The Long-Dater, with whom I've gone out on several more dates over the past couple of months, gave me a gift when we met up last Friday: A chocolate bar with bacon bits inside. It was delicious; salty and sweet mixed together perfectly. My only complaint is that there wasn't enough bacon. Perhaps I should try chocolate-covered bacon. Anyone with a fondue pot want to come over and try some experiments?
While standing in line at the bank, I heard one guy tell his friend that "he didn't believe in banks." This is a statement that I would expect out of a grizzled old man with a dip of chaw in his lip and his 'coon-hunting rifle in his grip, not from a twenty-something prep-punk that follows his buddy to the bank. Though, with the way financial institutions in America have been going under like so many unsupervised kids at the public pool, I don't begrudge anyone not trusting in banks anymore.
If you had one wish, what would you wish for? World peace? An end to poverty? A perfect Utopian society?
Not me. I'd wish that French Toast Crunch had never been discontinued.
During my first couple of months here, I was applying for jobs in the city pretty haphazardly (whatever seemed interesting on Craigslist or CareerBuilder) and getting at least one reply a week. If the reply wasn't to invite me to an interview, it was sometimes to ask me to clarify or expound upon something in my cover letter or resume. At the very least, I was getting responses back to say that the position had already been filled or that they didn't think I was qualified. Then, almost two months ago, the replies stopped.
About the time that I started applying not only to jobs that seemed interesting but also to just about any job I thought I could do for a while and that payed enough for me to get by -- about that time, I stopped hearing back from the people I was sending my resume to. At first, I thought it was just a dry spell, but, nearly two months later, it's seeming more like a drought.
I'm not sure if the problem is with what I'm applying for, who I'm applying to, or something on my resume. But I'm beyond discouraged. I had thought that by now I would have had a job for a month or two, be looking for an apartment, and saving up for one more month or so before I moved out of Happy Time and Stellar's place. But here I am: surviving only by the grace of friends and no closer to finding employment or living quarters in the city than I was at the beginning of the summer.
Moving from Kansas City seems pretty long ago. More and more it feels like it was a mistake. What opportunities did I think were here for me? What did I dislike so much about Kansas City? I don't even remember anymore. And I literally can't go back; I don't have the means or any better of a shot finding a job back there anyway.
The transplant is complete, and I'm sewn inside this new city. I am a mismatched organ, and Chicago is rejecting me wholesale.
At work the other day, a man came through my line with a paper bag from the bakery. These bags are usually used for doughnuts, so I asked him, "How many doughnuts do you have?"
He replied, "They aren't doughnuts."
Sometimes people put rolls or buns from the bakery in these bags instead, so I inquired what was in the bag.
"They're long johns."
Usually when immense stupidity happens upon me while I'm at work, I do my best to ignore it. My face goes slack, my eyes glaze over, and I feel a little bit of my soul sucked out of me and vanish into the ether. For some reason, though, this time I decided to try to educate this poor, misinformed man. "Long johns are a kind of doughnut," I explained.
"No," he replied, "long johns are long." Then, in case I didn't understand the point he was attempting to make, he added "Long johns."
I thought a second, collected his change from the till, and returned, "The thing that makes them all doughnuts is the dough." I handed him his receipt, "Doughnuts."
He didn't say anything in reply, but, then, he didn't have to. After all, he was free roam the earth, probably gainfully employed and with a happy family waiting for him at home, horribly misinformed about doughnuts and uneducated in the basics of rhetoric, while I was stuck working for the minimum wage allowed by law at a place not-ironically named for a wiggling piglet.
I had a date with another nice young lady yesterday, or, rather, I should say that I had a date scheduled. She texted me an hour-and-a-half before the date to tell me that her temp agency had called her for a job.
I have no reason to believe she was lying, and to do so would not make me any less disappointed. Assuming that she needed the money more than a date with me makes me feel better than if simply came up with an excuse to get out of it. In one scenario she's just poor (like me) and is subject to regrettable timing, and in the other I'm so unattractive that women regret going on a date with me before it even occurs. For the sake of my fragile psyche -- that construct of ego, daddy issues, and low self-esteem, barely held together with defense mechanisms and duct tape -- I'll stick with the scenario in which she needed some quick cash.
So, I went on the date to the Museum of Contemporary Art by myself. It actually wasn't too bad, though I wish the museum was bigger. Afterward, I wandered around downtown for a while. It was nice to get out of the suburbs.
I suppose this is just another life lesson in disappointment. And I guess I could feel pretty sorry for myself (which I did for a few hours yesterday). But after some careful deliberation, I've decided that instead of sorrow or disappointment, I should go with my old standby: apathetic indifference. As I'm sure I've mentioned before, emotions are dumb and it's best if one doesn't have them.
The other day the powers that be at Piggly Wiggly asked me if I wanted to start training to be a customer service supervisor, working at the service desk. It speaks to the poor customer service of the Pig if they chose me -- Mr. McBastard, a guy who would more likely curse at you than give you correct change -- to be their liaison with customers. I said yes, in hopes that they'll give me more money.
The moment they asked me, though, my life flashed before my eyes. Not my life leading up this point, mind you, but a possible path my life could head down: I start working at the service desk, eventually give up on finding a job in the city, at age 30 knock up a 17-year-old bagger, move into her parents' basement, have a couple more kids that suspiciously look like the black guy that works in the deli, and drink myself to sleep every night on a broken La-Z-Boy watching monster truck rallies on pay-per-view.
I don't even like monster truck rallies.
Needless to say, I've become a little daunted with trying to find a job in the city. And the thing that worries me is that I've always been better at complacency and laziness than patience and diligence. That's why this possible future, despite how ridiculous it seems, rings somewhat true. I imagine, though, that Stellar and Happy Time won't let me give up on looking for a job, mostly because I'm sure they'll want me to stop living in their house way before I'm 30.
Chicago is definitely a Miller town. Probably half of all the beer I sell at the Piggly Wiggly is a Miller product. Budweiser is in a distant dead-heat for second with Milwaukee's Best and some shitty local brew called Old Style. (This is vastly different from Missouri where Budweiser is definitely the "King of Beers" and The Beast is what the poor kids who can't afford Natty buy.) None of this is too disturbing; I do prefer Bud Light to Miller Lite, but I haven't yet passed up drinking Happy Time's beer. I really don't mind Miller products, and I do get a hankering for High Life every now and then.
What is disturbing, though, is the near absence of Coors products. I don't like Coors Original anyway, but living with Jaysix had gotten me used to drinking Silver Bullets. However, the most upsetting of all is the lack of the most delicious of crappy beers, my mother's milk, a veritable ambrosia: Keystone Light!
So, when I saw that Piggly Wiggly had some 'Stones in stock and that it was on sale, I grabbed the only case there was, hauled it on my shoulder for the 20-minute walk back home, and immediately popped open one of those slender blue and silver cans. It tasted like home.
Stellar recently asked me if I would miss her while she and Happy Time Harry were gone to a family reunion for three days. I mustered up all of the politeness hiding inside of me, and I believe my reply was "Um, sure, I guess," or something similar.
I've never understood women's obsession with being missed. Not one of my dude friends has ever asked me if I missed them, no matter how deep our brolationship* ran. And even if a person (not likely me) did happen to miss a woman, why would she need to know about it, especially before hand? What benefit does this knowledge give her? Does knowing that somewhere out there there's a person desperately wishing he was in her company give her solace? If so, that's a little bit sadistic and a lot bit narcissistic. But me not understanding how women's minds work is probably not a surprise to you, dear reader.
To me, missing someone has little to do with how long we'll be out of contact or how far apart we'll be. I miss someone not because I know I won't see them for a specified period of time, but because I don't know when or if I'll see them again. Time is bearable, but uncertainty makes me uneasy. I miss people I might not see again.
* Brolationship - A totally hetero relationship between two totally hetero bros.
I suppose I should make it clear that these communications with Craigslisters that I'm sharing with you are months old, from May, before I came to Chicago. If anyone was worried that I still haven't sold my car, it and any other items I have mentioned are long sold or gotten rid of. Sorry for the confusion.
A couple days ago I went on the first date I've been on in three years, the previous being the time I took The Magster Magdus to KFC back in April of 2005 (and, yes, I believe we went Dutch). This one was a little more classy.
The nice young lady who had the misfortune of going on a date with me is one of several people with whom I've been irregularly communicating on a dating website. For the most part, I've just been engaging in small talk with the people that I meet on the site -- the usual "What do you do?" and "What are your interests?" type stuff. Several of the ladies seem to be really interesting people, but I've had no real expectation that any of this would result in much.
At the suggestion of Jaysix, though, I asked one young lady out to the movies. However, in true McBastard fashion I didn't ask one of the ladies that I most favored. Instead, I asked someone I really wasn't interested in. Her profile on the site is kind of bland, and I couldn't tell much from her photos. We'd chatted a couple times, but she didn't seem interesting or interested.
Why would I ask out someone I'm not interested in? The thinking was that if I am scared of being rejected (which is usually the case) and intimidated by someone I'm attracted to (which is always the case), I should ask out someone I'm not attracted to. If I'm rejected, no big deal. Like Nothing ventured, nothing gained taken literally. If I'm not rejected, well, then I've at least got a date. This, in theory, should boost my confidence, preparing me for future encounters with ladies I am attracted to. In single-guy-dom this maneuver is known as "slump-busting." Dumb ideas like this are also one of the many reasons single guys are single for so long.
Surprisingly, the lady accepted my invitation. I prepared myself to go downtown to catch a Dark Knight matinee with some chick, make some small talk, and then head back home. Imagine my astonishment when I showed up to the theater and there was an attractive young lady waiting in the lobby for me. As we waited in line for tickets we talked a bit, and I came to realize that what I had assumed was indifference when we were conversing via the interwebs was actually timidity. And when she did speak up, she was actually interesting.
After the movie, I asked, quite suavely, if she "wanted to, like, go do something." She obliged and we went to dinner. After dinner, I asked if she "wanted to walk around or something." She obliged; we went to Millennium Park and watched the Navy Pier fireworks. She walked me back to Union Station and suggested that she wouldn't mind waiting for my train with me. I was more than happy to have her company. What started out as a movie date ended up taking an entire day.
One of my favorite parts of the date, and this may seem counter-intuitive, is that for half of the evening, we just sat there, not talking at all. In my strange, backwards mind this in endearing, so I enjoyed just sitting there with a dumb grin on my face. I worried that I was boring her out of her skull, but she assured me that, despite our mutual silence, she was actually enjoying herself. In fact, she agreed that we should go out again some time.
I guess the moral of the story is ... well, I'm not so good at morals. Maybe it's Dont judge a book by it's cover? Hell, I don't know. The only thing I'm really going to get from all this is that I should listen to Jaysix more often.
I put my car up for sale at approximately 9:40 in the morning. By 10:21, not even an hour later, I received this email:
From: [Capt. Obvious]
Subject: 1997 Pontiac Grand AmLet me know if you still have this car for sale.
[Capt. Obvious]
I know that some people don't pull their posts down even after they sell their item, but I think one can usually assume that an item will not be sold within 40 minutes of it being posted. Trying not to sound too condescending, I explained to Capt. Obvious how Craigslist works:
From: [Mr. McBastard]
Subject: RE: 1997 Pontiac Grand AmI will take the Craigslist posting down once it is sold. As long as it is up, it will be for sale.
--[Mr. McBastard]
I received this response:
From: [Capt. Obvious]
Subject: RE: 1997 Pontiac Grand AmYou're in brookside right?
Well, I know that this guy was just trying to get more information about me and my car. But instead of reading the details that were readily available to him on my Criagslist post, he decided to annoy me instead. One question at a time. I envisioned his next email would be "Is this a Pontiac Grand Am?" and then "Is it a 1997?" and then "Is it a car?" and so on. Plus, at this point, I had already contacted several other Craigslisters and I wasn't up for any more moronic shenanigans.
So, I sent this facetious response:
Please see the attached diagram. [Pictured to the right.]
This was the reply:
[Mr. McBastard],
If you could provide an address and a time I could look at your car tomorrow that would be great too. A simple yes would have been less work for you too.
[Capt. Obvious]
Capt. Obvious's response was surprisingly calm. My following response was not. I'd like to say that there was some excuse for what comes next, but the fact that I'm an asshole will have to suffice.
[Capt. Obvious],
Because you had such difficulty in comprehending some of the basic concepts of my Craigslist post -- that I was indeed selling a car and that I did, in fact, live in Brookside -- I think that simply providing you with my address may prove fruitless and would probably only result in more questions.
To avoid any further confusion, I briefly considered constructing several more diagrams outlining how to get to my house at an appropriate time (complete with cartoon versions of you, myself, and my car). However, in your last email you seemed unappreciative of my previous visual aid, so I quickly abandoned this tack.
So, instead, I propose that you provide me with your address and a time that I could come by tomorrow and lead you to my house. This course of action may be more effort on my part, but it could prove to be better and safer for everyone involved.
--[Mr. McBastard]
But don't worry, dear readers, Mr. McBastard gets his comeuppance:
I can appreciate that while you seem to write very well that you are a little self absorbed. Maybe you have too much time on your hands and in the preparation of your "diagram" you became a little light headed from the effort required. Good luck in your efforts to sell your car and when you're finally able to offload your car you'll be able to go back to your video games, porn and cheetos. I asked a few simple questions and your taking offense to those questions would lead me to believe that while possibly having a high IQ you've put yourself into a life situation that makes you lash out at others because you've been able to squeeze yourself into a pathetic life. Good luck with that [McBastard]
Well, jokes on him; I don't even like Cheetos.
I received the following email the day that I put up the ad for my car:
From: [Cry Baby]
Subject: 1997 Pontiac Grand Am - $500 (Brookside)
i am very interested in your car for a friend of mine that is going though a really bad time right now. She has no money, just totaled the only car they have. She has 2 children one with health problems and they frequently have doctors appointments. I am going to try and help her with getting some kind of transportation. I myself have had a hard time this past few months and really dont have much to help out, but i can do the work on the car, and i can probably come up with about $200 maybe $300 and i will see if she can come up with the rest. She is stuck here in missouri without family or friends.
Unfortunately, the area of my brain that is supposed to feel sympathy is currently occupied (and has been for the past fifteen years or so) admiring round, jiggly boobs. [Links provided for your viewing pleasure.] I guess it makes me an asshole, but I just don't care about the poor, helpless, lonely, single-mother-of-two friend to some also-down-on-his-luck guy who I don't know, who has poor grammar. I put my car up on Craigslist; I didn't give it to the Salvation Army. Sorry.
I made mention previously of how poorly worded and spelled some inquiries into buying my car were. The following query, though, is probably the most incomprehensible of the bunch:
From: BAM KATTAN
Subject: 1997 Pontiac Grand Am - $500 (Brookside)
pics plase n locaion
I assume this roughly translates to "Send me pictures, please, and your location."
Perhaps it's just me, but when I'm trying to buy something, anything more expensive than a doughnut really (let along something five hundred times more expensive than a doughnut), I tend to use sentences. And punctuation. And real English words.
I'm glad that he was polite enough to say "please" (I think). Nevertheless, I did not reply.
This post is still in reference to me attempting to sell my car on Craigslist. It's not that weird; it's mostly just me being a dick.
I received two emails that were simple, straight-forward offers, such as this:
From: [Low-Baller]
Subject: 97 Grand Am
Offer: $250
[Low-Baller]
[phone number]
I replied to this one:
From: [Mr. McBastard]
Subject: RE: 97 Grand Am
Counter offer: NO-fifty
Credit must be given to my friend, Mr. P. Tott, for providing the inspiration for this one.
This one is really just an extension of the previous post about Craigslisters asking very difficult questions. It starts out the same, with a brief message requesting me to call them, despite the precedent and ease of electronic communication:
From: [Female Name]As with the previous set of requests, I called this person hoping that perhaps her questions were so detailed that they could not be answered over such an impersonal medium as email.
Subject: Car
please call me at [redacted],thank you.
When the other end picked up, this is (roughly) the conversation that followed:
Male Voice: Hello?
McBastard: Hello, my name is [Cynical McBastard]. Is [Female Name] available?
MV: What's this about?
McB: [Female name] had contacted me about the car that I'm selling. Is she available?
MV: (suspiciously) How do you know her?
McB: I don't. She just gave me this number to call.
MV: (still suspicious) Do you work with her...? I mean, how does she know you?
McB: We don't know each other. She replied to an ad I have up for a car for sale.
MV: (as if he's caught me in a lie) So, how did you get this number?
McB: (annoyed) She emailed it to me. Is she available or not?
MV: Hold on. (fumbling with the phone) This is my phone. So, wait, she was going to buy your car?
McB: (perturbed) I don't know; that's what I'm calling about. Is she there?
MV: Now hold on. Maybe it was me who emailed you. [Female Name] is my girlfriend, but I buy old cars from time to time.
McB: (completely without patience) So, are you interested in buying a car or not? I really don't understand the problem here.
MV: (scoldingly) Now you listen here!...
At that point, I had had enough of the jealous boyfriend and I wasn't about to let him scold me for being fed up with his jackassery. I hung up.
Jealous Boyfriend called back immediately, but I didn't pick up. He left a message, though, and I wish I'd kept it. To the best of my memory, it went something like this:
I don't know what the hell your problem is. You got a real attitude problem. I am just trying to find out the situation with this car and you keep talking about [Female Name]. I don't know who you are ... who you think you are, but you're not going to sell anything talking to people like that. I just wanted to find out if this was a car I wanted to buy and you got a real attitude. So, to hell with you. Good luck trying to sell your car, buddy!
He was right about one thing: I wasn't going to sell anything.
Last week while cashiering at the Pig, an awkward guy came through my line and started talking to me about what I'd studied in school, what work experience I had, and what I planned to do. I tried to answer his questions politely, but there were other customers waiting in line behind him, so I basically shooed him away.
Not long after, he came back through my line, claiming to have forgotten a few things. He gave me his card, asked me when my next day off was, and told me to come in and meet with him. I took the card and was a little astonished that someone would consider hiring me based on my just-polite-enough attitude I have while cashiering. The card read:
Endless Possibilities
Internet Marketing
Ronald W. Lowe
Ownerendless@katewwdb.com
endless.mychoices.biz
endless.wwdb.biz
888-369-5741
Voice, Fax
When I got home after work that night, I took a look at the websites listed on his card. They seemed like nice websites advertising health and beauty products. But something didn't sit right with me. Why were these websites situated on the ass end of the internet on subdomains of some no-name dot-biz domains? Where was the information about the company itself? Where did I fit into this who thing? So, I sent a quick, concise email to Mr. Lowe asking if he could answer some of my questions:
Mr. Lowe,
My name is [Mr. McBastard]. I was your cashier (twice) at the Piggly Wiggly today. I looked at the websites listed on the business card you gave me, but I'm still not clear on what your business is and what opportunities there are available to me. Please explain to me what you company does and how you think I can help you achieve your goals.
Regards,
[Mr. McBastard]
A couple days later, I received a reply:
Hi [Mr. McBastard]
That depends on what your goals are. When the next customer is waiting to checkout, there isn't much time to talk. You seems to have good people skills but no immediate direction in life. I wanted to meet and learn more about you.
Your email message came across as demanding. Insisting on knowing the value of the meeting before the meeting. What my business is, I would hope, obvious from my website. I market heath, beauty, home products and more on the internet.
Perhaps, we will see each other again at Piggly Wiggly. Best of luck to you.
--
Thank you,Ronald W. and Renee A. Lowe
Endless Possibilities
193 Cambridge Drive
Grayslake, IL 60030
business: 888-369-5741
fax: 888-369-5741
B2C: www.endless.mychoices.biz
B2C: www.endless.wwdb.biz
B2B: www.rlowe6.ordermygift.com
I was a bit perturbed by this response. Why was asking questions about this guy's business met with scolding? What was this guy trying to hide?
So, I did some digging around his sites and discovered that he is a member of Quixtar, the renamed Amway. I had heard of Amway before, but I only had an inkling that it was some sort of pyramid scheme. I did a little internet research and found that it is indeed a pyramid scheme in which the people higher up the ladder try to recruit new people into the scheme and get them to sell products and recruit people of their own. It's not illegal, though, because you don't have to recruit others to make money, but, through bonuses and incentives, you are highly encouraged to.
Anyway, I wasn't about to get caught up in that sort of bullshit. Plus, the guy had irked me with his condescending response. So, I replied thusly:
Mr. Lowe,
My goal is to find a decent job working for an employer who is straightforward. I also wanted to learn more about you and your company. Your email message came across as secretive. Being abruptly defensive about some simple inquiries into your company and the opportunities within makes it seem like you've got something to hide. So, I did some digging.
I am not interested in getting involved in Quixtar, Amway, or any other pyramid scheme which your company is a part of. I may work at a grocery store for the time being and lack "immediate direction in life," but I am not a sap. Good luck recruiting some other poor schmo to sell junk for you on the internet.
--[Mr. McBastard]
I got this reply today:
Again. best of luck to [Mr. McBastard].
--
Thank you,Ronald W. and Renee A. Lowe
Endless Possibilities
193 Cambridge Drive
Grayslake, IL 60030
business: 888-369-5741
fax: 888-369-5741
B2C: www.endless.mychoices.biz
B2C: www.endless.wwdb.biz
B2B: www.rlowe6.ordermygift.com
Ah, cheap shot taking the "high road," Mr. Lowe. Now I look like the dick! Oh well, that's well-trodden territory for me.
I haven't posted anything here in a while, because, well, there's not much to tell. I'm still looking for a job in Chicago (though, last week I did start working at a nearby Piggly Wiggly to pay the bills), my motorcycle's still not fixed, and I'm still living with Happy Time Harry and Stellar.
All in all, not much has happened, but you know me: I'm always up for not doing much of anything. It has been kind of nice aimlessly drifting through the past month or so, carefree. The only down side is that it's been fairly debt-inducing. But that's nothing new for me.
I suppose there are other things about which I could be writing in the meantime. So, I guess I'll try to resume my responsibility of inane blogging with yarns and misadventures. Stay tuned.
I've been in Chicago a week already. I'm settled into my room (and the bathroom and the garage) in Happy Time Harry and Stellar's house in a quiet northern suburb. I haven't been doing much of anything productive except catching up on my sleep and cruising Craiglist. Next week I plan on being more active. I may even start exercising again, but that may be a little too ambitious. I should probably just stick to finding a job.
I had an extensive tour of the city proper given by Shayne and Robb. I can't even remember all of the places and neighborhoods we visited, but it was a lot of fun just to walk around and see and hear what the city has to offer.
And I've already visited "The Bean" in Millennium Park, so I'm almost a full-fledged Chicagoan now. All that's left is for me to eat a Chicago dog, enjoy a deep-dish pizza, and develop a love for one of the baseball teams and a hatred for the other. I'm practically in.
It's raining, and I can still taste the beer and cigarettes in my mouth, like one last lingering goodbye kiss.
See you around, Kansas City.
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