Five Song Friday: Labor Negotiations
Episode #125: Flannel Rage, Claw Hands and Shush Me No More
I hear that you’re thinking about getting a job.
I’ve been asked to talk you out of it.
There are people who love you. People who worry about your future.
They want me to scare you straight.
Who am I? I’m just a guy who started working at 13 because I “thought it would be fun.” I was an innocent moron who thought it was the grown-up thing to do.
You want to be a man? You get a job like Mike Brady the architect or Sam the Butcher or the millions of other people who weren’t on The Brady Bunch.
You roll up your sleeves, put in an honest shift and bring home that minimum wage mother load!
I had no idea I’d still be doing this nonsense like a million years later.
I wish someone told me back then that once you start, it’s almost impossible to stop. Once you’re gainfully employed, it’s game over, man.
Working is like heroin, crack or candy corn.
It seems like a fun idea at the moment, but then you wake up without pants and your mouth tastes like the circus.
Job dealers aren’t stupid. They know how to push your buttons.
They lure you in with promises of security, community and purpose.
They offer a simple trade of their money for your time.
Once you say yes, they GOT YOU.
Sure it starts all friendly with a handshake and smile and a “see you Monday morning!”
But it usually ends with somebody (or everybody) crying in public. Slap fights. F-bombs and C-words. Somebody getting dunked on Carrie-style with a tub of cocktail sauce.
I can sense you’re feeling skeptical. Let me tell you about myself.
I got into this whole work thing for the same reason as most folks--I wanted to buy a whole bunch of dumb shit that I didn’t really need.
The lure of stuff is hard to resist.
As a kid, it was painful to sit by and watch my friends buy records and comic books and TWO slices of food court pizza like it was no big deal.
Was I supposed to be the only asshole WITHOUT a battery-operated Uzi water gun?
So I already had the THIRST by the time I walked into my buddy’s bedroom and saw the jar on his desk.
It was a huge, clear glass pickle jar overflowing with dollar bills. Crumpled, filthy (and intoxicatingly fragrant) ones and fives.
My eyes popped out of my skull like a cartoon wolf watching a burlesque dancer. My jaw dropped. Tongue unraveled onto the floor. Ahh-ooh-ga!
I was in love, for reals.
“Where did you get THAT?” I asked.
His answer was newspapers. He delivered newspapers.
I told him I wanted in.
And that’s where all this working for money nonsense started for me.
I threw folded logs of paper at people’s homes. Then I went door-to-door at dinner time and asked strangers to pay me with cash or check.
Back then, if I wanted my own money, that’s what I had to do. I didn’t have a choice.
I couldn’t ask my parents to restock my Apple Pay.
I couldn’t make a thousand dollars on YouTube for eating weird Japanese snack foods or waxing my eyebrows.
I had to wake up on Sunday mornings at five and ride my bike in rainstorms and bitter cold just to make sure people got their coupons and printed schedules of what was on television for the next seven days.
That was just my FIRST job. It went downhill from there.
One summer, I had to sit in a parking lot, read magazines for FOUR hours and yell at people to move their car if they weren’t coming inside to eat ribs.
Another summer, I had to unclog the men’s room toilet at a seafood restaurant with a spatula. I also split my khaki pants dead-squatting a sixty pound plastic trash bag of crab legs, shrimp tails and drawn butter.
And I still have a hard time talking about my time in the baked potato business.
What’s my point? If you ignore me and go ahead and get a job, just be ready for years of pain and suffering.
You will have good times, but it will not always donuts and roses. Work is no picnic, unless you’re thinking of a picnic where the only thing to eat is poop sandwiches. In which case, yes, it is just like that.
The highs are super high and the lows are super low (and if you work in restaurants, most of the kitchen staff will also be super high). Your heart will break, your spirit will wither and that spark of youthful joy will be snuffed out toot sweet.
Bottom line: work is a stupid idiot and you should avoid it as long as possible.
But honestly? You’re only 5, so you have plenty of time to think about it.
Five Song Friday #125
“Rainbow Chaser” - Nirvana
This is NOT the Kurt Cobain Nirvana from Seattle that we all remember from the 1990s when flannel and long hair for boys was all the rage. This is someone else entirely from a whole different time and place. They did have some court case because they owned the name first, but if you want to know about that story, you’re on your own, because last I checked, my name wasn’t Wikipedia.
“Million Dollar Man” - The Dig
This song is about the very first bionic man before they realized how much money it would take to build a really good one. He was basically just a normal guy with two claw hands and really thick prescription glasses. And he had to make that “na-na-na-na-na” sound with his own mouth. It was adorable, but also kind of sad.
“Doorstop Rhythmic Bloc” - Prolapse
Don’t ask me what a “doorstop rhythmic bloc” is because I have no idea. I went to the band’s website, but there is no FAQ section and they don’t even have a working chatbot. When I call the number listed, it goes straight to voicemail and sounds like a locksmith business. I mean, goddamnit guys, if you’re going to write cryptic songs like this, at least give your fans a way to follow up.
“Queen of Quiet” - Erin McKeown
I used to know this lady who didn’t make much noise. She barely spoke a word and just sat around on her couch making stuff with yarn. When I would come visit and ask to turn on the television, she said no. Radio? Nope. And when I unwrapped my favorite caramel candy? She shushed me. She shushed me like I was some kind of child! If you’re wondering if that made me so mad that I murdered her, the answer is a firm NO COMMENT!
“Don’t Haunt This Place” - The Rural Alberta Advantage
Yeah, thanks, but we’re all full of ghosts here. You might want to check down the block.
“I don’t think that we’re good and I don’t think that we’re evil. We just do stuff. And when we do something, stuff breaks.” - Dave Brockie aka Oderus Urungus (Born August 30, 1963)
Thanks for reading!
Sincerely,
DJ CrankyPete