What I did at work...

I didn't feel like working at work, so I wrote something...this is what came out...tell me what you think...

What's wrong with me? I am proportionate to the height and weight of what a man is supposed to be. I do the same daily rituials as a normal man...i.e...shower, shave, deoderize, cologne(although not too much...I've seen the commericals, and I know you dont' want to smell me from too far way). I drive a suitably priced, somewhat flashy, foreign car. I dress in all the latest fashions...I'm a fan of the "look sexy to others by dressing like you don't care" look. But, I also own three very nice suits. My hair is styled by a delightul gay man named Shawn who works at a reasonably expensive "barber shop". And, by barber shop, I do mean large breasted women and gay men using way too much mouse and hair dye in a place with plasma tv's that play every sports network known to man, and serve cappachino and sparkling water while you wait. I have a job that most people find interesting that pays me moderately, but the hours are great, and I don't have to do a lot. I am funny, engaging, smart, I can speak on current events or about the time I dropped acid at a Stones concert. And lastly, I am endowed in the male reigon at a size concurrent to, if not over-reaching the normal male average. So, I ask you, what is wrong with me? My name is Jim, and this is my story.

It has become abundantly clear to me that life/relationships don't happen like all the movies and tv I watch. And, while cheesy, why can't I fall in love with someone and meet them on top the Empire State Building on Valentines Day? Why can't I sit across from a girl and enjoy her company while she fakes an orgasm in a resturaunt? There are times I wanna be the Chachi to someones Joni, or the Bert so someone's Ernie...you get the picture. But, it is apparent to me that girls, as a whole, are completely insane. You walk around in tight pants and low cut shirts, and then you get pissed when I accidently glance at your chest. This just doesn't seem fair to me. Yes, you have the right to not feel like an object. I'm all for womens-lib and equal rights and all that jazz...but for God sakes...if you don't want your goods stared at, don't put them on display!

I review movies for a living, and in New York, I am a dime a dozen. I've been lucky to catch on with a pretty big magazine...you might have read our article about what was really going through Brittney's head right before she shaved it. The benifit to my job is I see all the free movies I can handle, and I don't have to go to an office. The downfall is....I have to see all of these movies, and I get paid a slave wage. Mind you, a slave wage in New York is a healthy salary in damn near any town in America, but that's me...I live way above my means. I figure if I look important, and have a "somewhat" important job, people will look my way...nay...girls will look at me. Although, the only ones that have been looking my way lately are the ones glaring at me because I've taken a peek below their neckline.

When I started this job I lived in a small town in Ohio, and everyone thoughtI was the most interesting around. I got free movie tickets, every now and then I'd get to interview a mediocre celebrity. At the start, I just did this for money, this was not the path I wanted for my life. I was the writer in high school, everyone loved to read my stories. So, I got my college degree in English, and I thought because of that I'd have the best literary life anyone could ask for. Well, after 5 years and several failed attempts, my credit cards were maxed out, and the rent was long overdue. I had to find something that kept me from working very hard and would at least help pay the bills. It seemed like a perfect fit. I loved movies, I watched a lot of movies even when I wasn't getting paid for it. So, by God, why not get paid for it? So, I wrote a few reviews and sent them to various newspaperers, magazines, and internet sites. After, what seemed like thousands of rejections, someone finally saw something they enjoyed. They liked the way I wrote, and from early in high school, that's the only reason I wrote anyway...the credit I got from others. So, I started seeing movies for free and writing about them. Then they wanted me to start writing a weekly column about movies and the stars in these movies. The next thing I know I'm getting shot down byWill Farrell's agent while seeing if I can get him on the phone to talk about his role in "Old School". For a 23 year old kid..that's making it...right?

I was a hit in what I was doing...of course I was...this was Ohio! So...I took the next step, pried myself from my mom's crying arms and moved to New York City. The Big Apple...I was ready to take a bite! What happened when I got here was something I never saw coming. My success in the small town was non-existant in the mecca of human existance. This town was full of people just like me, only they were smarter than me, more experienced than me, and they were far more talented than me. I was screwed. What I did learn from New York in a hurry is that the only way to get by is to know someone who knows someone else. That's how the world works when you can't get by anymore on your severe lack of talent. So, I networked. I went to all the shows...I talked to all the other critics I could. I called magazines, I called newspapers, I called the mayor (turns out, he did not care about the review I wrote for "Saving Private Ryan"). Just like home, I sent out reviews to everyone, even people who didn't have a review column. I would have taken a job for Cat Fancy if they would have offered.

What I came across was a small newspaper called "Your Voice". I think they're circulation was a three block radius, no one read it, and it was free. But the editor, a overweight bald man named Joe Clemons, loved the way I wrote and paid me $40 a review, and I had to pay my way into movies again. Needless to say, if I didn't want to die cold and alone on the streets, I was going to have to find another job.

I did what every other self-respecting starving artist with a college degree does in New York City, I sold overpriced coffee to assholes. I was part of the Starbucks franchise, but not just any Starbucks, I was at the epicenter of every large magazine company in New York.

Every morning I would wake up at 5a.m. and do research on movies and music that were going on around me. I would leave my apartment at 6:30 and ride a bike I bought from a swap meet for $7 and had to put air in the front tire after every ride to my place of business. I would always make sure to stop and pick up as many copies of "Your Voice" as I could(it was a free paper) and leave them laying on almost every table at Starbucks. Not getting the attention I was hoping for, I started opening the papers to the page my review was on, so everyone who sat down would see what I had written...or they would sit their drink on what I had written. Either way, I was contributing to them in some way.

Everyday at 4:00 p.m. I would leave work, pump up my bike tire, pick up a few newspapers, and go home to research more. At 6:00 p.m I would leave my apartment again and head to the theater to see a movie that started at or around 7:30. I would sitthrough whatever movie I was seeing that night, take notes in the theater with my pen with the light on it that my mom had gotten me for a gift after I had published my first review, and then head home. Over a bowl of cheap soup, hot dogs, or Ramen noodles, I would write my review for said movie while seeing if my hometown Reds had won their game that night. After sitting on my couch with my computer on my lap for about three hours, the review would be done, and my ass would be asleep. I would make my way to the bedroom, and pass out around 2 a.m. This was my cycle for eight months.

After working at the soul sucking coffe joint for so long the boss actually let me hang my reviews up, along with still putting as many as possible on tables patiently waiting to be read by an unsuspecting magazine exec. Oddly enough...one day it actually worked. There was a man that I'd seen coming in for almost a year at the same time everyday who didn't have the time to order anything special; Large coffee, 2 creams, 1 sugar. He wasn't spectactular in any way, shorter than me, balding, pasty white. He wore a black suite everyday with a startling array of pastel ties that would make the Easter Bunny envious. He would come in, get his coffee, sit down, and read the "Your Voice" sitting on his table, get up, leave. One day while he was reading I was, as normal, avoiding my job, and I noticed him reading my review of "Blades of Glory" the new Will Farell movie, and he was laughing...I can only guess at my "I couldn't love a human baby more than I loved this movie" quote. He got up to throw his coffee away and saw the same review on the wall. He looked at me, and then looked back at the wall, then walked over to me. "Are you the same Jim that writes these reviews?" he asked.
"Yep..." I say, not really too excited. I was sure he was just another yahoo who commented on my writing when they found out I was writing for a newspaper..."No matter how small a paper is....at least you're published" they'd always say. It was getting old.
"You can write, and your line about the baby...made me laugh."
"Thanks, if you see the movie it makes more sense."
"Oh, I've seen it....I work across the street."
"You work for "NY Weekly!?"
"Yes Sir, Lenny Jackson" He shakes my hand. " and I think you should send me some of your stuff...I might be able to get you out of this coffee house and into a magazine."

Now I'm paing attention to this man, and I have yet to let go of his hand. I seem to be staring at him, mouth agape, shaking his hand like an idiot. He could be the key to my financial freedom from the shackles of coffee assholes USA. "I've got about ten months of movie, music, and book reviews sir, you tell me what you want, and I'll send them to wherever you want them!" he can tell I'm excited.

"Don't get too excited...we've got a lot of people who write reviews. I've just enjoy reading yours when I come in here, and now that I know who writes them, maybe I can talk to someone about you."
"I'd do pretty much anything to get out of here sir." I say as my boss is standing by me looking skeptically at my lack of work.

"Here's my card, give me a call and we'll get something set up." He says. Then he shakes my hand, and walks out the door. There's not much focus on coffee making from here on out. The conversation that we just had keeps running through my head. "Mocha-non-fat-latte" "NO FOAM!" "Are you paying attention Jim?" "Jim!"My boss is standing by me as I'm staring out the front window...and he's practically yelling in my ear before I hear him. "Just go...you're useless right now!""Thanks boss!" and before my apron hits the counter I'm putting air into my bike tired and heading down the street. I walk up the 3 flights of stairs it takes me to get to my apartment noticing for the first time what a dump I live in. My thoughts of riches and fame have been going through my head since.

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well...that's all I've got...hoped you dug it.