22 September 2005

boxing's been good to me

Does anybody know what the deal is with Ronald McDonald? Did he go to a certified clown college or was he home schooled? My guess was he was home schooled. I can't imagine a clown institution set on being as zany as Ronald, and yet being so corporate. I bet clowns at small liberal art clown colleges label Ronald a "sell out" while simultaneously hitting the nitrous, and dying their hair normal colors like hardcore clowns.

Anyways, I don't work at a McDonald’s, not that there's anything wrong with it, but thank god. I'm just saying in the event I am ever given unrestricted access to a Soft Serve machine this country will look a lot different; lactose non-tolerants will be pissed.

Soft Serve pipe dreams aside, I instead spend my time working at art gallery. We own and sell paintings crafted by some of the greatest masters of the 20th century. Some of them are worth over a million dollars, I, however, make boxes. When I signed on to be an assistant curator I assumed for the most part I would be hanging things, painting walls and using a sweet ass electric drill Johnny Wayne style. Unfortunately, I was unaware of the ubiquitous equation of the art world, Art + Dude with College Degree = Doing something with boxes.

It's not that i dislike my job entirely, or that I find box making to be an incredibly tedious activity (I find ways to make it fun). It's just well...only in the art world would they pay an educated man ten dollars an hour to craft boxes—especially when children in third world countries do it for pennies on the dollar. Plus, I mean, I read Pynchon—and understand parts of it, and they expect me to contently make boxes.

The whole thing is bizarre. One would think and institution such as an art gallery, which ships many things of varying size would have a organized fleet of boxes. Perhaps that same institution might also have a box supplier, from which to buy new and specialized boxes. Instead, we have three piles of assorted cardboard and Styrofoam all unclaimed relics for previous pieces, arranged much in the same manner as the background junkyards in those “Save the Children of Africa for Fifty Cents a Day” commercials. It’s embarrassing and intriguing at the same time.

As all good things commence, the whole process generally starts with my boss humming. I've learned this specifically means he's thinking about the relationship of one object to another. More often not, this state of mind is derived from the fact that after we receive a piece, the box it came in always seems to disappear. I suspect this is because we use that box to send off something else we lost the box too, perpetuating a terrible cycle that now dominates my life.

The only reasonable explanation I can conceive of is that the previous box is pinched by Box Gnomes, reputed for their ability to make comfortable and affordable housing out of cardboard. This free source of cardboard would explain the affordability. However, I have played out the Box Gnome scenario numerous times in my head, and thwarting our security system would require a tactical strategy seemingly too complex for any variety of Gnome.

Either way, before actual box making begins my boss and I usually trudge around our three packaging archives (which are essentially the previously mentioned piles of old Styrofoam and cardboard) for about a half hour. We cavil about politics and music while we pick up random scraps of refuse briefly pretending to recognize them as the lost box. We both know this quest is, for the most part, futile. As we begin to hit a lull in the conversation, my boss will usually sit down and eye or perhaps paw a box, or apparatus obviously larger and disparately shaped than the piece we intend to ship. He then suggests that I rig a box for our selected piece of this material. I of course agree, because who complains when they are being paid ten dollars an hour to dick around with cardboard, Styrofoam peanuts, tape, a utility knife, and a painting worth more than their life.

The first real step to box making is perhaps the most important. After my boss leaves the room, and before i cut or touch anything, i grab a beverage or my choice for the gallery's stock of refreshments for shows and place it in the fridge--this will be important later.

Then I return to the work table spend a few moments just staring at the piece. What I'm doing here is interpreting the piece and attempting to conceive what style of box this piece would most enjoy--where the tape should go, the thickness of the cardboard, and how many times I'm should fuck up and cut something vital attachment off.

The crafting then begins. I use no sort of measuring tool, so that means I “eyeball” pretty much the entire thing. Since I usually get things wrong. This equates to a box where the sides are almost assuredly always uneven. I have learned though, that doesn't mean anything. Also, I can pretty much guarantee that parts of the box will be bent, in places they shouldn't be bent, and in a manner they shouldn't be bent. This is also irrelevant. In many ways my box is much like the wang of and scarcely worked male porn star-- Dirk Diggler, the middle years. The said porn star keeps waiting, practicing and wtahcing film for his big day--his big return, and in doing so contorts and twists his man piece into curves and shapes neither known too nor desired by nature. However, while he is stuck his new mangled form; my box has the benefit of tape.

When the cardboard is all cut and set i use this crappy, clearly German, tape dispenser to compress my creation into shape. Since the dispenser is total rubbish, i usually mysteriously cut myself on the knife--that is unable to cut tape, and often apply way more tape than is considered acceptable. The end result often draws skepticism from my boss regarding the structural stability of the box. More often than not, I agree with his misgivings are agree to make the proper modifications. These modifications simply require adding more tape, and in lots of places. After i do this i grab the aforementioned beverage from the refrigerator and chill out for ten minutes, sipping it and staring into space.

Then it’s time to call Fed Ex. From calling Fed Ex numerous times not only have i learned that their hotline is one misdialed number form a phone sex number, but i believe i have also developed a good repoire with the Fed Ex automated answering woman. She really listens to me. Many times it's like she knows what I'm am going to say before I even say it.

After I schedule a pick up for the package i have to label the package with instructions--such as which end is top, and indicate the package as fragile. This is the money shot of boxing. While it seems mundane and simple, no matter what age you are, it’s difficult to not to describe an excuse to sniff markers as remarkably exciting. While many marker connoisseurs would say all permanent markers sniff the same, I personally have taking a liking to RED (readers and gift givers make note, Christmas is coming rapidly).

Also, I forgot to mention that i get to weigh the package. This would be a step of little significance if we had a sensible scale. Unfortunately our scale has a base of about 9 square inches, and many of the packages we send weigh over 50 lbs or where the scale maxes out. So weighing translates into balancing and approximating.

After about an hour Fed Ex usually arrives. By Fed Ex, I mean a small troll lady who always shows up at the wrong door. When she finds out she's at the wrong door, she explodes into a list of excuses. After I tell her it's alright, we'll just have to walk an extra forty feet, and that it’s really no problem she momentarily calms down. This subdued state continues until she's the package or packages, the it becomes the equivalent of the worst Christmas ever. When she sees that perhaps some of the boxes tower over her, it’s like the fucking holocaust just started and she trying to figure out how to get out of Poland. So, again, I become the pacifier and end up carrying fucking 120lbs of packages to the truck, like i fucking work for them, where she waits for me and pretends to do something important.

Granted, this is all I do all day. In true "Office Space" fashion I probably do roughly and hour of good hard concentrated work for every five hours they pay me. The rest of the time is spent scanning the internet, staring at the art pretending to think complex thoughts, and playing with my swivel chair. Regardless, I have college degree. Boxing, while entertaining is below me. I should be something that requires a little more intellect and strategy, like porn.

I learned to box like Lincoln talked,

dr koala dick

ps. you use your semicolons your way, and I'll use mine my way.

range of fire

so i work at this driving range. to make matters worse, i commute there. it's an hour and change away from my apartment, and there's no public transportation that goes to driving ranges, so i have to drive the whole way. also, i get paid $7.50/hr. why do i do this, you ask: for the motherfucking memories.

like this one: a kid comes in and asks how much for a soda. we sell them for $2.50, which is by no means a popular move, and i think may actually be a policy specifically designed to make my life even more miserable than it already is. so i tell the kid how much, and he says 'i'll give you two dollars.' i suppress my urge to say 'what is this a goddamn barter economy? are we in fucking istanbul?' and instead tell him 'sorry,' at which point he shoots me the ambiguous one-liner, 'you're a good businessman.' as he leaves, the person i'm ringing up says, 'do you know that guy?' i say 'no, i think he was just a douche.'

or this one: a dude in a spandex-tight blue shirt named sergio comes in with his girlfriend and wants to use a driver. we have a selection of sweet drivers for people to demo, and we charge $5 for it. again, this is a policy that i have to explain to, and in turn be frowned at by, total nutsacks all the time. while i'm ringing someone else up, sergio tries in vain to pull a club out of a car where it's locked and says 'you charge for the drivers? how can you call yourself a driving range? i mean, doesn't that defeat the whole purpose?' i pretend not to hear him, but he keeps looking at me, so i say 'no, i mean, you can use other clubs,' and again point to the irons we let people use for free. instead of letting it go, he says once more 'i just don't see how you can call yourself a driving range, i mean, to pay, for the drivers?' at this poing i'm thinking 'go away sergio. just go away.' instead i say 'back when i named the place i didn't really think about that.' he decides he wants to rent one so i go over to where he's standing, hand still on the clubhead, and unlock one for him. as i'm doing it, he says to his girlfriend, 'i like montreal so much better, they let you use the clubs for free there.' if only sergio had been in montreal that day.

or this one: a guy comes in and says 'where's the offtrack betting place?'
i say, 'i have no idea.'
'you know, you get off the highway, there's a sign, "OTB" and then...'
i have never seen this sign before in my life. i tell him that.
he says 'i gotta place some bets' and leaves.

or this one: a french woman calls me on the phone asking for directions. not only is she overtly french, putting an unnecessary 'uh' on the end of all her words (case in point: 'can you tell mee-uh how to get to the golf-uh range-uh?' to which i respond '...yeah'), she also has the common personality disorder of not listening to people when they talk. she tells me she's in the parking lot of the golf course adjacent to the range. i give her directions, which consist of three turns. i have to do this three times, because each time she tells me 'eet eesn't wuuurkeeng.' i realize, after the second session of directions-giving, that she is, in fact, at a different golf course, one with a vaguely similar name, but it takes a while to convince her of this. And stress vaguely: there are two words in the name of the course where i work and only one in the name of the one where she is confusedly making donuts, or perhaps croissants, in the parking lot, talking on her cell phone.
she eventually arrives, and proceeds to clusterfuck the whole operation by making me listen to her half-french, half-english, i-just-got-off-the-boat-from-the-goddamn-riviera dialect while there's a huge line of people just trying to hit some golf balls like decent god-fearing, god-loathing and god-ambivalent americans, scratching their heads and their nutsacks while they check out this once-hot middle-aged french woman's ass (she's wearing tights). oh yeah, and she doesn't pay any attention at all when i answer her qeustions, so she repeats the same ones with the same extra 'uh's, all for an unnecessary amount of time. she is trying to sign up her french kids for golf lessons. i'm thinking 'yeah, good idea french lady, this is going to turn out great. your kids don't speak english, and they are going to SUCK.'
she gets them signed up just in time, right before the lesson is about to start. the kids go outside, and she wants me to help her find a left-handed junior club for her son who is not only french but left-handed. it goes something like this:
'ummm, weeel you help meee find-uh the right club-uh?'
'yes, one second, let me ring these gentlemen up first, seeing as they are merely trying to purchase golf balls and all speak american.'
'okay-uh, because i can't find-uh...' she trails off while puttering around in the bin of loaner clubs.
i ring up one guy, and there's still about four in line when she asks me again for help.
'just one second, ma'am,' i say.
'the class is starting.' she throws her hands in the air and leaves in a huff.
when i go over to the rental clubs, the first one i see is a left-handed junior club, perfectly-sized for this tiny french kid. i take it out to her and she is utterly mystified by my observational acumen and club-finding ability. 'how-uh deed you know-uh? eet eesn't wreeten anywhere.'
i calmly explain to her that left-and right-handed clubs physically face different ways when you look at them.

or this one: a guy who comes in frequently, but, like the aforementioned hanger-on, never purchases anything, and who draws his victims into confusing conversations about people he once knew, dropping names as if they're supposed to mean something and assuming his victims know what in god's name he's talking about, and who always makes some odd comparison between whatever topic he's inflicted and the game of golf, then laughs hysterically to himself as he waves goodbye, tries to get me to sell insurance for his friend from his days in the army.

or this one: i see an old man outside while i'm walking up and down the range, picking up empty buckets. he is wearing an old man hat. he stops me to tell me how the place has gone totally to shit. he rattles off several names of people who used to work there, people i've never heard of in my life, and i give him sort of a blank but affable look throughout, and then say 'yeah, i don't know, i just started here recently.' he proceeds to tell me that, of the fifteen pros that used to work there, all have left since the 'new' management has come in, and concludes by contrasting my place of employment with a nearby golf course which is, according to him, '300% better than when the fuckin county used to run it). then he points to the range building and says 'i mean, i'm italian too, but those fuckin dagos don't know what they fuck they're doing,' to which i say, 'i see.' i then proceed to look around, and fail to notice any golf clubs near this guy. he isn't standing by one of the asto-turf mats, and i don't recall selling him a bucket of balls, so i say, when he lets me get a word in, 'so did you just come by to check the place out?' he doesn't seem to understand, says no, and starts telling me about some clubs he has at home. when i get the chance to speak again, i say, 'uh-huh. so did you come by just to see what's going on?' and he says 'no i don't know what the fuck's going on here.' to which i reply, 'you and me both.'
the next time i see him, he comes in asking if anyone has inquired about some lost clubs he found on the range, and says 'you know, i didn't want to give them to you guys, cause i don't know if you guys would sell them or what, you know, i don't need em, i got about a hundred clubs at home, but you know, i don't want to just leave em here.' i say, 'i don't think we'd sell them, i mean, people usuallly just put them in the lost and found, that way whoever lost them can find them.' predictably, he remains resistant to my logic. i finally say, 'that's what the lost and found is: people lose clubs, then they get found, and that's where they go.'

these anecdotes may have seemed foreigner-heavy, but let me assure you: it's not just the foreigners. i have a theory: people will act as stupid as you let them. unfortunately for me, i am paid to let them act however they damned well please, which is pretty fuckin stupid.

and it burns, burns, burns,
the range of fire

dr. koaladick

20 September 2005

Pass the Lotion

I don't watch award shows, but I'm not going to pretend like I didn't see ten minutes of this past week's Emmy awards. And sure, I'll concede that i like watching celebrities pretend how to read in front of a large group of people. I'll even concede that I think the "disastrous" and "accidental" nipple slips are funny and society find them strangely arousing (I'm on to you Nicholas Cage, three wardrobe malfunctions in a row is NOT a coincidence). I even like it when actors, actresses, and credentialed key grips across the board use the time we use to celebrate them, to make bold political statements (i.e.- "It's time to bring the boys home and send the Hurricanes to Iraq). However, i have to draw the line somewhere and say "hey, you there, stop the industry reach around, we live in a society".

But indeed, society we exist in, and our parents created, loves the reach around. Sharing; Friends selfless helping friends from behind them is what we’re all about. Kindergarten, (which sounds suspiciously German to me) lays this foundation of unconditional generosity for us at an early age as we share crayons, knowledge of dirty words, and pink eye with our peers. From age five or six this foundation continues winding itself through a Byzantine maze of complex emotions and gambling debts. What a fucking sweet Utopia.

The Emmy's captured the pinnacle moment of this self congratulatory society. The ten minutes of magic i captured involved the award for best performance by somebody not named David Letterman. This embodiment of real genius emrged when Hugh Jackman was awarded an Emmy for his performance hosting the Tony's. Upon recollection i decided that the discontinuation of production of Delorean's aside, this was perhaps the most heinously banal figurative sixty-nine ever perpetrated by mankind. Through the blinding rage (not that it particularly enraged me, i just like to think of reasons to give television the finger) I was forced to envision who-- or more specifically what type of person, Hugh Jackman had to suck off to pull out this one. I bet he wears contacts and loves his wife dearly.

Then, to perpetuate my exercise, I imagined all the people across the country and around the world watching the Emmy's who were relieved when Jackman won. These people empathized with Jackman, and his plight, his preparation, his sheer artistry. They must have experienced a moment of anticipation as the nominees were shown. They then paused, placed their heads firmly inside their incredibly large rectums and after brief contemplation, inferred that Jackman's performance was the most talented, and indeed award worthy of the group.

As the envelope was opened, they probably panicked, fretting whether or not their man would win, thrusting their head in a turtle-like fashion just a bit further up the colon than perhaps they had ever traveled before. However, it was only a precautionary measure. As the winner was announced they rejoiced, safely removed their heads, grabbed their cell phones and started calling everyone they know to celebrate as they spilled guacamole Doritos all over the floor. .

all the world's a stage
and I'm just a playa in a play,

dr. koala dick

a day in the life

remember all those times you used to beat off to photos of ralph macchio in tiger beat magazines and your mom would knock on the door and you'd say you were reading and she'd say she had your laundry and you'd say just leave it outside but she'd already opened the door so you were rushing to hide your massive erection under the covers but didn't know how in the name of god you were going to explain the nipple clamps or the eyeshadow?

doctor koala dick remembers.

remember the first time you called a girl "macchio" while you were doin it?

doctor koala dick remembers.

remember feudalism? huh? remember that, japan? macchio was just as good at karate as you are, japan; he never resorted to stupid feudalism.

ralph macchio could see through wood.

08 September 2005

Tag Team Back Again

I'm tired of Californians acting pretentious because they "discovered" Green Day. I don't even like Green Day, but every lame ass party i go to some rolling stone intelligencia ass face tries to wax philosophical about the current "state of music" and through his rambles drops the bands name. Next thing you know, the prick next to him, who's been waiting for this chance all night, acts fucking VIP about the conversation and makes outrageous claims like that his ancestor listened to fucking "Dookie" while hunting Mastodons. Get a clue.

Quick solution: A) Quit lying; you were humming "Long View" to yourself in sixth grade with your lame ass skater haircut like the rest of us. B)Lose your high horse; you didn't effing cure Polio--you listened to a sub-average sell out punk band ten minutes before the rest of the country.

Also, while we're talking about music--most overrated song of all time: the Star Spangled Banner. What's the deal here, has anybody stopped to consider why we play it at every damn sporting event? As tribute? Yeah I really want to thank my country for inventing more leisure sports--otherwise what would nerds cyber about in between wanking it to tranny porn. Are were blindly participating in a tradition of brainwashing ourselves into patriotic robots by associating Pro-America nostalgia with alcoholism?

My first piece of evidence stems from the fact that ye olde "Banner" consummates the beginning of Hockey Games, which is a Sport our country neither invented nor really likes (I like Hockey but I was always kind of a weird kid anyways), and somewhere down the line this excessive pageantry expanded to include an excuse for Canadians to ram their crappy "Oh Canada" down my throat. Oh Canada, I don't give a fuck about you. PS thanks for Alanis and all the other times you musically skull fucked me during my youth. Needless to say, America's National anthem is out of place at Hockey events, it's like Manilow and Tesh showing up wasted at the Latin Grammy’s or the Vibe awards, it insults our intelligence.

Furthermore, recently at a baseball game, as the first few notes were pumped through the stadium PA, and some grossly under talented mongoloid children's choir began to discordantly butcher the lyrics, somewhere in this transaction the guy behind me reminded me to remove my badass cap. The gentleman, who'll we'll call Einstein for the sake of this piece (If you're reading this by the way, I forgot to compliment your shitstache champ, i know they're hard to grow at the right consistency) offered his sagely advice by nudging me on the shoulder, indicating his own hat in his hand, which was promptly followed by a "I'm smarter that you fancy boy" smile. Just because I'm wearing a polo shirt and you're wearing a T-shirt donning the stains of apparent "skid marks" scattered amongst it (which, sir, if they were indeed skid marks I would be thoroughly impressed to hear the story of how they reached your shirt) doesn't make you a class warrior.

Later, when Einstein spilled part of his beer on me and "forgot" to apologize I spent the greater part of the sixth inning contemplating whether or not I should drive to his house and t-bag his girlfriend. However when I realized his girlfriend probably was sitting on the couch watching "Friends" reruns and crying because her boyfriend doesn't spend enough time with her. I decided against taking action merely on the principle that I hate the show "Friends". To make a long story short, despite his life failings, in an effort of congeniality and human compassion I abided and removed my hat.

And what tribute that was, "hey America, and all the ghosts of people that died to protect our freedom, check out my goddman hat hair!! It looks great...I know...seriously...yeah and all I did was wear a hat..."

Meanwhile, Einstein couldn't even remember the words to the song.

Beside my own personal experiences with the SSB, one must also review the lyrics of the song. I'm not going to cavil and sit here and tell you that the verbiage of the song is "antiquated" or that it's not "user friendly". Frankly I enjoy the fact that jerk offs like the guy behind me can't remember the words. Also, I find comfort in the "oh says" of the lexicon of colonial America. Where I do take issue though is the fact that our anthem is not one of triumph or victory. Instead, Mr. Key chose to glorify the American's ability to take it in the ass and ask for more. Originally titled, The Defense of Fort M'henry (not even gay), the tale captures the shelling of an American fort during the war of 1812.

What cathartic message was Key able to adopt from this experience? It was a message that depicts Americans as enjoying a punch in the face, and then asking for another. When i was 7 my soccer team got beat like 9-0, it was embarrassing. Still, nobody quit. The whole team showed up for the next game too. But did anybody write a song about it? No. You know why? because we lost 9-0. It should also be noted that the SSB was adopted as an anthem first by President Woodrow Wilson, a proven kid toucher; and formally adopted as the anthem by congress during Hoover's presidency who we all know gave the best BJ's of every president besides Zachary Tyler. The song was first played at a baseball game by a band during the seventh-inning stretch. As many of you know, that is a time slot now occupied by "Take Me Out To the Ballgame," a fun children's song similar to "Ring around the Roses" minus the frighteningly morbid social commentary.

Thus being, I suggest its time we adopt a new national anthem. One whose position cannot be filled by something we might see Big Bird singing on Sesame Street. A song that is both timeless, yet strongly connected to a period of prosperity in our nation. A song received well by all, yet edgy; a song that the guy who sat behind me at the game and my parents probably won't understand.

To fulfill such criterion i can only think of one song. It hit me in the eighth inning of the aforementioned game. It celebrated a Pujols homer and inspired a jolt of energy in my blood: "Whoomp There It Is". Tag Team, my friends, in their early 90's masterpiece, crafted a song that echoes the drive of our fair nation, and more importantly a song that speaks for itself.

Because the Koran told me to,

doctor koala dick.