The Long Weekend

On Saturday, I got in a scuffle with my boss over a moral issue which he refused to even acknowledge. I alerted him of my wish to take this concern to a higher authority, and he threatened disciplinary action. After this, I went to see an old friend until 2:00 in the morning the night before Folsom Street Fair. I got on the wrong bus on the advice of the driver, who said that he went to Mission. He went to Mission, alright… the bus was the 91, and he went to Mission and Geneva, almost out of San Francisco county. After the bus let off at West Portal Station at about four in the morning, I collected my bearings, realized the 91 was my only way out of there, and told the driver I wanted to get back on. MUNI pass in hand, we went on to have a conversation about his job, passengers sleeping on the bus or leaving trash, San Francisco, learning a new language, and much else, all in a darkened bus in a quiet neighborhood at four in the morning. The only other humans I saw were trashmen, briefly. Only two minutes off schedule,the driver renewed his route. Damn right I got off on Mission and Geneva that time, only to find that I had just missed my bus connection back home and the next one was in 26 mintues. 27 minutes. 28 minutes. And that it was freezing cold. Seemingly many minutes later, a single taxi passed by and I bit the bullet, and hailed it. Too bad he could only take cash. Screwed, and freezing, once again. Then what do I see? The cab backs up, full reverse down Mission. He asks if I could buy him gas. Hell yeah, I can buy you gas. He took me home, and I talked about the kinda day it’d been, and even paid me back the difference. I got home about 5:30.

I was awakened Sunday to a voicemail from my boss saying I’d been suspended for the “incident” the day before. Well, I called right back and said, ok, I’m fine with that, did you make the appointment with said higher authority as requested? Of course he hadn’t. So I spent the next day, the 30th, alternately gawking at naked weirdoes and writing a five-page letter to by boss’ bosses. It was a good letter, and the only reason I’m not spilling the beans (and they are some juicy beans, mind you) is that I volunteered some confidentiality on my part. They said I was “a good writer” when I presented it to them on Monday. They looked a little worried but I can’t blame them. I don’t know if that they had any idea of the kind of things that’d been going on.

The rest of Monday was nice. Me and the little lady went to Sutro Baths, the Dutch Windmill and Doorhenge in Golden Gate Park, got my favorite Chinese stuffed meat pastry (Chao-Su-Bao) in the Inner Richmond, and generally enjoyed life. I’ve gotten a lot of housework done. Being suspended has sort of been a boon, especially when A) you know you were in the right and could have accepted no less from yourself, and B) there might be a substantive apology for you in the works.

I have a meeting tomorrow at work with the boss’ boss, at 12 noon. Wish me luck.

Damn Kids

Damn kids.

You made me feel old. You made me feel old. Because I had to go outside my place of work and figure out what group of dummie-dum-dums was throwing tiny annoyinf firework poppers out the damn window, then march up to their room, 510, and confiscate their silly little fireworks, tell them this was their “last warning” and advise them that, yes, [poppers in Golden Gate Park = OK funny], [fireworks thrown from our hostel = OK you’re kicked to the kerb]. Anymore of that and they’re out. What’s worse is we don’t even know their names, don’t have their passport numbers because someone didn’t take them. They could be anybody’s dumb 18 year-old cousins. And guess what? Being an adult isn’t so bad. At least I’m not sitting around bored pestering strangers on a level not far above cow-tippin’ in one of the greatest cities this side of the Prime Meridian.

They come to check out tomorrow, ask for their ID.
They act smug or smirk too much, mention the cow-tipping
And if they make you feel like a lame grownup, just remember that you pay your own rent and live in an awesome town and hey, you can drink beer… legally!


Higher Knowledge

Am I the only one who, if somebody sits in your chair when you’re gone then leaves it all warm and almost… moist… that you feel violated? Even a teensy bit?

You have no idea how cathartic it feels to finally write that sentence. You know why? Cause I can write anything at all. I’ve been so damn busy working, dispatching requests, complaints, and repair orders, not to mention keeping a log of every damn key in this hotel, that I haven’t had a half a chance to say “here is this random bit of non-information flitting through my idle mind.” There is no idle mind.

Many yogis have said that the highest knowledge is arrived at by meditating on the meaning of nothingness. To them I say: also, my hair seems very flat today.

Work Blog

Guess what? I got a job. And I’m here. Now.

I join the great tradition established by blogger big’uns like master Tony Pierce—of taking time when you might otherwise be working and instead writing b.s. you copy onto the internet. Cept I’m not working for a super-secret intelligence organization protecting the innocent, but answering phones.

“Good morning, Westin Mission Hills resort and spa and villas, golf course, convention center, beauty pageant host, annual lesbian mecca, etc etc, this is Robert, how may I direct your call?”

I’m Robert again. It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be. People get your name right the first time.

It’s a pretty laid-back job, relatively speaking. No spouts of molten shrimp or light-sensitive chemicals you can spill that remove your skin. I sit in a chair and direct calls, very appropriately. As an associate of a 5-star, 5-diamond resort I cannot say “hi.” I say “hello.” It’s a good gig but I have to memorize a lot of things. For instance, the extension for the Gary Player golf bag room is different than the extension for the Pete Dye bag room. Also, there happen to be about 3000 such individual extensions.

But hey, paid training boy-o. $8.50/hour isn’t anything I’ll scoff at.

Wish me luck, intarweb malcontents.