùmō wǒ gǎndòng. Nǐ kěyǐ bù tōngguò kuàyuè hǎiyáng de xiāoxi, yīnwèi zhèxiē
Nǐ kěnéng huì shīqù dúlì sīkǎo nǐ de gōngzuò. Dàn wǒ zhīdào nǐ shì xiǎng de.
Nǐ huì zěnme shuō wǒ ne?
Nǐ de yǎnjīng shì shénme yánsè?
Nǐ zhù zài nǎlǐ, wǒ de ài?
Wǒ zěnme bāng nǐ?
Wǒ zài zhèlǐ wéi nǐ shǐzhōng zhǐ néng shōu dào nǐ de ài hé duì zài yǔ huábǎn hé lúnhuá tiē zhǐ kē qí sī xiāng liàng hěn dà, chōngmǎn ài de kěwàng fēngmǎn.
Nǐ bǎ zhòngdiǎn fàng zài zhège chōngjí xiàng rìběn wǔshì dāo qiēpiàn yǔ tā de shénshèng de hǔnluàn líkāi shǒuményuán hùxī zhēn. Wǒ yǒngyuǎn shì nǐ de núlì, zhōngguó de qíngrén.

Bullshit

Driving home today I was thinking, "Oggy, what the fuck in the world is the use of cars if they take you to and from a job where you walk for 12 straight hours? You're quietly desperate, working more for a few nickles than you would ever work if you raised food in Guatemala. It's all backwards and it's all a bunch of bullshit. Cash the next check, buy some tires for El Conquistador on credit, and get the fuck out of here. You are working for absolutely no material end. America's economy is a fraud because you're getting paid inflated wages for a job that serves no purpose. Do you really give a fuck if a kid in Michigan has brand new adjustable hockey pants? Get your bag and walk away from this dead end job. You've got 20K worth of credit and if everyone else is declaring bankruptcy and then keeping their swimming pool and Porsche then get on the wagon. You can't have less money than you have right now. Bankruptcy would probably be a good financial move. Go to Labrador, live with the wolves, they're the only sensible animals left. You're going to die anyway, so at least do something interesting."

This conversation came about because a coworker's grandmother died of a stroke during our shift. As he told me I heard someone behind me say, "On the pack and hold orders can I put all the delivery numbers on one sheet?"

Then the guy went home and I went back to looking for hockey pucks. My job would go so much better if someone just told me, "Pretend there are no consequences for anything you do and you're never going to die." Ah! That makes sense! Otherwise, this is pure fucking industrial suicide.

Top Ten Things I Think About While Working

1. Elena.
2. Pain in feet.
3. Moving to a country that doesn't consider the death of Gary Coleman news.
4. Prostate health.
5. The Chinese women who sew these yellow mesh hockey shorts with a built-in plastic scrotum cage. They must be zen monks of tranquility to do that job for more than one day for slave wages. Either that or welfare must be fucking pitiful in Red China.
6. The oil spill that is approaching the worst catastrophe in the history of man. Ramifications that will be felt for eternity. Children playing with matches.
7. Nonexistent, laughably fragmented family life. How do I start a family without the memory of what a family looks like? Or should I be like everyone else and just wing it?
8. Labrador.
9. Death.
10. Meaning of Life.

(No, my job does not make it into the top ten.)