07/08/03, Tue; Home, Nashville
160
lbs. Occasional smoker. Bad skin.
Messy hair. Never clean-shaven. Poor eating habits. Depressive.
Unskilled. $10.75/hr,
Secretary. Too much beer.
I’m not a
writer. I’m not a singer. I’m not an actor. I’m none of the things I think people should treat me as. I laid down to write and my wife turned on
the TV. This is my last month in
Nashville. I release my claim on my
identity and take responsibility for the change. This is not good enough yet.
I Must Have More To Give
This body doesn’t break.
This body doesn’t heal.
I’m never really sure which of my lives are really real.
These sutures are superfluous, like eyes that never seal.
I keep pulling at the mending, just to see if I will ever
really feel.
Take my life in your arms; raise the chalice to your lips.
You drink me up in equal cups of overflow and proportioned
sips.
But I’m not sure just what I offer; you lift your fingers
and sift.
If it’s you I’ll spend my life with, I must have more to
give.
To me you are a mystery, the whole of scripture come alive.
I wonder how you ever got to be so close to me… so buried
inside.
You freeform endless poetry, sublime and canonized.
I take my cues from disappointing you—turn them into
bubbling pride.
I glimpse a hint of introspection; you legitimize the myth.
If it’s you I’ll spend my life with, I must have more to
give.
Add a dabble of distraction, wrap my fracture with a splint;
if it’s you I’ll spend my life with, I must have more to
give.
I’ll keep looking ‘til I find it—I must have more to give.
09/12/03, Fri; Home, Glendale
As of Friday, September 12, 2003 I
am 27, unemployed, unpublished, without a degree, slightly overweight and quite
unhealthy. I smoke, I drink, I curse
unnecessarily, I drink too much coffee.
I fear becoming delusional as my family pattern is. I do embarrassing things in my pursuit of
fame and fortune. I have a collection
of rejection letters from publishers and agents. I am very negative, and have always thought it my gift to be so.
I have a
crazy neighbor. Her name is Melissa and
she’s an artist. She eyes my cats as if
plotting to kidnap—er, catnap them. We
keep her business card on the fridge that just says “Melissa B., Artist and
Writer”. She tried to suggest a book to
us on the link between creativity and mental disorders. I dismiss that as an irresponsible excuse
for facilitating dysfunctions. I prefer
to believe a disciplined person can become whatever they want—in Melissa’s
case, she has disciplined herself to become crazy because she believes artists
must be.
The only
thing I have going for me is complete honesty.
I tried the other day to print up business cards of my own and I
couldn’t come up with anything to say that I am. “R.C. Hedegard.... person who writes down thoughts.” It just doesn’t work. All I do is pass judgment on things in
whatever form I happen to be inspired in at the moment. I am not exactly a poet. I am not exactly a writer. I am not exactly an artist. I’m just... me... not quite sure what I’m
marketing, my honesty for your entertainment, perhaps. But I want to be better.
I have
ambition. I have drive. I more than likely also have a good number
of dysfunctions of my own. But I will
not give in to them. I will not point
to them for vindication of the way I am when I know that I can be better. I would rather make the effort to discipline
myself and take responsibility for my own path. Yes, there is a lot to be discouraged about, but fuck me if I
can’t use every bit of it for good. So
what do I do? Start a new journal.
This is my
starting over. This begins with
transplanting myself to California from the east. Everything is stacked against me. I have no prospects and nothing to set me apart from anyone else
in Los Angeles. I want to reach the
same people. I want to work for the
same companies. I have the same
starry-eyed visions and will most likely make the same stupid mistakes as
millions of people before me. I have no
idea what the true outcome will be.
Like I
said, all I have going for me is honesty.
With a little discipline and faithful evaluation, I have an idea
something might click at some point. If
I am honest with myself every step along the way, I might be able to catch the
details that cause other talents to derail.
That is the point of this book.
It will be chronological because otherwise I’ll get distracted and
become something detrimental. This is
the strict monitoring process I have set for myself to avoid pitfalls.
First thing
first—I have goals. Yeah, well, so do
you. No one gives a damn unless you’re
prepared to back them up with hard work.
The first step, then, is to clearly define them—write them out, set up
an active, measurable plan. I want very
specific things. What are they? Can I rattle them off if someone asks me
point blank? Am I constantly aware of
them? The point is this; every moment
of every day I am moving either toward or away from my goals. If they are well defined, I will be able to
identify in an instant whether what I am doing is productive or
counter-productive. This journal is
that string around my finger, that well-worn, laminated card or trinket in my
wallet reminding me at every step that there is something I can be doing to get
me closer to the finish line.
This is
more than a journal, then. It is also
the log and minutes of my beginning in Los Angeles. I am recording them for myself in order to track my
progress. I am sharing them with
you—whoever is in the same situation—because I believe everyone must find their
own path to success. I tried for 26
years to follow protocol... I’m not that kind of guy. If you are reading this, then you are probably not that kind
either. So let me encourage you—because
no one else will—it’s up to you and me to show these motherfuckers what we’re
capable of.
I. Physical Goals
(appearance, endurance, assurance)
I want to look good.
I want to feel good.
All right
then, I want to be on a magazine cover in the next ten years with the caption
“Sexiest Man Alive”. In the next five, I
want to be one of the “50 Most Beautiful People”. I want women to talk longingly and defensibly about me, and
teenaged girls to have posters of me on their walls. I want a ridiculous fan created web ring with photos I didn’t
know existed. I want gay guys to hold
me up as an ideal. I want to be a
natural inclusion in those stupid entertainment industry shows about shallow
celebrity stuff like “Hairstyles of the Rich and Famous” or “The Stomachs of
Hollywood”. I want Melissa Rivers to
say she can’t believe I wore that. I
want to see myself twenty feet tall on a screen and know that I measure up.
II. Psychological
Goals (motivation, evaluation, affirmation)
I want to think clearly.
I want to perceive correctly.
I want my
thinking to be clear. I want to be
honest with myself and with the world—to know who I am and what I have to
offer. I want to make my own decisions
and not be manipulated. I want people
to talk to their spouses about how solid I am, how I am rational and well
adjusted, and am able to be so without drugs of any sort. I want to be trusted, to know my emotions
are healthy, an asset, not reactionary and destructive.
III. Spiritual
Goals (discernment, temperament, empowerment)
I want a relationship with God. I want to be a positive influence.
I want to
still write worship songs. I want to
quote scripture in daily context. I
want to make it through reading the “boring” books of the Bible. I want Christians and non-Christians alike
to be confounded by the strength of my convictions, and to respect that I am
what I am, solid in foundation but gracious in practice. I want the Church body to look outward and
the world to look inward; toward the doorframe I stand in and lean against,
actively understanding, as I do, and participating in both spheres.
IV. Social Goals
(family, friendship, fellowship)
I want to experience love. I want to exude love.
I want to
not work on holidays. I want weekends
and vacations, and to retire early and devote myself to family and
friends. I want date nights and
community volunteer days, to be the person people are comfortable visiting or
calling up at any random hour of night.
I want my tithing to go directly to the people who need it most. I want to make memories for people, the way
people made poetry for me. I mean to be
a force of good in individuals’ lives, an empathetic inspiration to anyone
needing comfort or guidance.
V. Intellectual
Goals (learning, earning, discerning)
I want to keep learning.
I want to keep teaching.
I want to
finish my BA. I want to learn everyone
else’s job. I want to connect with the
unappreciated and speak eloquently for those with no audible voice. I want to earn respect through
discipline and hard work, to show myself worthy for any position I’m given, and
to guide by example. I want to “speak
softly and carry a big stick”, to not demand anything I do not merit. I want to be respectful and appropriate, to
live in humility and submission as a man of question, not overbearing opinions,
nor tradition. I want to live in true
wisdom, tempered with structure, accountable to both God and humanity.
VI. Professional
Goals (reputation, situation, concentration)
I want to be wealthy.
I want to be renowned.
I want to
be a multi-billionaire. I want to be a
brand name. I want my money to make
money, and the profit from that to make more money. I want to buy Disney and Vivendi—or to have the option—or to have
the power to change their direction. I
want my purity of vision to restructure the world. I want people to forget that I was ever human, that I was once a
poor aspiring artist collecting rejection letters and not getting callbacks on
jobs. I don’t want luxury for luxury’s
sake, but to esteem highly the ethic and endurance that ultimately pays off if
a heart remains pure. I want the people
around me to be protected and secure, to be facilitated in honest endeavors and
to reach out with charity and spread the gospel with liberal generosity. I don’t want in order to have,
but in order to increasingly give.
And so it
is. My goals are set out and
defined. I think they are a good model,
but I can only lay out my own plan. The
important thing is that each person adapt him/herself to his/her own course,
and find a unique path faithful before God.
The plans must be as distinct, as different as each individual. What follows in this journal will be mine,
but it will only be a part. The full
picture will not be seen until long after I’ve passed, long after everything
has been presented and the aftereffects felt.
It should be interesting….
At-A-Loss Angeles: New Resident
Already Unhappy
I don’t ask too terribly much. A little common sense. Tempered with a little grace. I’m new here, but for the love of God, could
somebody explain California’s welcoming committee? I understand the difficulty in finding the right place to rent—we
had droves of starry-eyed, delusional “talent” arriving in Nashville, too. My wife and I spent our first few days
ruling out areas with more graffiti than movie ads, or places where we couldn’t
read the billboards; sort of opting for places we could actually feel safe
coming home to after ten. So we ended
up in Glendale.
That’s right, Glendale. The town that time forgot. Walking down Honolulu and the Montrose area,
I couldn’t see how any of the shops stay open.
Don’t get me wrong, they’re cute—it just felt like a movie set that we
weren’t supposed to be walking around.
Only Matt at the bank made it slightly more comfortable. Which brings me to my next rant, on
financial issues.
First off, you need to anticipate
the cost of moving in to a physical house.
In this case, the physical house only has one up-to-date electrical
outlet (the remainder being those old two-prong type—I mention this only
because my new energy efficient AC just quit working, which is why I’m writing
this at three in the morning instead of sleeping); a gas water heater without a
drip pan, at an angle much like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, which makes a
spectacular banging noise whenever plumbing is used; and walls that look like
they were once crackle-painted. So yes,
we dropped the initial $1800 to be able to unload our rental truck, just one
day late, the landlady all the while calling to make sure we switched all the
utilities immediately to our name (who ever would have thought of that?),
and making sure we knew to dial “1” before an “800” number. She also said we had missed a school
payment, which is impossible since they are still in deferment. Nonetheless, she was very nervous to rent to
us, and absolutely WOULD NOT take Travelers Cheques, which is why we opened the
account at Washington Mutual. After
that goodly chunk of money, my wife’s parents and brother helped us buy an
energy efficient refrigerator.
Our new bank account would have
been very helpful starting out, except that it generally takes 7-10 business
days to receive an ATM card and real checks.
So writing a check or running a debit for groceries was out. Which brings up another way California has
already seceded from the rest of the country.
Let’s say a person’s brand new check card can’t be activated by the 24
hour, 7-day activation line because “It’s the weekend” (how that makes sense,
I’m not sure), but the person does have their new checks. California grocery stores can only
accept checks if you have a California drivers license—regardless of
where the money is. Keep that in mind,
we’re coming back to it.
Upon entering the state, you have
roughly twenty days to register your car and obtain a California drivers
license. The DMV recommend you make an
appointment. Therein lies the
problem—the next available appointment was after the allotted time
period. So, we went in at 10:40... and
left around 3:30. But we were
prepared. Okay, my wife was—I still
need to wait 7-10 days for a certified copy of my Birth Certificate, because
apparently in the year 2003 we still cannot verify Vital Records online among
government agencies. Also, no one in
California is able to provide you with an estimate of what registration might
cost. All we know for sure is that it
is about to triple (thanks to Gray Davis).
But, like I say, we were prepared—or so we thought until the somewhat abrupt
and humorless man at the window asked for our Marriage Certificate. But it’s okay, as soon as we said we weren’t
told we needed it, he sent us to a closed window to speak to a supervisor who
wasn’t there. Soon enough that was
resolved, the rude man was reprimanded, it turned out I was right and did not
need it, and my wife finally got her license.
No wait... I’m sorry, she got a piece of paper that said “Not A Valid
License” and was told she should receive it in about four weeks. This is the part where you recall that we
can’t write checks, and the part where you do the math and figure that four
weeks is well after the allotted time period.
All I’m saying is, those little laminating machines aren’t that
expensive—I know high school students who could make me a license faster.
All of those inconveniences and
mounting charges—even down to the smog check—would be fine with me, if it
weren’t for one tiny little detail. I
still need a job. It’s as hard to get a
call back from the local Starbucks as it is an agent. Even Staples makes you take an hour-long test before considering your
application (I mention this only
because my printer stopped working yesterday and I could have used their
discount). Put me to work and I’ll shut
up. Otherwise, lookout L.A., there’s a
new writer in town... and he don’t look happy.
No One Here Can See Past Yesterday
Used to be the most succinct thing I could say was “I want
you.”
Recently beams of uncertainty have shifted aside.
Animal instinct sniffs the slums of Los Angeles in the
afternoon,
the dirty streets, graffiti and en Español Hollywood signs.
All my dreams of never dreaming I would
live here in the hollow heart of archery,
forsake an industry where once a week
street cleaners sweep the filters of the currency.
Another line, another quatrain or a tag-line
from a nonsense of urgency—
emerge another scripted writer with a tendency
to choose money over pay.
It is perfectly clear,
no one here can see past yesterday.
Where nothing is as it appears,
no one here can see past yesterday.
Everyone still talking about how wonderful everything was,
and presently contently residing off residuals from then.
Every buzz and each commotion stoking
embers from memberships forgotten,
former child stars and has-beens groaning
no one knows just what to do with them.
Still the star-painted faces of admiration, pasted off
Sunset,
offset the glare from the warehoused soundstages’
painstaking detail.
With job opportunities dwindling like tinder from both ends;
pick up a check, they pick your pockets, pick professions
carefully for the sale.
It is perfectly clear,
no one here can see past yesterday.
Through the thick cloud of hopes and fears,
no one can see past yesterday.
Undated
Now comes the barrage, streaming
through vertical blinds with retiring sun.
Another two hours wreck themselves against twisted vertebrae in plastic
chair. Breathing comes heavier upon
each throbbing temple, inanely following, with a perpetual “11” in the
forehead, faceless drones incapable of expression, reminding me of my own
accumulating stack of rejection letters.
I switch my cell phone on, then quickly off again as another succession
begins with waves of dread in accents and ancient languages resurfacing. I think of my few comforts back at the house
and wonder how long it will be—eternity perhaps, so overused—before I can enjoy
anything at all. An unplanned,
misplaced conglomeration of suits and sneakers picks through service trays
uncomfortably, and I shift position to upright and outside.
09/15/03, Mon, 4:00 PM; Starbucks, La Canãda
Sitting for
a second interview at Starbucks in La Canãda—the sixth Starbucks I’ve applied
to. It’s busy. A worker is late, so I’ll be pushed aside. I’m up to five cigs for the day, as I spent
the first half online searching for HR info at local studios. I was physically nauseous driving here, my
only prospect other than Häagen-Dazs. I
dread stepping foot, again, behind a counter.
If I were in school I would almost be guaranteed an internship. I wait for Roe and think about how absurd it
is that I’ll be making half what I left in Nashville. Ridiculous people make hundreds a day, and I’ve been unemployed
for over a month, with rent and car payments coming up. I’m terrified. I don’t want to serve people again. I don’t want to take phone calls. I want to silently work around a set, behind the cameras and
crew, unnoticed. I want to tend to
details on my own, see things trained eyes overlook and correct problems
independently of supervision. I want
the consumer world far, far behind. I
want to retain my empathy for the server… but God I’m tired of that
world. I want to create. I want to be paid for my mind and hands….
09/16/03, Tue; Starbucks, La Canãda
Back again.
Repeat of yesterday. Only difference
is, today I’m wearing jeans. And the
smog has rendered the mountains invisible.
Sent online applications to the top five agencies.
09/21/03, Sun, 11:00 AM; Lake Ave. Church, Pasadena
Seems a
California version of Belmont… times three.
I haven’t spoken much this morning… could break down at any moment. I am hard and dark without trying to
be. The projector gives prominent
writing credits—Peter Furler wrote this one.
I still don’t get church. Don’t
take that wrong; it’s no different than how I don’t get anything else. I can understand why masses flock to it;
I’ve just never been one of the masses.
I’m so frustrated. I keep being
pointed to what I don’t want to do. I
have no interest in starting a company.
I don’t sit around thinking what will sell. I just react to things and create from it. Nobody knows what I am.
“What could
separate us from the love of God?” The
bald man talks about job searching, and God’s love being constant—that the
newness is fresh every day.
09/24/03, Wed; Home, Glendale
I stopped
eating yesterday afternoon. We set out
midday, jobless still, and the car stuttered through city traffic like the
transmission was slipping. We have $56
to our name. Less… Marci bought
cigarettes. We can’t make rent next
week, so have to borrow from parents again.
I printed
an iron-on and made a “Hire Me” t-shirt with my qualifications on it that the
humorless HR girl at Warner Bros. didn’t think was funny. Nevertheless, I go back today for an
interview for a Sales Associate position at Central Perk. I applied to six more jobs yesterday. Marci and I spent the day taking turns in
tears.
I wish
these cats would go away, staring up at me as if I have something to
offer. I obviously don’t. This, right now, is the poorest, most trying
time of my life. I don’t know what else
to do.
Weight:
150, Cigarettes: 0
09/24/03, Wed, 11:00 AM; Warner Bros., Burbank
Actually,
this is more thrilling than I expected.
The sales position is inside the functioning studio. I thought it would be a tourist thing—which
it still partly is, but just to be on the location is tremendous. So much security and activity. I’m humbled just to get a Visitor Pass. There’s a Starbucks here, a Ben &
Jerry’s and a Jamba Juice. Lots of movie
posters I didn’t know they were associated with. I get the sense I’m up against hundreds of applicants.
Marci is
sitting in the car waiting for me. I
almost cry again just that she’s so supportive… dressed up and waiting when she
didn’t have to come. But I would have
gotten lost had she not.
I’m still
broken, but better. The place is in
biking distance—well, about ten miles.
I’m dressed in my uncomfortable dress clothes. I kind of want this now.
Badly.
09/24/03, Wed; Home, Glendale
Now I’m thinking
about studios all day. A moment ago it
occurred to me that friends and family are going to start visiting soon. For many on the East Coast we’re the
settlers. We have to succeed. Imagine my cousin from New York, and all I
can show him is the mall. That just
won’t work. He’s relying on me. And my brother, the photographer, needs
connections to expand his business. The
elite out here would eat his work up.
Okay, so right now we can’t afford groceries or cat litter, but a lot of
people are counting on us to make it.
I had my
Warner Bros. interview today and Robert was a wonderful inspiration. I’m tremendously indebted for his advice and
encouragement. He said one of the most
important things out here is to be specific when someone asks what you
want. He said that people who can
help you want to help you; they just need to know the details. It was nearly a 45 minute interview, with
Kelli there part of the time, and I felt good about it. Not about my fumbling ramblings, but in the
interest Robert showed. He seemed
sincere. I wondered if my squirming
account of my Christian background made him uncomfortable. I don’t know what’s happened to me; I can’t
speak or write eloquently anymore. I
think this ridiculous job search—this lack of callbacks and these fruitless
interviews—must have crushed me.
Most of my confidence is gone. A little was restored today when Marci got
hired temporarily to cover an upcoming Union strike at Vons (that’s right, a
grocery store) and even though they don’t usually hire relatives, I was asked
to come in as well. In that case Marci
was right, and I was wrong, about calling places being ineffective. We have a three-hour training session first
thing in the morning, but aren’t guaranteed any work because the strike doesn’t
start until October 5th, if at all.
So we committed to keeping open for the possibility of work. But the paid hours tomorrow are enough to
believe my 24-hour protest fast worked, so I’m eating again, for now.
I spent a
good while online looking into Hot Topic, to see if there’s any potential of
tying them to GrimMISC, but it was inconclusive. I’m thinking I’ll proceed with the designs and begin offering to
produce everything (the alleged merchandise) myself. If it takes, it takes. If
not, I keep working, keep adapting and adjusting.
I swore I
was through writing once I reached L.A., but it’s always been the product of
discontentment and frustration, my way of sorting things out and reevaluating,
so I guess I’m locked in for another. I
really ought to put my efforts into something more productive. I’m thinking “Special Skills” section of my
resume. There is so much I can’t do, no
one cares if I write it down. Diaries
were never meant to sell. I don’t know
why anyone keeps them.
I should note,
however, that I’m settled, that everyone is not so horrible as I supposed. The longer you’re here, the more people you
meet, the more humanity and goodness you find.
(Who the
hell just wrote that?)
09/29/03, Mon, 7:54 AM; Saturn, Alhambra
Spent
yesterday, while Marci was at work, cleaning for Allie’s visit, and to clear my
head. On her way home the car started
sputtering. Cigarettes: 2. The house was immaculate. I made calls to update people. I meant to make the bike ride to Warner to
time it, but the front tire was low, so I fixed the front brakes instead. Called Jay to wish him a Happy Birthday, and
he forwarded me $200, which I am most likely about to spend for a diagnostic.
Our service person is from
Nashville. He asked why we moved out
here and Marci said “work”. Boy, isn’t
that a laugh. I’m terrified that I
won’t get this job. Meanwhile, more
people are praying for me than I’ve even met.
I have to think that I don’t interview all that well, since I’ve gotten
only hesitance and no fruition. Marci
is waiting with me this time. I guess I
asked yesterday, “Why does God hate me?
I’ve done nothing.” Guess I
should have gone to church.
10/10/03, Fri; Saturn, Alhambra
Another six
AM morning after being up past one. The
past few days have seemed busy, even being unemployed. Allie left last Saturday and I spent the
weekend painting cabinets in the garage of Aunt Betty’s new house. Her professional estimate for the rest of
the house was $34,000. I’m sure I could
do it for less.
[Good Day
L.A. happens to be on right now and it’s amazing how unprofessional they’re
allowed to be. I’m often embarrassed
for them.]
I’m at
Saturn again for the catalytic converter and an oil change.
[Aside from
my wife, blondes are irritating. They’re
tacky and cheap, and I think the darker the hair, the deeper the soul.]
For a frame
of reference, Arnold Schwarzenneger was just elected Governor by way of
recalling Gray Davis, Dakota’s “Run Ronnie Run!” that Bruce worked on is out on
DVD, and the supermarket labor strike begins tomorrow. We don’t have TV yet, so I don’t know how
intensely we’ll be hated, but Marci and I begin our Strike Relief at nine in
the morning. I’m thinking about renting
“Hoffa” tonight.
As for the
rest of our time of late, we’ve been at the bank frequently making deposits
from God knows where, shopping for new interview and work clothes, revising
resumes and making phone calls. I’ve
been obsessed with sex with my wife, so I’ve been hanging pictures of her in
the room and positioning mirrors everywhere, and hooked up two TVs to the
camcorder to see from every angle. I’m
sure it would be dirty and improper if it were not my wife, but it’s my
Christian duty to enjoy her. And I do.
Changing
directions, the more I look into Warner Bros., the more I want it. I sent homemade thank you cards to my four
interviewers and followed up with emails and phone calls. Now I wait, and continue checking the
website. Meanwhile, I interviewed with
See’s Candies yesterday with hopes for a callback by the end of the month.
I got
another call for W2s from the background check people, because Catholic
Charities kept up a two-week pattern of losing paperwork and not responding, so
I prepared an “Email-By-Request Background Verification” packet while revising
my resume again. In addition, I’m
deleting all the personal information and self-promotion from the website. I realized last Friday, while at a taping of
“King of Queens” that only taking my art seriously will set me apart from everyone
else. I asked one of the ushers how to
get a job at Sony Pictures and he said, “Honestly, you have to know someone… or
try the website for half a year or more.”
So I thought, forget it… I’ll stand apart by being the best at what I
do.
Ah, this
just in… the replacement part for my car was welded wrong, so they have to
reorder. So I’ll be back next
week. Ah well, another cup of coffee at
Saturn. I like this dealership. The one guy at the service desk reminds me
of Buddy from “Charles In Charge”—the guy who became “Bibleman” on the
Christian market. The girl at the
payment desk is pregnant.
Marci came
home from The Gap in tears the other night, just for hating it so much—the
pressure to sell. Corporations no
longer seem to believe that a superior product will sell itself. Rather, they push to be sure every person to
enter the store buys an average of $80 in merchandise, because that’s just
what we need. The only good thing about
the job is that she made a friend—who will be moving soon.
We haven’t
seen Didi in a week because we’ve both been sick. Bam thought it would be funny to crash Bruce’s rental car through
a wall in the room where he was sleeping.
Cops said if he’d hit a foot or two over the roof would’ve collapsed and
killed him. Ha, ha. Good one, Bam. Thanks, MTV, for encouraging responsible behavior.
10/12/03, Sun, 12:02 AM; Home, Glendale
So the
Union chose Vons for the strike, which started at 10:30. Which means I’ll get called in tomorrow,
first thing. Marci will be at Gap, so
I’m going in alone. Not a great way to
make friends in our community, but I’m fundamentally opposed to the modern
union. Marci bought me a 3-pack of Nat
Sherman Mints… I expect I’ll go through them quickly. I kept praying and bargaining with God for the strike not to
happen, so I’m a bit disappointed.
These people can’t afford to strike.
The Union mandates their actions.
They vote without hearing an outsider’s perspective: A) No one should tell a company how it has
to operate. B) There are millions of
people who would be happy to get a fraction of the pay and benefits they think
they’re entitled to. C) Who do you
think pays for their benefits?
Me and you, every time we buy groceries. If they would accept less, the prices could lower and everyone’s
bills—theirs’ included—would be more reasonable.
I don’t want to scan
groceries. Ever. Much less during a strike, with hundreds of
people hating me. It can only feed
itself, and worsen every day while the workers get more desperate. They shouldn’t strike. It’s a bad idea. Yes, it’s unfortunate that the companies have to offer less. But that’s life. It never promised to be easy or carefree. We just endure. We do whatever we can and hope it’s enough. I hope to God what I’m doing is enough. I signed papers yesterday to work for See’s
Candies. I’m officially hired; only it
doesn’t start until late October or early November. I tried to relax today, but kept pacing. I felt nauseous at the thought of Vons.
Fuck you ingrates for
striking. Now I have to do your work
under deplorable conditions, with almost no preparation. And you’re going to yell at me for helping
keep a job for you to come back to at will.
I’m resolved to ignore you all.
I’m angry that you put everyone in this position. I want a studio job, not a grocery
store. But I’m more desperate than you
can imagine. Suck it up and accept your
lot. Take your fucking job back.
I go to bed with the phone on my head, waiting for the call.
10/18/03, Sat; Vons, Glendale
I think it’s
Saturday. I’m not really sure. I’ve been working at Vons since Sunday. On day three they made me the manager of
their Starbucks. There have been a few
stories on the daily news about the strike, and a few talk radio shows have
been devoted to it. Other than that,
things have been quiet. We’ll make rent
this month. We can afford cable
finally. The strikers are trying
numerous tactics, not all of them quite ethical. I rode my bike to work at 5:30 this morning.
Darlene and Suzie came up from Betty’s,
where they’re staying for a women’s conference, so we went to Michelina’s for
pizza. I’m starting to feel more
comfortable on Sunset. It reminds me of
New York. Darlene spent the last few
days in prayer (her usual mode) and had a vision that my feet were bound, but
God was about to cut the rope. She
sensed that it was more about a position than a job. I cried, and nearly am now just relaying it.
Lunch is
over. Back to work.
10/21/03, Tue; Vons, Glendale
Mandatory
lunch… had to strand a new person I’m “training”. To do what, exactly? Lord
knows… I’m making things up as I
go. We’re almost out of milk. The days pass too slowly. Dinner at Didi’s last night. The computer stopped working. I’m exhausted. This whole thing is ridiculous.
Scheduled training for See’s on the 4th and 5th. I need sleep.
10/23/03, Thu; Vons, Glendale
Six AM on
my day off, sitting in the café after dropping Marci at work, because I have to
take the car in again. My workers
aren’t there yet. The strikers are losing
their jobs. We’re hoping several cross
this week. I just got a voicemail from
WB’s HR asking me to call at my earliest convenience. Tomorrow we’ll get our first legitimate paychecks.
10/23/03, Thu, 11:03 AM; Saturn, Alhambra
Now I have
a decision to make. The offer is
Temporary Seasonal Staff at Central Perk for $7.25/hr through November and
December.
10/23/03, Thu, 2:52 PM; Vons, Glendale
I left a
message that I would do it, and happily will.
Now I sit at the café waiting for Marci, listening to a talker complain
about the strike and the poor economy, but happy to be served so quickly. Each customer scrutinizes their receipt for
five minutes before leaving. It’s
rewarding to be the best at what we do, but I truly hate being here.
Scab
Picking at the scab with no bleeding,
crossing in unfortunate times;
bite the slender fingers of feeding,
slitting throats with unionized lines.
Drop Him
(for John Ritter’s family, and others like them)
I won’t talk about this right now,
but when I get to your door, we’re gonna fight it out.
You got some nerve to tie me to this one day in history—
one shatter in the calendar year.
Oh dear. Oh dear.
Drop him. Please,
let him come back.
I don’t want to think this can’t be undone.
This isn’t fair!
This isn’t right! This is sick…
no good can possibly come.
I don’t want to let this let me lose my faith in you,
but I’m just not prepared to accept that it’s true.
Explain yourself!
Show the worth,
or drop him back to earth.
I still cry. I got
another verse before I reach the punch line,
but by then my red eyes will be rubbed raw,
and these people here will know that I am sick of them all,
and I just wish that they would cease their casual words.
It’s all just so messed up, with no resolution.
Drop him. What do I
have to do to make you hear me?
Drop him! No one not
in Heaven can ever understand.
How can you give such love, only to snatch it back again?
I am angry and there’s no one here to punch….
If you really want to get back my trust,
then drop him back to us.
10/30/03, Thu, 10:53 AM; Vons, Glendale
Technically,
my day off. Sitting alone at a table
for two in the store café again, having woken up to drive Marci to work, then
being called back to open until Lynne showed up. Chris’s tires were slashed and windshield broken. The man-haters were by the door being
rude. Now Amelia and Dee-dee are
outside. They’re the regular Starbucks
workers, who I finally talked to yesterday.
The truth is that they’re afraid to cross Union lines because they fear
never being able to get another Union job.
Amelia is the good one—yesterday she wore fairy wings and blessed or
cursed people as they passed. Dee-dee
admitted that she was unhappy before all this started, just hoping to work with
children soon. They expressed fear for
me that Warner Bros. is unionized, that if they find out I crossed a picket
line I’ll never make it into a studio.
Now let me ask you, then, if all the Union workers base their actions on
intimidation and fear, are not the Unions doing more harm in this instance than
the employers?
I want
Lynne to take over the café. She’s
capable and willing, and I don’t yet know my schedule. Nor do I like being here, but I’ll do
whatever it takes. I am thankful
for the opportunity. But I’m 27. I’m tired.
Bruce’s
show did well for ratings. I decided to
start praying for them, and for his success.
California has been on fire for a week, so Murphys called yesterday to
check up on us. It looks like Bethany
will be the family’s redemption. I’m
proud of her.
I am a
blend of unending compassion and perpetual discontentment. I can pine for another’s situation while
aching for my own. I find myself
fortunate and vexed at the same time. I
can’t believe I wake every day. I can’t
believe I’ve endured 27 years of life, and found that this is all there
is. There is no resolution. There is no single moment after which
everything is okay. I can’t stand
seeing people every day living life. So
monotonous. So unfulfilling. Vons depresses me. Customer service is hollow.
There is no art, no creation, no vivacity; only self-centeredness and
misunderstanding. It’s amazing that
these people can function with so little sense or concern. The world is staggering. It is dead, with no hope of revitalization.
The
she-male at the deli talks over-loud and over-sweet, with a
trained vocabulary. She has been
brainwashed with videos and classes, conference calls and memos. She acts out of frustration and underlying
misery, wretched and cringing inwardly with hopes to stamp out the demon
terrorizing her life. She has no
sincerity or passion—least of all passion—and is only a shell reflecting
humanity. I, on the other hand, am hard
and harsh, but can be cut by a wind, impressed irrevocably by an involuntary
shiver or an ill-timed glance. I
shouldn’t be left to think.
There is
beginning to be a line at Starbucks.
Nicole has neglected to return from dropping Chris home, so Marci can’t
take lunch. These people do not
deserve our time. I hate consumerism
and what it’s done to people. Only
discipline can temper me.
Passion Comes But Once, My Love
You are the embodiment of the detriment of my days.
You sift through the sediment of the regiment of my praise.
Time dishonored traditions stir inhibitions within
a disjointed ambition to break this condition of sin.
Enduring renditions reset my submission to the grave.
Passion comes but once, my love; absence never fades.
Eyes half closed on an upraised nose with a predisposition
of gloom,
frozen fingers lingering over bone scraped straight from the
womb.
All around there’s an eerily resounding, profoundly
disturbing resume,
exhumed from the plume of the wreckage,
divested from the crest of the tomb.
Disgrace and dejection—poised intercessional malaise.
Passion comes but once, my love; dissension never caves.
Oh, woe is me! I
feel it constantly weighing on me;
its shadows fall as sure as night.
I navigate this ship of misery solely
on the only thing on which I can rely.
You impress my weakness and hold me accountable for my pen,
the implicit details expressed by my reckless aversion to
friends.
You sharpen the focus evoked by the hopeless scope of my
lens,
embolden the cleansing commotion provoked when my frenzy
descends.
You bandage and mend when my tendencies bend under what they
intend;
passion comes but once, my love, but sorrow never ends.
11/03/03, Mon, 7:11 AM; Warner Bros., Burbank
Took
exactly one hour to make it here by bike.
I’m an hour early. I’m
nervous. There wasn’t much
communication, so I don’t know what to expect.
What if I can’t do it? It’s
about 52 degrees this morning. My new
hat left black fuzz in my hair and on my forehead.
The picketers at Vons are getting
rowdy, spurred on by the Ralph’s workers who taunt the young and weak. There are a handful of butch man-haters I’d
like to tie to the dumpsters. I won’t
work with Marci most of this week. It
bothers me, but they’ve made her a manager, and she likes aspects of working
there.
More than
nervous—I’m terrified. I want
supervisors to love me, to have not a moment of hesitance or apprehension. I want people to be comfortable with me.
7:41
AM. I’m calling Marci.
Colloquialism
On the search for poetry, I came across discipline,
on the path of which I stumbled upon grace.
Now each day I see interconnected, overlapping worlds,
differing, while not disagreeing, in unique offerings of
perspective.
I think at times about things like Christmas, and warmth,
contrasting sharply with the empty parking lot
next to the VIP Tour garage,
lined with young trees of light crayon,
where vines climb unplanned in ugly solitude awaiting
familiarity.
I am here, waiting,
and all I can think of is my wife,
how nice it will be to sleep in one day,
without having to kick the cat at four in the morning.
I wait, forgetting where I am,
or what it is my intent to do,
not knowing what today will bring,
or what next week will be
colloquial speech.
11/03/03, Mon, 10:29 AM; Warner Bros., Burbank
Staggeringly
unprofessional. Central Perk had me
scheduled to train at 10:30, after HR had me in at 8:00 and passed me to five
different people. Everyone here is too
familiar, too comfortable, too young. I
walked around the lot to kill time. I
already want to go home. There are some
good points—a rental library, a screening theater, employee prices on media—but
nobody seems to know what they’re doing.
Of course, I haven’t started with them yet, so I may be harsh; it just
seems more chaotic than necessary.
I’m actually hungry. I miss Marci. I want to whip this place into shape. It should be flawless, immaculate and classy. So far only one guy seems to carry himself
that way. The rest should be in bands. The highlight of the day was the bike ride.
11/06/03, Thu; Vons, Glendale
Our first
day off together since we started working, and Marci got called in. I smoke just to have a reason to be outside
with the picketers. Some Teamsters were
laid off last night. The employees will
lose their benefits in a few days, but I don’t think they know that. My hands are trembling from too much coffee
with no food. Their spirits are
down. It suddenly turned Autumn this
week. No one is sure about me, how I
fit in to anything. I dread having to
be here tomorrow. The Union head stood
in their corner near me to do some paperwork, but left as soon as she noticed
me. It’s been a week since I’ve even
worked here.
I hate unions more and more.