Wednesday, July 30, 2008

"Housekeeping - You Want Towels"

Given the pink slip about two weeks ago, I have been left to survive on my salary from stevemcdevitt.com alone, which according to my last calculations was a cool negative twelve dollars per month. Even with the help of unemployment pay the harsh reality has already set it – I can no longer go out every night of the week and blow my money at top notch drinking huts formally known as bars. It is a complete and utter disappointment. I don’t support anyone (other than myself) abusing our government’s unemployment system, however I think I speak for everyone down at the unemployment office when I say they would be happy to know that I’ve now resorted to spending their money only during the hours of 4 to 7pm, Monday thru Friday at local happy hours. I feel they would be rather jovial to hear this. It has been a tough adjustment and several local bars have recently contemplated shutting their doors due to an unexplained recent downturn in business.

At the point of dismissal from my lucrative software job, I figured that job opportunities would be rolling in as I casually took some time off to frequent my favorite golf courses, watch Seinfeld reruns and wake up drooling from afternoon naps. Once my resume was posted however, instead my e-mail inbox was invaded by pyramid schemes, porn site advertisements, Backstreet Boys concert updates and male sex enhancement spam. (Ok…so three of the four I got before the resume was posted…)

The first day I walked out of my place to grab a coffee and some breakfast when I was confronted by a solicitor. Usually I pass by these eccentric characters in a huge rush to get to the fake place or lie that I’ve told them, but today was different. I was unemployed and I had all the time in the world for Green Peace, Jerry’s kids, or whatever other crazy cause some whacko was peddling in San Francisco. The last time I stopped for one of those things, some lunatic was trying to get a waste facility renamed as George W. Bush sewage facility. (This is what people will picket for hours for in San Francisco). This girl, who wasn’t a day over seventeen, was very nice and was concerned about pollution in the Bay affecting the sea lions and I was all ears. Then it came – “would you like to join our mailing list for $50?” I knew it was coming and for once I had the perfect alibi and it wasn’t even a lie. “I’d love to but I was just laid off, so I can’t help you out,” I responded sheepishly, expecting us to then part ways. “Oh I’m sorry, I can probably get you a job if you want, this gig isn’t too bad, I can call my…” I didn’t even hear the end as I stepped into the street narrowly avoiding a swerving taxi. It hit me like a ton of bricks and all I could think of was myself with my arms wrapped lovingly around some amiable sea lion…great software job to slanging sea lion preservation…this was going to be harder than I thought…

Just when I was starting to get discouraged and was one Cialis e-mail advertisement away from becoming a mendicant, begging for leftover Jumbo Jacks on the street, THE e-mail came through. I had just finished slopping up the last few gulps of my 29 cent Beef Top Ramen, when it hit.

“Starbucks Barista Opening!” $8-$10 per hour.

First and foremost I have let it be known that a Starbucks barista is probably the hardest job in the world. How they memorize every possible combination of drinks and make these concoctions at the same time out of their minds on free caffeine is totally beyond me. I could probably perform brain surgery on a cricket with more of a success rate than whip up a double half-calf-decaf-nocaf-extracaf with soy, no cream, with room, extra cream like the baristas do. It is like another language when you walk into a Starbucks. Long story short…my job search continued, but it was encouraging to see that a college education and five years of professional experience made me eligible for the same job as a six-teen year old with lemonade stand and lawn mowing experience.

Then it got worse. I started receiving janitorial jobs, a pet store clerk, and a most recently a shoe shiner gig, not to mention twenty e-mails per day from different Farmer’s Insurance reps. If I didn’t know any better I could swear that Farmer’s Insurance is actually some sort of cult sending out kool-aid-like virus e-mails, pre-programmed to release a deadly insurance selling bacteria turning you into a cold-calling insurance salesman the instant you click the mouse.

Even with all these discouraging job offers I kept a positive outlook, which was mostly aided by the happy hours. The final straw however came just the other day. What started out as the promise of a new day quickly ended when my G-mail alerted me of an incoming e-mail.

The title read “Be my housekeeper.”

Starbuck’s jobs, cleaning up rat poop at a pet store, and selling oranges down by the off-ramp of the expressway are not glamorous jobs, but at least I need two forms of identification to get hired. I first tried not to stereotype, but let’s not beat around the whisk broom – most housekeepers are woman and illegal aliens, two identifiers I was not willing to become to obtain work. (I would be willing to do one, but that is my final offer).

“Housekeeping…you want towels…?”

I could just see myself now…

Unfortunately my happy hour money was running low and I was getting just desperate enough to housekeep my way back to the top. I would have resorted to picking up trash on the side of the road, had a pugnacious group of surly thugs in orange jump suits not ran me off of the 280 freeway. That coupled with the fact that homeless guys had now started offering me change on the streets when I walked by them, instead of asking me so I read on...

A thirty-six year old Swiss man somehow found my resume as a dead on match for someone to stay in his house free of charge while he runs his jewelry ring through me at the house. Totally normal, I thought to myself while popping a Lemonhead into my mouth I had unearthed from underneath the deep confines of my truck seat during a recent search for loose change.

According to the Swiss chap’s posting, all I would have to do is maintain the house and sell jewelry to his U.S. clients when he is not in town. While he is in town I would still be able to stay at the house for free (most likely as long as I dress up in a sailor outfit and tight leather chaps). Makes perfect sense…

I am writing this blog jobless and from the porch of a friendly gang member named Blockhead Joe in Oakland. After hearing my tales of non-grandeur he was nice enough to shoplift me a 40 of Old English, once I explained how I had now out-priced myself of happy hour pricing once the housekeeping gig went down in flames…I have to sign off for now, since Blockhead, or just Block J, as his homies address him, has just informed me he needs the porch to sell some rock or something, but tomorrow is a new day. If I’m lucky I’ll receive a job offer for cleaning bird poop off of the pier at Fisherman’s Wharf, an invitation to participate in a case study involving anthrax injected anally or a promising lead for a job as assistant manure cleaner at a local petting zoo. I know these are lofty expectations, but a kid can dream can’t he?

Friday, July 18, 2008

"Shenanigans Volume II"

As usual I have several comings and goings that have absolutely no connection and no real relevance to life…

…I’ve always wondered where all these stray cats come from. I realize some are left for dead, abandoned or just go missing in action, but with all the cats out there I’ve got to think that some choose a life on the streets otherwise people wouldn’t threaten to maim you whenever you go to their house and leave the door open giving Fluffy the chance at a life-changing, split-second bolt towards freedom. These are the people that are keeping these hippie, free-lovin’ felines hostage in a hazy and stoned, cat-nipped-out plastic litter box of emotion. Sick of their caged life in suburbia hell these itinerant cats take their nine lives to the street looking for a local alley cat gang to latch on with in search of a fresh start and new adventures. Or perhaps it could be an insatiable catnip addiction with no outlets to turn for help that send these cats lurking in the darkness of the alleys in search of their addictive desire. I know there have to be some that make this choice; otherwise we wouldn’t see these signs up all over town looking for Scruffy, Scraps and Sammie once they’ve taken off for the door like Rosie O’Donnell at a meatball buffet. When you see these alley cats they are in bad shape; missing legs, fur, whiskers, and hairballs coming out of places I’d rather not speak of in this blog. How bad does the life at home in a warm house have to be to make these cats turn to a life of poverty stricken by the guilt of what was left behind? (I guess I can’t blame them – if I had to defecate in the same place I just did three days prior and it is still there, I’d probably start snorting catnip as well). My advice? Check with the local alley cat gang over on the south side but be careful. If that gang is running the cat nip trade out on the other side of the tracks you better watch your back…You know what they say - catnip overdose killed the cat…or was it curiosity? I trust you’ll choose the most likely answer…

Chances are this feline, high out of his mind on "c-nip" as they call it in the alleys, was later seen at a public litter box smuggling sixty kilos of catnip in his winter coat.



…Why is it that I can play seven full court basketball games in the blazing hot sun and not be tired or crippled with aches and pains, but yet fifteen minutes shopping with a girlfriend and I’m ready to check myself into the closest convalescent home due to back pain, aching joints and major fatigue? I might break a decent sweat on the court, but at a mall after just several minutes I’m sweating like an antelope being chased by a cheetah and rashes start forming. I can literally go only ten minutes before fatigue sits in. At thirty minutes my body is a useless piece of jelly and I have no choice but to sit down and rest. I think it is built in men’s DNA to not be able to handle the strenuous act of shopping. In caveman times it was probably the same for men as they dreaded drudging through the forest with their woman stopping at every tree as the female browsed for the right bark for the inside of their cave…

…Does anyone have normal conversations anymore or is the text message craze finally incorporating itself into the modern language? Omg, ttyl, lmao, the list goes on and on, but yet I don’t understand any of it. I’m just surprised Shaq didn’t opt for the MTV teeny-bopper text message acronyms when requesting a simple message from Kobe Bryant during his recent rap… hmat…ktmhmat…(kobe tell me how my ass tastes)… “You can’t do it without me, ktmhmat…” has a nice ring to it…

… Well the dead pigeon that was flattened outside of the Safeway is still there…sort of. The poor carcass has been run over so many times now it looks like a police chalk line after a murder. The thing is literally flush with the concrete. I still can’t figure out who handles these things…the mystery continues…

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

"Shenanigans Volume I"

Throughout this blog I’ll be posting some random observations which really have no relevance to anyone’s life. They will not improve your life by any means nor will they probably make any sense. With that said here is the first one…

…One thing I’ve noticed about San Francisco is guys at bars are absolutely drunken Neanderthals and fall, bump, knock and spill all over you. At first you want to turn around and sock the guy in the face until you realize he doesn’t even know where he is and has already spilled his beer on six other guys so you have no choice but to let him slide. I’m not sure if it’s because there are more binge drinkers in this town or if the guys would rather just go out and get obliterated instead of trying to maintain any sort of decency.

… I’ve realized the kickball phenomenon has now gotten way out of hand. While playing as a fill-in in a regular season Sunday kickball game in my roommate’s league I noticed parents actually coming out to watch the games. This may have been standard for Little League games or even an occasional badminton match, but kickball? I guess I’m kind of holding onto the thought that the only reason they came out was for their own piece of mind. I’m sure most parents when they hear their son or daughter who they’ve spent fifty grand on their college education is in a kickball league, they think it is just a cover for their real habit of shooting up paint thinner or participating in drive-bys with the local gang. When they show up at the local park they are relieved, but at the same time perplexed of how their youngster could go full circle – second grade kickball, honor student, Ivy League education, lucrative job and now? Back to kickball. The most amazing thing is there are people in the league that actually take it seriously and actually try to win at kickball of all things. I’m all for the competition but I’d much rather use my competitiveness at something more worthwhile like for instance flip cup or beer pong…well ok, I guess these kickball maniacs aren’t too bad after all…

…Every day on the way to work I pass by a horse pasture in Palo Alto and there is always one horse wearing a jacket. Why must he wear this overcoat I wonder? I have to think that it isn’t his Mom reminding him to put the coat on every day and that the jacket serves some sort of purpose, but what is it? Is he ridiculed by the other horses for wearing the ridiculous overcoat, not man enough to face the harsh elements of the outside, or is he looked at as being too good for the other horses with his ostentatious garments? These are the type of things I think about at night…

My glorious stallion wasn't as fortunate as this philly pictured above who was lucky enough to not only find a glamorous jacket, but a pair (uh times 2 since the 4 legs) of ostentatious green boots to boot. I figure this image might give readers at least an idea of my jacket clothed horse friend. (Either that or cause them to start drinking due to the ridiculousness of this blog).

… There seems to be an exorbitant amount of dead pigeons in San Francisco. It seems like they are being run over at an exponential rate in this town. Apparently George Costanza’s deal from Seinfeld doesn’t apply to the pigeons on the West coast, as these pigeons do not appear to be fleet of foot. I saw one the other day lambasted in front of the Safeway parking lot. I can understand the clean up crews ignore the clean up for a dead bird on the side of the road, but at the entrance to a highly frequented food store? You would think someone would take care of that thing. I guess I’ll wait anxiously in anticipation to see what happens…