Now Playing: the sound of my fingers across the keyboard in my office...
when things happen in threes, one must pay close attention.
i have a friend named Will. he recently told me about his current job, which is driving him nuts. he fears that it's turning him into an asshole (his words) and he can see the change within himself. at the time, he was ready to turn in his pink slip, but last i heard he's still there.
i have a friend named Jordan. we used to dj together for a weekly party about two years back. he recently told me of wrestling with his current job. he noticed that the stress was making him violent and prone to loud outbursts. he's taking time off to travel before the opportunity escapes him. good for him. i don't blame him one bit.
and then there's me. my job is purely functional. it's not so much a career as it is a psychological, spiritual, and physical holding cell, a detainment center where bright, young prospects with promise go to wither away and die in 35-hour work week
this morning, i head to the train station, relieved that i made it in time. i sit down behind two guys that i suspected would be trouble and i should always go with my first instincts. one of them starts blasting music out of their media players.
the conductor tells them twice to turn it down. one of them mutters something about putting on their headphones. it's quiet for a minute, then turns up again. a woman in her late '30s/early '40s sitting in front of me reading her paper says, "excuse me...can you turn that down, please? thank you." one of them must have shot her a look, because she says, "excuse me, do you have a problem?"
"do you have a problem?" the everything-to-prove delinquent predictably asks.
"yes, your music," she says, not backing down one bit. (why should she? the guy's a punk.)
"don't worry about my music...worry about your paper." then he says to his partner in ass-backwardsness (or possibly to no one out loud), "getting an attitude with me...i was raised with respect."
are you fucking kidding me? you were given a simple task, yet you couldn't do it because your ego had to
pimp strut. news flash: YOU'RE NOT A GANGSTA. do you own any assets? no. can you buy an election? no. can you screw thousands out of their 401k plans and still not go to jail. NO. and until you can, you will never be a fucking gangster. perhaps Dave of De La Soul said it best in "Itsoweezee":
"see, dem Cubans don't care what y'all niggas do
Columbians ain't never ran wit your crew
why you actin' all spicy and sheisty
the only Italians you knew was Icees..."
drop dead, you future piece of state property. read a book.
that's how the day started. then problems from the moment i entered the office. one right after the other. somewhere around lunchtime, i mentally checked out, never to return. the body will come here, but the mind is millions of miles away. i went outside for lunch in hopes that the freezing temperatures would numb me. i printed out Dr. Neal's article on Richard Pryor, sat in a isolated spot, and began to read. once i was done, i just started crying. mostly for him, but partly for myself. Beth told me that i need to get in touch with my inner hustler
and do what's necessary in order to get to wherever it is that i'm supposed to be. i still have no clue where that is.
she suggested that i watch some Richard Pryor videos tonight. he was put on this earth to make us laugh, but i'm afraid that if i start watching even his funniest material, i'll only end up crying. and i don't want to do such a disservice to a man who was the greatest comedian on earth.