Scowl, Nu?

While searching for a new receptionist to replace the one who unexpectedly quit, the company I work for was forced to hire a lot of temps, as no one seems to want to just answer phones, open mail and order office supplies for a living anymore, especially for under $30,000 a year. I just don't get kids today. When I was 20, 21, 23 years old, I was desperate for a job just like that, and as a matter of fact, I took a job just like that, just so I could have the semi-security of being employed somewhere. Now, what with all the success stories of the 20-something kids in Silicon Valley who are becoming millionaires practically overnight with their internet startup companies, people fresh out of college will consider an entry-level position only if it comes with an assurance that they will get a promotion within 3 – 6 months. So, since no one wanted the job, it was Temp City.

I personally never understood "career temps," people who do nothing but temporary work. I mean, I myself signed up with a temporary agency when I moved to San Francisco, mostly because I was terrified of not having any money to pay the rent and buy food, but it turned out to be a really shitty one that only gave me one assignment within a 30-day period, so I desperately turned to the want ads where I found my entry-level position.

The Bitter and Sullen Temp: Who, when asked if she was by any chance looking for a permanent position, frowned and abruptly replied: "No! I'm only going to be here for two days, right?" I wonder if her "I hate doing this shit" attitude has helped her fulfill her dreams of being a temp-for-life.

The Beyond Over-Qualified Temp: Constantly asked if there was any projects she could undertake. Was more professional than many of the current staff; was cheerful, polite, helpful and smart but didn't want the position permanently because she was "at an executive assistant level." This made me wonder why she was temping so much, because she was obviously qualified to get a permanent job anywhere she wanted at the drop of a hat.

The Confused 19-Year-Old Temp: The day she started, this one immediately started using the company's main internet account to respond to personal ads, discuss her lesbianism/girlfriend issues, and tell perfect strangers about her fantasy of being part of a threesome. I found it interesting that she misspelled such words "fantasy" ("fantacy"), "to" (used "too" where "to" should have been), and "broken" ("brocken") but managed to spell the word "masturbate" correctly. Did not have any office/business/workplace experience whatsoever, as evidenced by her tendency to transfer phone calls by voicing into a person's office and, to get their attention, repeating their name over and over again in a sing-song, little-girl voice.

The Completely Useless Temp: We had one temp who had absolutely no skills whatsoever aside from being able to pick up a telephone and make herself look pretty. She had absolutely no clue as to how to type or use Microsoft Word or Excel. Geez, why bother trying to find office-type work? Why not become a supermarket checker? Or a kept woman?

Finally, there was The New Receptionist:  Too young, too cheerful, and much too eager to please absolutely everyone. Yet another example of someone who cannot seem to figure out MS Word, and who was not even aware of the "Help" function (until I pointed out that it wasn't me.) What's the deal with not knowing simple word processing/spreadsheet programs? Call me overly anal, but the night before my first job interview, I actually studied Excel, just in case that I had to prove that I knew it. If this new apathetic and unknowledgeable bunch of kids represents our future, then maybe it's not such a bad thing, this Y2K world-ending theory.

ATTENTION THEATERGOERS: I know that there are many of you who go to see playsand musicals because you love them, and you own the soundtracks, and youknow the plot, and you have great respect for both the members of the castand your fellow audience members. I'm not talking to you.

I'm talking to the rest of you: you people who go to see theater for some mystery reason that I have not been able to quite figure out. I mean, youdon't know the plot. You've never heard the songs. You usually end up notliking the performance very much at all, and then commence to fidget, crumple,whisper, talk, and noisily leaf through the Playbill every 5 minutes to seehow many songs are left before Act Two is finished. Here's a thought: howabout all of you bored, middle-aged people with nothing better to do than to plunk down anywhere from $70 – $200 for a pair of tickets to see a showthat you don't even really want to see, for Christ's sake, how aboutleaving if you don't like it. How about doing us all a favor, — "us"being those of us who have budgeted money, who have scrimped and saved fortickets to a show that we love and will actually sit still for the 3 hoursof the show — do us a favor and when you stand up at intermission, go outinto the lobby and keep walking straight back to your hotel, or your mansion,or your yuppie loft, or wherever it is that you live. (I mean, I can't believethat so many clueless people pay top dollar for a show and then walk outat intermission, but at least they're not bothering me anymore.)

This rant was inspired by our experience of finally winning the Rent lotterylast Friday night. The Rent lottery is a drawing before each show for the$20 tickets for the first two rows of seats in the theater. When JonathanLarson created Rent, he wanted people that wouldn't necessarily be able toafford regular seats to be able to attend theater performances, so he cameup with the $20 seats. Back in 1993, the first two rows were sold on a firstcome, first served basis, which was the official beginning of "The Line,"where people ("Rentheads") would wait for days on end for the seats. TheNew York line (and lines across the country) have now been discontinued infavor of the supposedly safer lottery. The first two rows are largely populatedby the same people who would wait in The Line — dedicated fans who haveseen the show 10 times or more, at least. In San Francisco, we have witnessed middle-aged tourists who had nothing better to do win the seats, watch theshow and rudely fidget/talk through the whole thing. This, to me, is a damnshame, because 1) there are people who would sit in those seats and lovethem (like us) and who will appreciate the experience for the rest of theirlives, and 2) the tourists who do win, more than likely could afford goodregular seats. In my opinion, there should be a rule that you have to have seen Rent at least 3 times to enter the lottery, but that'll never happenin this liberal fucking city.

Yeah, I know… I’m technically still in training, but this weekend we had a need to go to the Toronado.

Re-reading that sentence, I think that I am communicating the wrong message. We didn’t need to go to the Toronado like some people need

a beer or anything like that. We needed a place to get together with Annie, a long time friend from the North East who is leaving Thursday for her new job (and new life) in Ney York City.

Since it was her last weekend and she had never been to the Toronado, we all decided to get together Friday night after we got out of the musical RENT at the Golden Gate Theater (which is in the most disgusting neighborhood in the city… aside from the Yuppie Habitat Marina) for a beer.

We got there at 11:15, about fifteen minutes before we were scheduled to meet Annie… so we squeezed in close to the bar and placed our order with Kirsten, the blue-haired bartender. She promptly returned with a Speakeasy Big Daddy IPA for me, a Anchor Liberty Ale for Janet and a round of Underbergs for the three of us. A few minutes later, we settled into an empty area near the end of the bar and waited for Annie.

She arrived at the Toronado and asked me for a beer suggestion (Weinstephaner Lager)… but the beer is really the most insignificant part of the evening. Suffice it to say that I had a Speakeasy Prohibition and a Meteor Pils while Janet decided to have another Liberty Ale (which Annie also had as her second and final beer). The important part of the night was spending a couple of hours with a friend that we probably won’t see again for a long time. We talked until Johnny called Last Call at 1:45… which is when we left, said goodbye and watched Annie drive off in her yellow cab.

Saturday was a stressful day for me. All I could think of is having to weigh in for Golden Gloves on Sunday morning… so even though it was going to end up breaking my diet for a second night in a row, we decided to go to the Toronado so I could hang out with friends and have a pint, on the theory that it would help me get some sleep.

So, after dinner, we went over to the Toronado, making it there around 9pm. For some reason, the bar was not as crowded as usual… and we were able to get a pair of seats by the bar immediately.

Now, you have to remember that Janet and I used to go to the Toronado at least once a week… but since I have been in training, I have only been there two other times this month, and both times were quick in-and-out visits… so we never got a chance to talk to Ian. When he noticed us here, his face immediately lit up, and he took our orders. Janet decided to stick with the Liberty Ale (of which she would have two that night), while I started the night off with a pint of the Moonlight Irish I Was A Schtout. The stout was fantastic, dry and flavorful without a strong licorice taste like most American stouts tend to have. Not my favorite (Speakeasy Satchmo Stout), but damn close.

We spent the night talking with Ian and Johnny while exchanging jokes with Tad (the bouncer). It was so nice being back at the Toronado… I just can’t explain what it was like to be somewhere familiar with the locals who have become friends and the bartenders who tend to feel like family. *sigh*

Somewhere near 10pm I ordered my second beer, a Moylan’s Kiltlifter… a nice 60 shilling Scotch Ale… and though it didn’t get the blood flowing (and hormones raging) as its name would imply, it was a great beer never-the-less. Janet ordered her second Liberty at this time. As we were working on our second beers, Crab (a regular) came by and invited us to the taping of next week’s episode of Bachelor Chef, his cable-access cooking show. We accepted the offer and quickly finished our beers. The night ended early with us heading home around 11:10 pm.

Still, as relaxed as I was at the Toronado, the panic attack over weighing in kicked in on schedule (as it had for the last few nights) and I spent another night staring at the ceiling.

Additionally: Special Comic Artist Sighting Saturday night: Keith Knight (of “the K Chronicles“) seen in our very own Toronado! I only saw the back of his head as he was leaving. Eeee!

Though I eat Japanese food every chance I get, I have never been able to fully master the art of using chopsticks. Mind you, I was never one of those people who sends the waitress scurrying into the depths of the kitchen in search of a fork; I could pick food up with them, I just couldn't do it perfectly. The top ends always crossed, no matter how I tried to hold them, and according to Japanese etiquette, the ends just aren't supposed to cross. Avery would try in vain to explain it to me: "Hold them higher…no, put your fingers higher on the chopsticks…now pinch your fingers together…no, those fingers, and keep the bottom chopstick steady while you move the top one." (Me: "Stupid chopsticks. Stupid me.") After failing again and again, I resigned myself to one half-hearted attempt at the beginning of each meal, and left it at that.

While in Las Vegas last week, on a whim we decided to search out a Japanese restaurant. There were a few listed in the free What-To-Do-In-Las-Vegas magazine, but only one place described their sushi as "excellent": Hamada Sushi in the Luxor. And it was excellent, much to our surprise, even though we had to write down our order for the chef ourselves, which we thought was kind of weird. But this sushi was some of the best we've ever had, and dining at the Luxor Hotel & Casino affords you such after-dinner entertainment as watching the interactive King Tut robot slowly run out of power and be wheeled away by a Luxor maintenance man much to the dismay of the gathered crowd. But going back to the chopstick issue, as I picked up the chopsticks to eat a piece of gari, I noticed that the ends weren't crossing! I was using chopsticks the way they were intended to be used, and I owe it all to Playboy magazine. You see, while looking through the April issue of Playboy (and yes, I do read it for the articles, which are interesting much of the time. As far as the pictorials go, I think that they either use the same model every month and just change the name, or someone's doing some secret cloning) I noticed that in one of the "men's lifestyle"-type sections they had a step-by-step blueprint diagram showing you how to pick up — and maneuver — chopsticks. For some reason, their diagram made perfect sense, and the next time I picked up a pair of chopsticks, it just clicked…and I can't even go back to doing it the wrong way. Viva la Playboy articles!

ATTENTION THEATERGOERS: I know that there are many of you who go to see plays and musicals because you love them, and you own the soundtracks, and you know the plot, and you have great respect for both the members of the cast and your fellow audience members. I'm not talking to you.

I'm talking to the rest of you: you people who go to see theater for some mystery reason that I have not been able to quite figure out. I mean, you don't know the plot. You've never heard the songs. You usually end up not liking the performance very much at all, and then commence to fidget, crumple, whisper, talk, and noisily leaf through the Playbill every 5 minutes to see how many songs are left before Act Two is finished. Here's a thought: how about all of you bored, middle-aged people with nothing better to do than to plunk down anywhere from $70 – $200 for a pair of tickets to see a show that you don't even really want to see, for Christ's sake, how about leaving if you don't like it. How about doing us all a favor, — "us" being those of us who have budgeted money, who have scrimped and saved for tickets to a show that we love and will actually sit still for the 3 hours of the show — do us a favor and when you stand up at intermission, go out into the lobby and keep walking straight back to your hotel, or your mansion, or your yuppie loft, or wherever it is that you live. (I mean, I can't believe that so many clueless people pay top dollar for a show and then walk out at intermission, but at least they're not bothering me anymore.)

This rant was inspired by our experience of finally winning the Rent lottery last Friday night. The Rent lottery is a drawing before each show for the $20 tickets for the first two rows of seats in the theater. When Jonathan Larson created Rent, he wanted people that wouldn't necessarily be able to afford regular seats to be able to attend theater performances, so he came up with the $20 seats. Back in 1993, the first two rows were sold on a first come, first served basis, which was the official beginning of "The Line," where people ("Rentheads") would wait for days on end for the seats. The New York line (and lines across the country) have now been discontinued in favor of the supposedly safer lottery. The first two rows are largely populated by the same people who would wait in The Line — dedicated fans who have seen the show 10 times or more, at least. In San Francisco, we have witnessed middle-aged tourists who had nothing better to do win the seats, watch the show and rudely fidget/talk through the whole thing. This, to me, is a damn shame, because 1) there are people who would sit in those seats and love them (like us) and who will appreciate the experience for the rest of their lives, and 2) the tourists who do win, more than likely could afford good regular seats. In my opinion, there should be a rule that you have to have seen Rent at least 3 times to enter the lottery, but that'll never happen in this liberal fucking city.