Long live the weekend...

Well, that was a hell of a weekend. Sorry for the incommunicado, but from Saturday to Monday we were maxin' and relaxin' in beautiful Provincetown, MA. I spent three days on the beach during the day, then sitting outside, listening to music and drinking the night away.

For those of you who don't know, Provincetown is a gorgeous little town on the tip of Cape Cod. Cute, scenic, surrounded by beaches and bars and restaurants.

Oh, yeah... it's also the gayest town in America. I mean... seriously gay. That's part of it's charm, of course. But man... whoo! Real gay.

We (Mrs. TK and I) went down there with about 8-10 friends, and had a fucking ball. We sat in the sun, we swam, we barbecued, we ate at a couple of great restaurants (including the only South African restaurant I've ever seen), we went on walks, we rode our bikes, we drank (heavily), we smoked a pile of... um...

Anyway. My cell phone battery died on the first day. There's something very liberating about three days with no cell phone and no computer. Yes, it means I neglect you mangy beasts lovely readers, but it had to be done. Some highlights:

Mrs. TK and I going on a bike ride and being happy to discover we're not nearly as out of shape as we thought we were.

My friend and I heading into P-Town on Sunday night to buy more beers and (at least we're pretty sure) being mistaken for a very busted-looking gay couple, which led to some absolutely hilarious exchanges. My favorite was this:

We walk into a liquor store. It's got a million different kind of fancy beers, and at the bottom of the case, two 18-packs of Bud. Of course, since we were drinking for volume, we buy the two 18-packs. We get up to the register. The guy rings us up, I glance at Tim, he glances at me, shrugs and says "I got no money."

Me: Of course you don't.
Store Owner: Isn't that always the way?
Tim: Whatever.
Me: I guess it's on me.
SO (to Tim): Do you make him carry them too?
Me: Very funny.
Tim: Come on, mule. Bring the booze.

We get out of the store, I look at Tim and say:
You know he thinks I'm the daddy, right?

Ah, maybe you had to be there. But we ended up having one of those moments... you ever have one of those moments when you just. can't. stop. laughing? Like, tears-pouring-down-your-face laughter? Well, this was one of those. Except it went on for about 2 hours. To the point where I think we started annoying our friends. Every time we looked at each other, it resulted in gut-busting laughter.

We also learned that... well... there are a lot (a LOT) of unusual fetishes out there. We found a card in the house we stayed in that was for um... well, I guess color codes for fetishes, so that people would know what you were into. It basically looked like this on the back, with a picture of a large man in chaps on the front. See, this is the kind of service my blog provides. Come for the reading, stay for the fetish education. Thank me later.

Anyway. I'm back, with a bitchin' tan, and miserable about being back at work. That's all I got for now. Hope you all had lovely weekends.

These memories can't wait.

You ever have one of those days where you have a flood of random memories?

Here's one of those posts that just sort of created itself, based on what I was thinking about.

I'm not sure what prompted me to write this post... maybe I've gotten a little weary of attempting to amuse you greedy lot (I kid out of love. Out of love!). I suppose I started thinking about this over the weekend, when a friend came to visit. We were sitting in my backyard, drinking a couple of beers, and he asked how long I was planning on staying in my house. My immediate response? As long as possible. I love my house. But sometimes I wonder - do I love my house because it is an awesome house, or do I love my house because it's my house*? And then... well, then a whole cascade of thoughts and memories began to creep up on me. I thought about moving, and not only how much I hated it, but how often I've done it. I've moved probably more than anyone I know, in fact. And each time I've done it, there's been difficulty that followed shortly after (except for the last couple, probably because I was an adult and the situations were very different). But what I've really been thinking about is culture shock. And how it took Mrs. TK and I some time to adjust to the fact that we are, in fact, suburbanites. Moving to a place as different as the Mayberry-like little 'burb that we're in took a great deal of adjustment... though you'd think I'd be used to it. So here's my little tale about culture shock.

I was born 32 years ago in Cape Town, South Africa. As you hopefully know, that was when South Africa was in even more turmoil than it is now. Apartheid was moving along at a steady clip. My parents did their best to shelter us from it, but since my father was half black, half Indian, and my mother was also a murky mix of ethnicities, it was probably a challenge for them.

We moved to the U.S. when I was two years old. Obviously, I remember little about this. Hell, I barely remember yesterday. But we moved to Cambridge, MA, and I went to a cute little "Alternative Public School", run by hippies and liberal philosopher-poets. But it was great. My dad studied at MIT, and my mom worked as an accountant. We lived in an apartment above one of my teachers, and she bred butterflies, which was fun as well. We made it through the blizzard of '78 and had fun doing it.

And then, in around 1981-1982, INS discovered that our visas had expired, and booted us out of the country. My father packed us into his rusted green wood-paneled station wagon, and drove us off to the airport. He left the car in the lot with the keys in the ignition, took off the plates and threw them in a trash can. Oddly, this would become a trend in my family - abandoning cars when we moved.

The move back to South Africa was a strange one. I had been too young to remember anything about it from before we left. In fact, I barely remembered any of my relatives. And I had a lot of relatives. All of a sudden, I had grandparents, more than a dozen aunts and uncles, and more than 30 cousins. Most of which remembered me. And I felt like a total stranger among them, with my funny American accent and incessant need to match all my clothes. Shut up. I was an unusual child. We moved into my grandmother's house, and my family embraced me. Once I learned all their names, it felt like some crazy tribe of really fun drunks had adopted me.

And then I started going to school. You want to talk about culture shock? When I left the US, I had just finished either Kindergarten or first grade (I forget which). In my hippy alternative public school, with teachers who wore beards and braids and I think they were made out of hemp as well. We called them by their first names and listened to "Free To Be, You And Me" and held hands a lot.

In South Africa, I went to Catholic school, because the public schools were AWFUL. I mean... really awful. The kind of awful that doesn't exist here. Catholic school wasn't so hot either. We played soccer on sand. The classrooms were small and overcrowded and stuffy. We had sixth or seventh generation books, that we frequently had to share. I remember there being 52 kids in my math class. Try organizing 52 8 year olds into any semblance of a learning unit. But my biggest shock, of course, came the first time I did something bad... and got caned for it. Yes, I said caned. As in hit with a lang, bamboo cane. On the hand for minor offenses, on the butt for bigger ones. Some teachers had temper problems and would just go after kids, and the blows landed where they landed. That, my friends, is culture shock. God, I remember telling my mother about it, and her telling me to be grateful that they no longer soak the canes in salt water, like they did when she was a kid. No outrage, no anger, just a sad acceptance - and telling me it could be much worse.

And so, for two or three years, we lived there once again. And I grew to love it. I loved the giant network of family. I loved that my uncle would take us hiking on Table Mountain every weekend, or camping. I loved the giant, raucous family gatherings, full of drinking and guitar playing and dancing and laughing. We moved out of my grandma's house, and I loved our new house. It was small, but it had trees for climbing and my dad built a fishpond out of an old cast iron tub. Over the course of those two years we had dogs and cats and chickens and frogs and turtles and ducks. My dad got a good job as an urban planner, my mom did well as an accountant. We were decidedly middle class, maybe even upper middle class. For our race, of course.

Because there was always that dark side... the side I never thought about because I was too young to really fully realize the truth about this beautiful country that I lived in. And that truth was that it was rotting, and vile, and corrupt. The truth was that the reason we never went to the nice beaches was because of the color of our skin. And that my parents had to carry "ID Books" around, which said what our racial mix was. And my father's white friends would hide their friendship with us from their families. I didn't have any white friends, because we didn't live near any white people. You didn't make eye contact with whites. You moved out of their way when they were on the sidewalk. You used different bathrooms, different water fountains.

My dad still has a sign that he stole from a beach that says "Whites Only" on one side and "Non-Whites Only" on the other. It was a singularly strange existence for a child. I remember seeing a black man get hit by a car, a brown Mercedes, and the driver (a white man) sped away. The man died, and the police barely seemed to care. The crime and poverty rates were nothing short of staggering. Almost daily, homeless people would ring the doorbell and ask if we had any bread to spare, or if they could eat the peaches that had fallen off the tree in the front yard. My dad, being my dad, would give them leftovers, and tell them to pick the ripe ones. I remember him piling me and my cousin into the car to take us to the movies, only to have a man, covered in blood and naked and wrapped in a plastic sheet, come staggering out of the bushes. He worked at the shop up the street, and three men had come in with machetes to rob the place. They'd slashed him up, tortured him, and killed his co-worker. And I remember how long it took for the police to arrive.

Things were hard for my father, being that he was a radical activist with ties to both the Communist Party (illegal) and the African National Congress (also illegal). And eventually I think he just got tired of worrying about us so much. So...

We moved again. My mom got a company in Boston to sponsor us, and at 10 or 11 years old, we came back to the U.S. And lived in probably the whitest. suburb. in. America. Culture shock again. All of a sudden I had only white friends, and only white people around me. But more so, I was old enough to realize the difference this time. And I'll never forget the cunning smile that must have been on my face when I realized that the worst thing that would happen in school would be getting sent to the principals office. I thought "I'm going to get away with murder here", and proceeded to become an absolutely awful child. Of course, when things got to the point where the school called my parents... well... if you've read this post, you can probably figure out what happened. Let's just say my behavior improved.

We moved again, to a different house in the same city. I went to junior high and high school and blah blah blah. I went to Wisconsin for college, and thought "Jesus, could it get any fucking blonder around here?" Weird state, man. Fun school. Weird state. My parents moved back to Cape Town. I moved back to the town I grew up in, and lived in a friend's basement for a few months. Then I moved to Allston, then Cambridge, then Allston again. Then Philly, and two more apartments and a new set of friends. Then back to Mass., to another apartment. Then to this house.

So yeah. Culture shock. Cape Town. Boston. Cambridge. Madison. Philadelphia. I'll never say my life's been boring.

One final note on this rambling, pointless post - several years ago, we went to Cape Town to visit my parents. It was my first or second time being back since Apartheid had collapsed due to international pressure, economics, and from feeding on it's own bloated, rotted corpse. It was fascinating seeing what had changed (and, unfortunately still, what had not changed.). But my favorite moment was my entire gigantic, coloured family going to a formerly-white beach, getting nothing but dirty looks from the old-schoolers who hadn't caught up with the new era, and having the time of our lives. How's THAT for culture shock.


*the answer, I've concluded, is both.



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Listening to: Moby - God Moving Over The Face Of The World

This reminds me of that time you tried to drill a hole in your head

I'm not sure how it happened, but I somehow got sucked into writing for another blog. Which is probably a terrible idea, since I barely write for this one. In fact, I don't even know if you can call it "writing". It's more like transcribing my verbal diarrhea. But whatever.

The site is called Burt Reynolds' Mustache. Hey, don't look at me, I didn't name the damn thing. But I've learned an important lesson since being drafted into service there, and that lesson is this:

Don't respond to emails from strangers when drunk.

Although, I suppose that there are worse things that can happen should one do so. Anyway, apparently a bunch of bloggers write there, and they are each responsible for a specific day of the month. I get the 21st. The 21st of EACH MONTH. What a terrible fucking idea this was. Who knew blogging would be so demanding. I mean, if I didn't crave the artificial attention and wasn't desperate for acknowledgment by a bunch of anonymous lunatics, I might just quit this gig. But alas, I need love and attention. The attention of lying strangers is all that gets me through my day.

Oh God. Oh, dear sweet God, please stop the hurting.

OK, that took a weird turn again. Ignore that last bit.

Anyway. How was everyone's weekend? Good? I don't particularly give a shit, but I'm trying to get you to keep coming back. My weekend was lovely. Friday was the Rebirth Brass Band cruise, which totally rocked and was highlighted by me teaching a sixty-something year old man how to light a joint in high wind on the deck of a boat. What can I say. I read a lot.

A friend from out of town came in Saturday, and we had a good time catching up, drinking and laughing about how insane the Midwest is (he's a college friend).

Today I'm sleepy and can't wait until lunch.

Anyway. Tomorrow is the 21st. You'll find me over here. It's a weird site. With a bunch of weirdos writing for it. Again, I don't know what I'm doing over there. I suppose I'm just lost in a desperate quest for love and affection, wandering through these empty electronic streets, wishing someone would just cuddle with me, or perhaps rub my back a bit.

OK, ignore that part too.

Peace out, playas.

P.S. - Shut it, Red.



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Listening to: Tricky - My Evil Is Strong

Fortune and glory, kid. Fortune and glory.

God, I couldn't be less inspired to do a blog posting if I tried. But it's been about a week, and a certain pain-in-the-ass is giving me shit (again), so what the hell. Let's slap a stamp on it and mail this fucker in. Before we get to the actual post (which relates to the post title), I figured we'd do a quick bit of catch-up.

Life has actually been pretty good (and maybe that's the problem). Of course, last week at work was the exception. My boss was on vacation, and whenever she goes on vacation, all hell breaks loose. Last week we had a kid overdose on heroin and die in one of the bathrooms of the developments we manage. Jesus. Talk about depressing. And now we're dealing with cops and family members and the whole mess is just sad.

Then we had the cops try to serve a warrant on one of our more unsavory residents. He ended up jumping out of a window with a gun and knife in hand, fleeing into a neighboring apartment, knocking the woman there around, and then holding a knife to his own throat to try to get the cops to back off. The cops, after he busted out the window, ended up calling in S.W.A.T., tore the place apart, and needless to say, did not back off. Cops don't like it when you run away, and they don't particularly like it when you beat up helpless women while doing so. Anyhoo, I suspect the official report is gonna say he fell both up and down the stairs, if you get my meaning. They ended up finding 120 grams of cocaine, a .380 pistol, a .45 pistol, several rounds of ammo, $20,000 in cash and a fully loaded, fully modified AK-47 in his apartment.

So yeah. How was your work week?

In more fun news, I'm going to see the Rebirth Brass Band on Friday, which should be awesome. Then Saturday one of my good friends from college is coming to visit, who I haven't seen in years. The the next weekend we're going to Provincetown with a bunch of friends, which should be a big, gay (it is P-Town, after all) blast. THEN my sister's coming for Labor Day weekend, which should be... well, we all know what happens when she and I get together.

Next month I'm doing a bachelor party/camping trip, a business trip to L.A., and then a wedding.

Jesus. I'm exhausted just writing all of that.

I figured that you all know me well enough, so it's worth noting that I haven't injured myself, nor embarrassed myself, in about 2 weeks. Except for Saturday night when I was drunk and tried to pick up the metal cover to our firepit and burned four out of five fingers. Oh, and last week I tripped on a blanket and went flying head first into my closet, ending up with a face full of shoes.

Crap.

Let's finish up with a completely random and ridiculous story. Monday night, I was at a friends house, watching baseball and drinking and getting high and eating Chinese food, because that's how I roll on a motherfuckin' Monday beeotch and shut up I don't have a problem and I don't need to talk to anyone and someone please hold me oh God I just need some attention oh please someone make the pain stop...

Whoa. That was strange. Who saw that coming?

Anyway. Monday I was at a friend's house... um... discussing French philosophy and eating salads before heading home for an early bedtime. And we ordered Chinese food, and two of us got the exact same fortune. I mean, exact same, front and back. Weird, no?

Well fuck a bunch of weird, because I can beat that shit. When I was in college at UW-Madison, my friend Phil and I used to go to the same Chinese place every Friday. We never used to pay attention to the fortune cookies, and just toss them. Then one week we decide to open them. Of course, this was 13 or 14 years ago, so I forget the specific language, but we open them, and Phil's says something to the tune of "You will receive great wealth and accolades in your life".

Mine? Mine is blank. Seriously. It's a blank piece of paper. So I freak out a little, but being a naturally cynical guy, it doesn't bother me too much.

The following week we go back, we eat, we have a good time, and then we sit there looking at the fortune cookies. Phil looks at me, and tells me to pick first. I pick mine, he takes his, we open them. Again, Phil's is a prediction of prosperity and wonderfulness.

Mine is fucking blank. Again. I shit you not. It's like I'm cursed.



Now I'm more than a little freaked out. I mean, two blank fortunes, two weeks in a row? What are the odds? I mean, who among you has EVER received a blank fortune in a cookie? And now I get two in a row?

The following week I tell Phil I'm done. I'm never eating there again. He begs, he pleads (it's worth noting that the food here was really fucking good). I cave, and off we go.

Eat our meals. And then it's time. I'm actually getting genuinely scared. I mean seriously worried. We do the same thing. Phil lets me pick. He opens his. Fortune and Glory, once again.

Fortune and glory. My turn. My hands are literally trembling. I smile a shaky smile, open the wrapper, crack open the cookie and...

Nothing. No, not blank again.

Nothing. The fucking thing is EMPTY. No fortune inside.

I never went back. Two months later the place closed down.

Have a good week.

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Listening to: RJD2 - Fuck A Soundcheck

There's an old Italian saying: you fuck up once, you lose two teeth.

I'm going to the dentist soon, and of course, that reminds me of a story...

Embarrassment seems to be a running theme through the interwebs these last few days. Pajiba asked commenters to write down their secret shame albums. No, I won't write mine here, you can dig over there for it. And then of course, there is always Meg, who has become my sister-in-awkwardness.

Now, those who have been coming here for a while know that I have a rare gift for this stuff. In between numerous (and ridiculous) injuries and my inability to keep my mouth shut, I may hold some sort of regional record for embarrassment. So I figure, what the hell. Let's give the people what they want, and give you another tale of woe. And I must warn you, it's pretty graphic.

Shortly before I went to college, I went to the dentist. I suppose I should mention (while I'm embarrassing myself) that I am notoriously bad at going to the dentist, so I hadn't been in a while. Like years. The fact that I have a strange phobia about people prodding at my face (seriously - and don't get me started on how much the eye doctor freaks me out), and I've historically had bad experiences at the dentist, I'm a little nervous. But, my dad is making me, and when my dad says go, I go.

And it turns out that (surprise) I need a bunch of fillings. And since I'm leaving for college soon, the dentist suggests I do it all at once. Fine. I come back a couple of days later, and settle in for one of the single most uncomfortable experiences of my life. Fillings, repeated Novocaine shots (in the mouth - shudder), and dental drills. Awesometown. Population: Me.



Anyway, we're moving along. I'm dizzy with pain, getting my fillings, getting the shots, etc. It's brutal. My doc gets a phone call, so he breaks and tells me if I need to use the bathroom, I can use the one to the left of the door.

He very specifically points out which direction to go. I head over there, and it's locked. So I nonchalantly go through the waiting room to the waiting room bathroom. As I'm walking through, I see a number of crying children and scared looking parents.

Weird, I think. I wonder what that shit's all about?

*shrug*

I get into the bathroom, do my thing, and go to wash my hands. And then... I look in the mirror.

Oh.My.Fucking.God.

I look like someone's nightmare. I look... words can barely describe it. The Novocaine has made my lower jaw swell tremendously. I didn't realize it until that moment, but I can't actually close my mouth. My tongue is literally hanging out, also swollen. I am wearing a bib that is covered in bloody spittle. And, worst of all, I am drooling uncontrollably. I mean CONSTANTLY. A steady stream of blood and drool is pouring out of my mouth, running down the bib and onto my pants. I basically look like Rawhead Rex.



And I just strolled through a room full of already-nervous children and their parents.

And now I have to go back through the waiting room. I open the door, and everyone in the waiting room has been staring at the door while I was in there (probably hoping that they either hallucinated me, or that I'm an extra in a horror movie). I come out, and say "Oh, I am so sorry", except that I can't actually talk. So it's basically just me going

"awg, irmf ggorf blarshie"

and more drooling.

Not my finest moment, people. Not one bit.

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Listening to: Uncle Tupelo - Moonshiner

Take it easy, Champ. Why don't you sit this next one out, stop talking for a while.

Well, I suppose there was enough interest in yesterday's awesome comment section to warrant an explanation as to how the word "gangbang" made it into my meeting yesterday...

It was a meeting about community-police relations. The city councilor was recommending that after a major crime (murder or rape), the Police Dept. hold a meeting in the affected neighborhood. I was opposed, seeing as it provides no value other than to reassure the neighborhood and give them an opportunity to bitch at the cops. It's time the cops could better spend, oh, solving crime. So I said...

Well, as long as we understand that a meeting like this serves no practical purpose other than to placate the neighborhood residents. My fear is that this will turn into a giant gangbang where everyone teams up on the police... what?

stunned silence, horrified stares

Oh. Did I just...? Uh... can we just pretend that last 30 seconds didn't happen?

However. I stand by my stance, if not the exact wording. It's a stupid idea. The city I work in is a relatively low-crime city, so when a "serious" crime is committed, some people completely freak out, and frequently blame the police department. Which is idiotic. If some guy shoots his wife, or some moron stabs a kid in an alley, it's not the fault of the police. And frequently, the cops have little to work with (no witnesses, little cooperation or communication from the neighbors). While I certainly agree that there are a number of lazy, useless cops out there, I hate to see people get on their case for circumstances beyond their control.

Now, had I said that, my argument may have had more validity to it. Instead, everyone stared at me like I had taken my dick out in the middle of a meeting.

Also, I have now used the words "murder", "rape", "gangbang"," fuck", "bitch", "cops", and "stabs" in the last two posts, in the last 36 hours. Not to mention the phrase "shoots his wife". Great. Now I'm really gonna draw some freaks. They're going to make the rest of you look like a church group.


PS - I finally broke up with Hotmail . If anyone wants to email me, send mail to
uncooked.meat [at] gmail.com.

Adios.

If I want you to speak, I'll wave a Snausage in front of your nose.

Um... here's a question...

Is it wise to, oh, say... use the word "gangbang"? Figuratively speaking, of course.

At work?

In a meeting?

With two members of the police department present?

And your boss?

And someone from the Department of Youth Services?

And a City Councilor?

No?

Really?



Oh, fuck.

Just can't find the time to write my mind the way I want it to read

Excuse me as I gratuitously steal an idea from McSweeney's. The best of which is this one, incidentally.

Open letters to the various irritations in my life...

Dear chipmunk that has taken up living in the ceiling above my basement:
Get the fuck out. For real. Before you make me do something I don't want to do. Namely, kill you before you chew up my house. I thought you'd have learned when one of the cats killed your brother, but apparently not. Learn from his mistakes, and beat it.
Sincerely,
TK


Dear guy in the goofy looking yellow Subaru Baja who keeps cutting in and out of traffic every morning:
Dude. It's rush hour. Accept it and move on. You're doing nothing but aggravating everyone around you. And maybe you haven't noticed, but I stay in the same lane for the whole drive, and I beat you to the I-90 exit every.single.time. Asshole.
Warmest regards,
TK


Dear Hotmail Junk filter:
You suck. Seriously. You're horrible. What do I have to do to get it through your thick e-skull that I don't want free airline tickets, cialis, viagra, or lonely sluts who love to fuck (aka Romanian trannies who will roll you in an alley for the fillings in your teeth). I know their schemes are incredibly complicated, using brilliant tactics like slightly different email addresses and misspelled words, but... stop letting them through, dumbfuck, or I swear I'll switch to Gmail and never look back.
Fuck you,
TK



Dear squirrels that are wrecking my bird feeder:
Knock it off. It's not for you, you greedy bastards. I've got a tree full of acorns, but noooo, you have to be greedy and steal from the birds. Keep it up and I'm releasing the hounds. You've been warned.
All the best,
TK


Dear dinging noise that chimes in my car every time I take a right turn:
Please stop. And please don't be a sign of something broken, or I will be very sad. I'd like to think I've treated you better than this (except for that time when I backed into someone in a parking lot, but that was totally the other guys fault. You know that. Don't hold it against me.)
Pleading hopefully,
TK

Dear Starbucks guy:
Let's not make this hard on each other. I'm only in here because my wife likes your coffee drinks. Me, I'm a Dunkies guy. So 1) Please don't give me that condescending look when I come in looking like a homeless man. I was mowing the lawn. 2) When I ask for a small, please don't correct me and make me use the "proper Starbucks terminology (tm)", or I will straight-up murder your ass.
Yours in Christ,
TK


Dear Audrey the Beagle:
Stop waking up and crying at 5:30 in the morning. Or I will punt you over the fence and someone else can take care of your three-legged ass.
Can't stay mad at you because you're so goddamn cute,
TK

Super Awesome Camping Adventure!

So, as you may recall, we went camping this week.

Well... not exactly. Everything went great. Wednesday morning we got up, packed up the truck, packed up the dog (only one came with. Three-legged beagles? Not so much with the hiking.), and off we went. 150 miles from our house to the White Mountains. After about 50 miles... it started raining. Not hard, mind you, but... raining. But, hardy folk that we are, we soldiered on.

We stopped at a tourist center in NH, and asked the guy at the desk what he knew about the forecast. His response? "60% chance of rain, every day this week."

Not to be deterred, we told nature to go screw, and continued. We made it to the mountains, found a beautiful campsite right on Russell Pond. It was actually great. Barely anyone else around. Started pitching the tent.

And one of the tent poles broke. But, Mrs. TK, being clever and nimble, managed to fix it. However, by now, it was raining a bit more steadily. But we're determined to continue, because Goddammit, we took time off from work for this. So using her knot-tying skills and my tree-climbing skills, we hang a giant tarp between four trees that covers the picnic table, so we can eat in nice, dry comfort. Finally, we break. We have lunch, and go on a short hike. By the time we get back... it's fucking pouring. I mean, really badly. But, we decide to stick it out. I start getting dinner ready. She is going to organize our stuff inside the tent.

I come back from the car with some food supplies, and I hear this from inside the tent.

"Um, dear? I have some exceptionally bad news."
"What?" I ask.
"The tent is leaking pretty badly".

Motherfucker. Motherfucker! Goddamn Motherfucking son.of.a.BITCH!

So, that was when we finally conceded defeat. Nature, that dirty bitch-whore, had won. We packed up our gear, and checked into a lovely inn that allowed dogs. Had dinner in the restaurant, slept in a king-size bed. All the while saying, "well, it beats a leaky tent".

Thursday we got up, had breakfast, checked out, drove back to the site to take the tent and the tarp down. It was only raining gently, so we decided to go for a hike, which actually ended up being fantastic. There is something really wonderful about the woods right after rain - everything seems greener, there are fewer bugs... it was a good time. It was a tough hike, and a lot of uphill (we were in the mountains, after all). But the payoff at the top was worth it (I recommend clicking the pics - the full size is much better):


Sure, it's a little cloudy, but it was beautiful. Trust me. Here's a few more:

Me, standing on a wooden bridge. This isn't a bad picture - the forest canopy was so thick it actually was this dark.

Ceili The Wonder Dog, swimming happily.





A boy and his dog. And the goofy hat that he bought while on a safari in South Africa.

So there you are. Camping was a bust. We still managed to have a lot of fun, but we didn't actually go camping. Which sucks, because this was going to be my wife's very first time sleeping outdoors. We'll get out there someday soon though.

I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run

Three more hours.

Three more hours and I'm free, and for 8 glorious days we will be on vacation. Sweet, glorious, delicious vacation.

Tomorrow is prep day, and on Wednesday we begin three days of camping in New Hampshire's White Mountains. The rest of the time will be some day trips, some hiking, and a great deal of lounging and relaxing. It's unlikely that there will be any posts, since I'm going to do my damndest to avoid a computer. So have a great week, folks.

If you need me, we'll be here:



Trying to find this:

Let God sort 'em out...

So, I was reading a post over at the newly christened I'm Quietly Judging You, about the author's recent battle with a dead mouse. And for some weird reason, I started thinking about the recent spate of problems we've been having with pests at the ole' Meat Factory. For a while, we had mice that were invading the garage, until Audrey (aka Stumbles the three-legged beagle) managed to take one down, and the rest appeared to have died from the poison I left in the garage. But our not-so-new problem is...

Wasps.

Let me just say, before we go any further: fucking ick. We had a problem with them last year, and while I managed to kill the nests, it creeped me the fuck out. And now I just finished doing some research on wasps, and I'm even more creeped out. The thing is, wasps are actually somewhat helpful. They only eat other bugs, and they rarely cause any damage to your house. Their nests are pretty small - the one on my garage is only a little bigger than a golf ball. However, I also learned that their stingers don't have barbs, meaning they can sting repeatedly. And when they sting, they release a pheromone that drives other wasps insane and causes them to attack in a collective psycho-wasp fury.

My wife is probably hiding under the bed after reading that, because she has a serious issue with paralyzing fear of bees/wasps/any sort of flying stinging thing. Not that I blame her, because frankly, that's enough for me too. Any insect that can do that much damage to me and mine has got. to. go.

I have some simple rules regarding wildlife. For the most part, I'm a live and let live kind of guy. Birds who eat my grass seed? So be it. Squirrels? Fine, whatever. Caterpillars, moths, you're free to be. Spiders are fine as long as they stay out of my house. Garter snakes I usually catch and release into the woods behind the house. But anything with a toxic stinger that can go into a poisonous homicidal rage and bring all it's poisonous homicidal cousins? Adios, motherfuckers.

Similarly, whenever we go to Cape Town to visit my folks, they used to have (in their old house) a bit of a scorpion problem. Now, I know that saying "a bit of a scorpion problem" is kind of like saying that the Middle East has "a bit of a philosophical problem" or that in college I had "a bit of a drug & alcohol problem". Because, well... fucking scorpions, right? For a few years, every time we'd go to visit my parents we'd have scorpion encounters. And folks, them fuckers are scary. One time Mrs. TK found one in the shower. In the shower. Where you're basically at your most vulnerable, other than on the toilet. Another time, I was coming out of the shower, walked into the bedroom, and one was in the middle of the floor. It stopped, spun around, and raised it's pincers and tail up and just stood there. It was like a Mexican standoff between a poisonous arachnid and a man in a towel. We caught it in a jar, and just left it there to suffocate to death, then dumped it down the garbage disposal. Because I ain't fucking around with something like that. Especially when it gets into the house. All creatures great and small my ass.

I just realized that Cape Town has some dangerous goddamn wildlife. I've encountered scorpions, venomous snakes, poisonous jellyfish, and baboons. Not to mention that it has one of the most robust populations of Great White Sharks in the world. And to think my parents once tried to persuade me to move back there. I mean, let's compare:

Suburban Massachusetts:




Aaaaand Cape Town:





I can't for the life of me figure out why I haven't moved back.

Anyway. The war on wasps commences this evening. Watch out!

The sound of people chasing money, and money getting away

Well, since the resume posts seem to be quite popular, and since I am nothing but a whore for your attention, I figured we'd move to the next logical phase in the process...

Interviews!

I never really thought I'd get to a point in my life where I'd be conducting interviews, but here I am. My department has had a rash of turnovers recently. In the last 12 months I've easily conducted 75 interviews. It's getting quite out of hand. But the advantage is (similar to when you're the candidate) you learn more and more about the process, and how to do it well, as you do more of them.

And I've had some doozies. I've had brilliant interviews, ones where the guy walked out of the room, and our HR Manager and I looked at each other and said "It's him. Everything else is going to be a formality". I've had ones where within 5 minutes I knew they weren't the one. And, of course, I've had some that after the person left, I regret to say, I was left in hysterical laughter. So here are some basic interview concepts that will keep me from going insane. Note, I'm leaving out the obvious ones, like "don't act crazy" and "don't show up drunk". Those, I assume, are no-brainers. Without further ado, 10 (hopefully) useful interview ideas:

1. Dress neatly. I know, I know. I'm not saying you should be decked out in Kenneth Cole, but you shouldn't look like you slept in your suit and then rolled down a hill, either. And I know it's not fair since I'm usually not wearing a tie, but suck it up. Oh and ease up on the fucking cologne/perfume, ok? God, this shit drives me insane. You're going for a job interview, not trying to get laid. And I need a property manager, not a French hooker. . . And my final gripe on smells - please recognize that on very hot days, it will smell even stronger. Which mean that if you douse yourself in perfume on a 90 degree day, you will have what my friend Shane affectionately calls "that stripper smell. You know that smell - not quite dirty, not quite clean". And he means that in the way that a degenerate alcoholic means it. Which means it's not good. Also - smokers? Mints. Learn to love them. Ladies? Lipstick - take it easy, ok? And I know this is petty, and probably a peeve that only whackos like me have, but make sure it doesn't get on your teeth. Because I have the attention span of a guppy and once I see it, I won't notice anything else.

2. Shut the fuck up. I cannot stress this heavily enough. While I don't necessarily want a 3 word answer to every question, there is nothing I hate more than some goddamn blabbermouth who can't stop talking. And don't get carried away on the intros, either. Let the interviewers ask the questions. Answer them, give a couple of examples when appropriate. Don't segue into other subjects. Interviewers are looking for specific information about you, as well as a glimpse into your attitude and personality. So if you start to run your fucking mouth and hijack the interview, they will do what I do - completely shut down and start looking at my watch, because I already hate you and want to kill your entire family.

3. Don't lie. Seriously. Just don't. Embellish. That's fine. Exaggerate a bit. Hell, I did it to get this job. But outright lying is just dumb, especially since they're going to check your references. Be smart about it.

4. Don't talk about your family. This one is actually very important, for two reasons:

a) I don't fucking care. Really. I don't. I don't care if you're married or single. I don't care if you have no kids or twelve. I don't care if you're gay or straight. I.DON'T.FUCKING.CARE. If we decide to hire you, then maybe I'll start to care. But for interviews, it's irrelevant and can also get you into trouble because...

b) Full disclosure: Interviewers get nervous about people with kids. We're not supposed to. It's technically discrimination. But it happens. If you tell me you're a single parent raising
two kids, it's a flag. Because we immediately start thinking, "what if the kid gets sick? Is (s)he going to end up having to leave early too often?" I can't help it. If you've got a sick aunt who l lives with you, for fuck's sake DON'T mention it. You might as well just come out and say, "I'd love this job, but my life's a fucking wreck and I'm gonna use all my sick time in a hurry because ADD Andy and Sick Aunty Suzy are making my existence hell." So just shut up about it, and let your employer learn after you're hired and Andy and Suzy are eating up health benefits.

5. Along similar lines - don't talk about your pets, your hobbies, your fantasies, unless we ask. Me personally? I'm not gonna ask. I'm not looking for a date.

6. If, near the end of the interview, they ask if you have questions - ASK QUESTIONS. Think of some beforehand, jot them down. But please don't get carried away and ask a dozen questions, and don't constantly refer to notes. And for fuck's sake, ask smart questions. Asking about benefits is fine, and it's not going to annoy me (which is a shock, I'm sure, since as you can probably tell - EVERYTHING annoys me). But ask about the company/organization. Ask if the interviewers like their jobs. Ask how long they've worked there. Because the truth is, people love to talk about themselves. This gives the interviewers a chance to blather on a bit, especially since they've been listening to you mouth off for 40 minutes. It also shows a genuine interest beyond the pay and the bennies. If it's a specific industry, ask a couple of specific questions - my favorite so far was the one who asked how we've been affected by the recent prorations and shortfalls and whether we think the SEVRA bill is a good idea. It might not mean shit to you readers, but believe me, it made me smile. That guy automatically gets put near the top of the pile.

7. Be patient, grasshopper. You're gonna be asked a bunch of really dumb fucking questions. Some interviews are terminally dull. I try to avoid this, but it's hard. The advantage I have now is that me and my partner-in-interviewing have worked out a good rhythm, and we know what the other is interested in. I try to leave out the stupid questions. No "where will you be in 5/10/15 years", no "how are your computer skills?" to anyone under the age of 30. I don't ask about your greatest weakness, because you're gonna fucking lie about it anyway. I've been asked that a dozen times. What am I going to say? "I blog when I'm bored?" "My desk looks like it's been attacked by wild dogs?" "I masturbate furiously in the supply closets?" "I lie constantly and outrageously?" No, you're gonna say some dumb shit, like "I'm a perfectionist". And since I know this in advance, I skip the question all together. But you will get some stupid ones. Try not to show your frustration, smile, and give it your best bullshit answer. Incidentally, "I'm a perfectionist" is a bad idea. You motherfucking suck-up.

8. It's OK to be funny - within reason. It's OK to be clever and witty. Just don't use the interview as an audience for your burgeoning stand-up career. Don't get carried away. But if you can make them smile and laugh a bit, that is a huge plus. As long is the humor isn't inappropriate... I had a guy who was talking about his staff and said this: "So then I usually have the girl who works for me - ah, you guys aren't gonna accuse me of sexual harassment 'cuz I called her girl, are you?" Jesus. That was pretty much all I needed to hear. Ironically, that guy was referred to us by a City Councillor. We later found out that he'd been fired from his last job for... drum-roll... sexual harassment! Anyway, no off-color jokes, and keep it under control.

9. Don't be an asshole. Sounds simple, no? Well, there's a fine line between sounding confident in your abilities, and sounding like a cocky shithead. And nobody likes a cocky shithead. Don't overwhelm them with tales of battlefield glory. Sound like you've got the tools, and you've got the talent. But NOT like you want to take the place over.

10. Don't panic when I put my hand on your thigh. OK, fine I only have nine tips. Whatever. Bite me.

The truth is, interviewing is like trying to pick up girls (or guys)*. You want to look nice. You're going to exaggerate a little, you want to show off a little, and make them laugh, and you want to impress them. But you don't want to sound like an arrogant asshole, and you don't want to say things that are either obviously untrue, or can easily be proven false. And try not to smell like a whore. And I swear to God, any guy that comes into my office smelling like any kind of body spray gets thrown out the window.

Actually, it can pretty much be summed up here.



Additional tips are found here:




Good luck, everyone. I'm sure everyone is now glad that they don't work with me.

*It should be noted that I couldn't pick up a woman if you pointed a gun at my head. My wife basically had to hit me in the head to get me to pursue her. So while my interview advice is sound, my dating advice is probably shit.

workin' man blues

Resume idiocy of the day:

Personal:

1. Married 22 years. Son in college, daughter - a sophmore (sic) in high school.
2. Enjoy fine dining, city walks, kayaking
3. Tai Chi

Q: Why does this gentleman think I give a shit about his family?
A: Because he is an idiot.

Look, it doesn't necessarily hurt your resume. But it doesn't help, either. So why put it there? So you can make your resume look longer, that's why.
-------------------------------------------------------------------

Then, we have this one. From the cover letter:

"With my construction back round experience"... (I don't even know what the hell that means.)

"With multi-tasking (grrr...) being daily and maintaining staffing I have what it takes with both hands on and the technical knowledge to get the job done along with Good Communication and Good Management Skills."

First off, why does this man hate punctuation so? What did it do to him? Was he mistreated by the comma as a child? Second of all, what's with the excessive capitalization and underlining? And third, do yourself a favor and read this out loud. It barely makes any sense. And finally, what is so hard about the word "background"? "Back round experience" sounds like something you put in a sex ad.

Oh, just fucking shoot me.

Hope everyone had a good holiday. Now BACK TO WORK, you layabouts!

Wastin' Away On The Streets Of Philadelphia

Well, the Philly trip was a success... if by success you mean a drunken mess.

Let's start with a list, shall we?

• Time it took to get to Philly: 6 hours
• Time it took to get back: 5 1/2 hours
• Total number of miles driven: approximately 700
• Number of times I took a wrong turn: two
• Number of songs I listened to: about 150.

Note: I'm an obsessive freak. The night before I left, instead of oh, say, packing, I stayed up until 1AM making a playlist for my iPod. Yes, it took me 3 hours. Yes, it is a playlist with 268 songs on it. But I figured I wanted to choose the best tracks, have it be long enough to get me there and back, and take into account possible traffic delays. So I created a 19 hour long playlist, spanning all genres. I know, I have a problem. It's a good goddamn list though.

• Number of times I stopped: Once, each way (more on this later)
• Number of beers I drank over the weekend: Um... a lot?
• Number of shots: One. My mom may have raised me crazy, but she didn't raise no suicide.
• Number of baseball games I watched: 3 (2 Phillies games, 2 Red Sox games)
  
• Number of games I listened to: 1 (Red Sox)
  
• Of those games, the number of games where the home team won: One. GODDAMNIT!
• Number of cheesesteaks I ate: 2 (oof!)
  

Anyway, that's the boring stuff out of the way.

Let's talk about the break I took. I tried desperately to drive all the way down there without stopping, because I didn't want to get in too late. But since I can't drive anywhere without guzzling iced tea, eventually the pressure in my groinal area became too much. Plus, I was getting hungry. So I'm cruising down 684 in Connecticut, and finally I give in. I see a sign on the side of the highway that says "Burger King, Dunkin' Donuts, exit 4". So I think - sweet! Burger King has a bathroom, and burgers, two things I need right now. Perfect, right?

Right?

Fuck no.

Here's a rule: If you're going to put a sign up by the highway advertising food, or gas, or any type of service... it should be visible right after you exit the highway.

Because I had to go to the bathroom. Real bad. And this Burger King? I drove for TEN MILES without seeing it. There were signs every 3 or 4 miles that said Burger King, straight ahead! And guess what? NO FUCKING BURGER KING. So now I'm driving through some dipshit little town in the middle of the worst state in New England (note: Connecticut sucks. It blows. It sucks and blows. It's nothing but endless highway, white trash, casinos and Yankees fans. It's a fucking nightmare. They should just pave the whole goddamn thing). I am losing my mind. The need to pee, coupled with my fury at this town for falsely advertising a Burger King, and I'm about to park the car in the middle of the road and knock someone out. And then pee on them.

Finally, I find a Dunkin' Donuts. I bolt out of the car, use their bathroom before I reach critical mass. I've now given up on the Burger King, so I figure I'll get a bagel and get out of there. And then this conversation takes place:

Store Employee: Can I help you?
TK: Yes, may I have an onion bagel with cream cheese on it?
SE: Toasted?
TK: No, just plain, with the cream cheese on it.
SE: Do you want the cream cheese on the side?
TK: ... No. I'd like the cream cheese on it.
SE: You want the cream cheese on the bagel?
TK: (urge... to kill... rising) Yes. Please.
SE: Would you like the bagel toasted?

And I turned around and walked out, without another word. It was either that or I'm posting this from prison after getting arrested for beating someone to death with a toaster. Only Connecticut could make me hate the greatest chain restaurant ever. Because while I love me some Dunkies, but this one I wanted to firebomb. So I just got back in the car and tore ass out of that town, while roaring "THIS IS THE WORST TOWN IN AMERICA! I HATE YOU ALL!"

Anyway. We didn't get to go to the Phillies game on Saturday, because it was sold out. I know, I was surprised too. But there it is. A Phillies game sold out. The words looks weird when you put them together, don't they? Instead we went to a bar in Conshohocken (just outside of Philly) and watched them lose to the Mets. And in doing so, I got to reacquaint myself with just how miserable Philly fans are. I forget sometimes. I forget that when my wife gives up on a season after two innings, or when my friend Bret goes on a rampage after six games of a 156 games season, that it's not just them. It's everyone. My God, it's depressing. Philly fans are like abused dogs. They just get kicked around, but they keep coming back for more. I told one guy at the bar that I was from Boston, and his response?

"What's it like? Winning, I mean. What's it like? Fuck, man, it must be wonderful, huh? God, I wish..."

And he was being completely sincere. I thought he was going to start crying. It was like describing water to a man dying of thirst. I legitimately felt bad for them. I wanted to put him out of his misery. I felt like George at the end of Of Mice and Men, talking to Lenny.

"Tell me 'bout the rabbits, George?"

BLAM!

Anyway, the trip was a good one. I think I successfully cheered my friend up, if only for a few days. I had lunch with the in-laws, which is always fun. I brought home some locally brewed beers, though I did break one bottle. But it's good to be back.

Smithers, release the hounds!

I know, I know. But it's only because someone asked. So screw you, Dustin. That goes for you too, Meg.






I don't know why they look so forlorn in some of these. Maybe it's because we whip them regularly and mercilessly, and lock them in a closet all day.





***Interview update***

Only two today, both actually went quite well. I'll probably call both of them back.

BUT: I swear to fucking God, the next person who tells me "I'm a people person!" or some variation thereof? Gets thrown down a flight of stairs.

Finally - tomorrow's the drive to Philly. I'm planning on leaving work around 4:00, going 90 West to 84 to 684 to 287 to the Tappan Zee, then 87 to the GSP. Unless anyone has a better idea. It's gonna be a parking lot, I know. So I'm open to ideas.

Don't tease me about my hobbies. I don't tease you about being an asshole.

All right, you ravenous beasts. To keep this rowdy lot quiet, I am vowing to post every day this week*. And I vow that every post will be as clever and insightful as is humanly possible**.

But dammit, I'm having too much fun these days, which is not something I get to say often. The weekend was fantastic - Friday night was an impromptu part-ay at a friends awesome pad in East Boston, which has a great view of Boston Harbor. Saturday we had friends over for an excellent bbq dinner, prepared by yours truly. Sunday was working around the house, with a great walk in the woods with Mrs. TK and one of the dogs (three-legged beagles aren't so good with the hiking, so she stayed home). And Monday was some more working on the house, and a beautiful canoe trip on Lake Cochituate (Ahh, Massachusetts - land of fucked up Indian names). Why did I go canoing on Monday, you ask? Because I took the day off - aw yeah... Perfect weather, fun activities, and a little bit of home improvement. Not bad, I say. Not bad at all.

But the week has blogging potential. This weekend I'm driving to Philly to console (read: get drunk with) a friend whose stripper girlfriend recently went psycho on him. A weekend of boozing, a Phillies-Mets game, and horrific traffic.

But best of all, Thursday and Friday are prime blogging material - that's right, kiddies - INTERVIEWS!!! I'm interviewing 7 people over those two days, and hopefully there will be a mix of good candidates (who will make my life easier) and crazy ones (to amuse y'all). Last time I interviewed I had a guy who was fired from his last job for sexual harassment and racial profiling, a woman who literally talked non-stop, to the point that I actually only asked two questions in 45 minutes, and a guy who I'm pretty sure showed up drunk.


So good stories shall abound.

So I promise to provide y'all with more material in the coming days. ***


* Not true
** A bald-faced lie.
*** Not bloody likely.

Everything means nothing to me

So, obviously my blog appears to be in a state of decline. I looked at my number of posts per month and there appears to be a steady decrease since January. What can I say... I'm not that creative. But then again, it's summertime, and as I said, my summers are dedicated to being outside and enjoying myself. And there's little to bitch/blog about, which seems to be my forte. I mean, here are my activities so far this summer:

Drinking
Barbecuing
Napping in the hammock
Mowing the lawn
Taking the dog swimming
Boating
Fishing
Sitting in the sun

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Not much to complain about, is there?

So in the interest of feeding you goddamn jackals, I'll take the lazy route and do one of my favorite activities - keyword analysis! I know, fuckin' yee-ha, right?

So here we go... search terms that brought people here:

1. Uncooked Meat - OK, starting out normally enough.
2. Paragraph on my worst job - Obviously refers to this post.
3. Satan - Wow, people, narrow your search terms a little, huh. Otherwise you stumble across things like this.
4. There is no normal life... there is only life - Apparently someone else is a Tombstone fan as well.
5. barbaro crazy nuts - hmmm, what could this be about?
6. mike patton paedophilia - HEY! That's my boy you're talking about. Libelous fuckers.
7. deus ex malcontent - that's just weird. I don't even know what the hell that means. Some lunatic, probably.
8. septic truck massachusetts shit - again with the shitty jobs.
9. video head of a golden retriever - yup, got that.
10. cambridge bbq porch law - no clue.
11. will i get hired if i'm pregnant - not by me, you won't. I'm kidding, of course. Sort of.
12. the feel of uncooked pork - eww...
13. signs of uncooked meat - what the hell? who has so many questions about raw meat? In all honesty, the title of the blog doesn't have anything to do with meat.
14. father trucker spank belt - There it is. There's always one fucking creepy term. Last time it was "wife passed out pics". This time it's... well, it's creepy is what it is. But my guess is they found this post.
------------------------------------

By the way - I'm still looking through resumes. The sentence of the week is: "First, I have four year as a result, oriented, professional, and, team, player in the admin assist environments."

I didn't edit that at all, by the way. OK, so, couple of things:
1. If you write "first", I am expecting there to be a "second". There was not.
2. Don't abbreviate things in your cover letter. Just don't.
3. ENOUGH WITH THE FUCKING COMMAS!

Also, please don't EVER use the word "vast". As in, "I have a vast knowledge of the field of..." Because you don't. I've been doing this for eight years and I don't have a vast knowledge. If you've been working at a bookstore, but you live near homeless people, you don't have a "vast knowledge" of the problem of homelessness, ok? But I now have a vast knowledge of what a dumbass you are.

Whew. Good to have that off my chest. Have a great weekend, kids.

Until Morale Improves, The Beatings Will Continue

Here's one of those posts where I make myself sound like a raging asshole.

I'm hiring. Anyone need a job?

So my department has a couple of job openings. Which leads to one of my all-time favorite activities - resume reading! Never before have I participated in an activity which is simultaneously so awful and hilarious. Funny and infuriating. I'm consistently amazed at what people will put in a resume.

Here's the thing. Resumes are important. Particularly if you're looking for a professional job. I mean, if you're looking to get hired at the local Quickie Mart, then no, they don't have to look that good. But if you want a career, particularly one in a field as specific as mine (low-income housing), then you need to put a little effort into it. By the way, it's important to note that these are not entry level positions that we're looking for.

It's not helped by the fact that I'm hyper-critical of resumes. Here are a few things that will, unless there are some really good extenuating circumstances, get your resume automatically stuck at the bottom of the pile:

1. Spelling errors. People. Come on now. You type your resume on a computer. Your computer has a spell checker. USE THE FUCKING THING. This isn't a goddamn aintitcool forum, or your blog (ahem).
2. Type-O's. Nothing displays your inherent laziness more than typographical errors on your resume.
3. Mass-mailed resumes that aren't customized for the position you're applying for. This doesn't mean I don't think you should use the same resume for a variety of fields. But if you are going to do so, and you are applying for a job in, say, property management, you should probably NOT type "looking to find a position in legal advocacy requiring strong research and communication". Because that doesn't make any goddamn sense and you sound like a moron.
4. Excessive corporate jargon. I get it. You're a team player. You work in a fast-paced environment and like to multi-task and are multi-faceted and do a bunch of other multi-related shit. First, shut the fuck up. Second, get a thesaurus and use some original terminology. I swear, there are about 10 "resume terms" out there - multi-faceted, fast-paced environment, multi-tasking, work as part of a team, able to work independently, motivated, strong interpersonal skills, et fucking cetera. And it annoys me to no end when someone uses every. single. one, without actually telling me what they've done, and what they can do. Look, there are millions of people who can multi-task, OK? It's not like being able to fly a fighter jet. It's fine if you want to state that you're multi-taskilicious. But just spend a little bit of ink telling what real, actual skills you have, things you've accomplished.



I know, alright? I know I sound like an asshole. But I can't help myself. My theory is this: You are looking for a job. You want to impress the people who you might potentially work for. This simple sheet of paper is all they have for you to demonstrate why they should invite you in. So shouldn't you do everything within your power to show them, on that piece of paper, that you're smart and capable and have something that separates you from the rest of the pack?

I was looking at resumes and I swear to God there was someone who misspelled "education". I'm not making that up. So fine, it was a minor mistake. But if you're going to misspell something like that, on something as important as your resume, what does that say about how you're going to do going forward? You want to show me your attention to detail? Try spelling "detail" correctly, you fucking ignoramus. And no, I didn't make that one up either.

Oh, here are two more things that bug me:

5. People who try for funny. That may work if you're applying for a job at Second City, or at a record store, but not in an office.
6. Know your limits. If the position asks for 10 years of experience in a specific field, and you've been working at the Gap for the last 18 months and before that you finished your BA in Basket Weaving, maybe you need to look elsewhere. While we're at it, please don't tell me what high school you went to. I don't care. In fact, I barely care where you went to college, as long as you've got the right experience. Assuming you're not looking for a job as a doctor or lawyer or architect, where you went to college and what your GPA was matters for your first couple of jobs, and then? Not so much. I also don't care if you enjoy rock-climbing or origami.

Anyway. Sorry to rant. I know this may hold the record for most boring and non-blogworthy post, but I had to get it off my chest. So to lighten the mood a little more, and sound a little bit more like a raving dickhead, here are some of the funnier things I've found on resumes or cover letters:

• Someone wrote that because they live near Boston, they have a "good sense of the problems of the inner city." Where do they live? Chestnut Hill, one of the wealthiest and whitest areas in Eastern Massachusetts. Look, I don't care if you live in Chestnut Hill or in a van down by the river. Just don't bullshit me.
• "I have extensive supervisory skills. In my last job, I fired six people". Great, just what this agency needs - a trigger-happy shithead who's proud of firing people.
• "I'm an enthusiast person." Riiiight.
• "I'm a quike leaner." Super. I've been looking for a quike leaner.
• "Interests: reading, my cats." Um... the day I put the fact that I have pets on my resume? Kill me.
• Quick advice: If you're going to address the cover letter to a specific person, it behooves you to spell that person's name correctly. Just a thought.
• Another bit of advice - if your email address is sexxxygurrrl6969@aol.com... you may want to use a different email account. Again, not a deal-breaker, but it is a little weird.
  
• "I have excellent oral skills." God, do I wish I was making that up. No, I did not interview her, despite my co-worker's wishes.
  
• "I have applied for a position at your company five times and never been asked for an interview. This saddens me deeply and I feel I deserve a chance." Boo. Fucking. Hoo. There's a hint in there somewhere. Maybe, if you look hard enough, you'll find it.
• "While I have no experience in your particular field, I feel that my experience as a medical assistant gives me the skills I would need." Really? That's weird, because I'm confident that I am in NO WAY qualified to be a medical assistant.

I've got a million more, but I have to get back to the stack of resumes. And yes, I realize the irony inherent in blogging while I'm looking for a good employee. Shut it.


I promise my next post will have less bitchy snarkiness.