RockAss.net / allmyjobs

Process Server

2006-11-04T16:45:00.000-08:00

This true work tale is from John Marcotte, published at his site, http://beta.blogger.com/www.badmouth.net.

In 1998, I briefly worked as a process server in the County of Sacramento while attending college. I wrote this story for the Sacramento City Express while attending classes. Enjoy

I counted nine of them through the chain-link fence. The full-grown rottweilers must have weighed 200 pounds or more. Occasionally, one would throw itself against the aluminum slats of the gate. I cursed under my breath.

This wasn’t a home. It was a fortress. Brutal razor-wire spiraled along the fence, which traced the edge of the property on all sides. The house squatted, smugly secure, in the middle.

The king of this castle was threatening to unleash 1,800 pounds of canine fury unless I “got the hell off his property.” His daughter, a dirty fourteen-year-old girl, was screaming that I was a “Pussy!” over and over again. Anything I might have said in response was lost in a flood of snarls, threats and slurs. I got in my car and slowly drove away.

Just another day at the “office.”

I’m a process server. I suppose the job title requires a bit of explanation. I’ll give you the boiled-down version: I sue people.

I drive to their homes, their jobs, and I give them papers letting them know they’ve been sued by someone. I hand out lawsuits, subpoenas, restraining orders-never good news.

I also ensure that the defendants have enough time to prepare a good defense. I ensure that they were really notified they were being sued. I’m protecting their rights, too. Most of them don’t see it that way.

No, to most people I deal with I am more than a man. I am a symbol, a symbol of everything that has gone wrong in their world.

They are losing their car or their home. The credit-card companies are herding them towards bankruptcy or they are in the midst of a nasty divorce. And I’m the guy who is doing it to them.

There’s an old saying: “Don’t kill the messenger.” After five months of careful research, I would like to report that people need a refresher course on old sayings.

After the “rottweilers incident,” my girlfriend bought me a steel-cased flashlight, like the kind police officers carry. I call it my “dog repellent.” I’ve never used it.

A few people have slammed the door before I could remove my hand. I’ve been pushed once or twice. But for the most part, people trying to avoid a lawsuit don’t get physical. They lie.

“I’m not Barbara.”

“He’s not home right now.”

“They don’t live here anymore.”

I try not to let the prevalence of liars sour me on humanity. I am usually dealing with people under some stress, after all.

Some people with my job play dirty. You get lied to enough, you start to lie, too. I try to be straightforward with people-until they start to lie. Then I have a few tricks of my own.

I’ll talk to the mail carrier to see where their mail is delivered. I’ll talk to their neighbors. I’ll stake out their house. I’ll call them on the phone and when they say they’re just leaving, I’ll tell them, “That’s okay. I’m standing on your porch.”

My job is to make sure they get the papers, not to make sure they like it.

I had been trying to serve papers to a local attorney for several months. He was never at his office. I finally got him on the phone, and he told me he was in San Francisco all day, but if I called back that evening he would decide if he wanted to accept the papers.

That’s not the way the system works. A lawyer, an officer of the court, should know that. But I didn’t feel like arguing and hung up.

An hour later, I happened to drive by his office. His car was in the driveway-a long way from San Francisco. The door was locked but it was also clear. He was on the phone. I tapped on the glass.

At first I thought he dropped a pencil. Then it hit me: He was crawling under his desk to hide! That made my whole day. I couldn’t stop laughing. I taped the papers to his door, and noted his actions on the proof I filed with the court. Let him explain it to the judge.

You haven’t lived until you’ve made a lawyer crawl on his hands and knees.

There are some parts of this job I enjoy. Every now and then I get to serve a restraining order on some guy who’s been mistaking his girlfriend’s face for a punching bag, or I get to track down a deadbeat parent who owes thousands in back child support. Serving assholes like that makes me feel good.

But most of the time I just end up serving papers to poor people, people a lot like me. They just got too far behind on their credit cards, or they can’t afford the payments on their house. Or maybe they just hit someone in a car accident.

And just when it seems it can’t get any worse, I show up to prove them wrong. Reactions range from anger to depression-mainly anger.

I can’t expect too much. It’s not like I’m bringing good news. But if people will listen, I’ll tell them what their rights are and what they need to do next. Most of the time, they don’t listen.

Often the guy getting sued just wants to make sure I don’t think he’s a bad person. He paid that bill. The other guy was at fault. The company is screwing him over. I nod my head in sympathy.

I get a lot of people that want instant justice. They know they are innocent, so logically, they shouldn’t have to go to court to prove it. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.

No matter how much you tell me about your situation, no matter how well you prove your innocence to me, I am still giving you the papers. That’s my job.

I don’t think all of the people I serve are guilty. I don’t think they’re all innocent, either. I don’t have to figure it out. That’s what the courts are for.

And for every person who hates me for serving him papers, there is another person sitting on the opposite side of the courtroom who is grateful for my services.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

Know any agents or publishers?

2006-08-18T11:23:00.000-07:00

I need to pick three of four, maybe even five chapters of my book to submit to agents who want a better look after reading my querry letter. You can find a list of and links to all the chapters here, keeping in mind, this is the messy, hammered out, stream of conciousness version and the agent will get a much cleaned up version.
So, what are you favorite chapters?
Thanks.

This is my querry letter. Know any publishers?

I am seeking a publisher for my memoir, Work Ethic? Complete at 113,500 words.

Work Ethic?, a collection of vignettes that combine to form a novel, is based on my own adventures seeking identity and employment in the American job market, being hired and fired (sometimes I quit) from over 30 jobs before my 30th birthday.

While on the clock, and in the pages of Work Ethic? I have, on separate occasions;

• Had a SWAT Team aim guns at my head. (Theatre Manager)
• Been arrested for bringing a gun into an international airport. (Flyer Distribution)
• Done dishes with a rock star. (Café Dishwasher)
• Been punched in the face by my boss. (Bus Boy)
• Punched a subordinate in the face. (Film Festival Promoter)
• Called for the internment of all Arab American's on a nationally syndicated "angry white guy with a goatee" type radio show. (There was a context to this.)

Work Ethic will appeal to fans of Michelle Tea, Beth Lisick, Dave Eggers, and David Sedaris. The book is written with a sense of humor but often explores the dark and even the mundane moments that one comes across while seeking enlightenment and employment.

Work Ethic existed first as a blog, written almost entirely while on the clock. The blog has been immensely popular drawing up to 85,000 views per month.

I dropped out of high school at age 17, when I was hitchhiking and caught not only a ride but also an offer of employment as a video tech. In addition to working too many jobs I’ve made a name for myself as a comedian, freelance writer and weird uncle.

My interview credits include Bob Newhart, Ryan Styles, Neil Hamburger, Gift of Gab, and my hero The Unknown Comic. In five years of professional writing I’ve covered mixed martial arts fighting, music, book and art reviews, comedy and technology. Please publish my book. I want to quit my job.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

See Emily Work

2006-07-20T12:55:00.000-07:00

Here's a quick work story from my lovely sister in law Emily.

Life as Jenson’s Secretary

From the outside, being Jenson’s personal secretary probably looks fairly dull. But you only have to scratch at the surface to see that the shiny patina only thinly veils the dark web of deceit and dramatic problems within. No one knows about Jenson’s secret policeman and fireman boy toys, or her devastating drug problem, or her addiction to myspace. This is because I take my job very seriously and do it very well. She seems like such a nice woman, but she has the potty mouth of a sailor raised by a bloody trucker. She could make a crack whore blush.

Other than that, she’s pretty cool. She’s funny (especially while under the influence) and feeds me. My only complaint is that her admin appreciation day gifts leave much to be de$ired.

When I’m not fielding calls from the distraught and heartbroken fireman boy toy, I am stalking her policeman boy toy who is no longer returning her calls. And has filed a restraining order. Against both of us.

And then there’s the creepy old man that wrote her into his will. He sends her flowers weekly (and not from Relles, either, he’s so ghetto), and I have to pretend to be her and call and thank him and tell him all about what color my pedicure is this week, and what kind of shoes I’m wearing. Weird, huh?

Oh, and speaking of pedicures? Jenson goes bi-weekly. Next time she sends out one of those “I’ll be at the Sac PD today” emails be sure to check out her toes that day. They will be all nice and shiny like they just got painted…..

Thanks Em. Now the rest of you, send in them work stories! Please.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

Editing the book

2006-07-16T14:34:00.000-07:00

SO, I'm met with Becca, whose helping edit and create the final draft of what I'm now calling "Work Ethic?". The had some great advice and I'm looking forward to getting this thing a bit more polished and together. I am anxious to start collecting rejection slips from publishers.
Any of you who have a pile of such slips or are otherwise knowledgable in these matters your advice on how to go about getting someone to actually look at my book, let me know.
I figure the quote from the Washington Post praising the story I wrote for Morbid Curiosity should help.I'll also have to dig up the mention that this here blog got in the Sacramento Bee.
Well, there's your update.
In the meanwhile, I'll be writing butloads of fiction. Sayanora for now.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

Hot Nymphos Getting Major Hits

2006-06-23T21:51:00.000-07:00

I posted a story about my friend Amber recieving a slimey job offer. I expected a lot of google hits since I titled it Hot Little Nymphos In Heat, an accurate title by the way, but I'm surprised to find I'm getting major hits from Google and from Craig's list.
People are googling the names and phone number after recieving a simillar e-mail to the one Amber recieved. And somebody has posted links to the story on Craig's list in London, Paris, NY, LA, Philly, Seattle, Denver, the list goes on and on.
I'm glad I'm giving people a peek at how slimey the whole deal is, though honestly, the folks looking to hire these "Hot Nymphos" don't hide it for long, just long enough to get you e-mail address.

You can read the story here.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

A New Blog

2006-06-16T13:40:00.000-07:00

If you've read all the jobs and you want a new blog detailing the bad decisions I've made in my life, check out my newest.

All My Kisses is well underway. I'm detailing all of my romantic entanglements from the earliest I can remember on. You can view the first post by clicking here.
Or just visit Rockass.net/allmykisses to see the latest post.

Leave comments, participate, and be warned, it's pretty cute in places and pretty funny but my romantic life has been ugly from time to time too. It's here, warts and all, except the gay stuff. Until you come up with photographic evidence, I'll never cop to that.

Oh, and speaking of photographs, I need graphics. Interested in illustrating a post? Let me know. I'd love to feature different artists on each page and would of course link back to you.

Other than that, I will get the details of my Mime gig last Saturday up here soon. I'm trying to get one of the girls I worked with to send me some photos. And there's always new stuff at my home page, www.RockAss.net. See ya.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

Work Ethic? Rough Draft Done.

2006-06-12T19:38:00.000-07:00

I finished the very rough rough-draft of my book. It's not as rough as what's here, but it's pretty rough. I'm taking it to Becca and she's going to edit it for me and help me remove the suck from it. And then, I see if I can get the damned thing published, and I can go on a book tour and I can write another book and live on book advances and, and, and....
Okay, getting ahead of myself.

Anyway, I asked my friend Tom to print me three copies of the book, so Becca would have a hard copy and I figured I'd find something to do with the other two. Well, Tom had a slow day at work and he's a great guy and he got all creative. I showed up to pick up the book and found Tom had designed me TWO different covers. He's rad.

Click on the images to see larger versions. I'm giving one copy to Davey Rothbart from Found Magazine when he comes to Sacramento next week.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

More on The Mime Gig

2006-06-09T20:04:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I'm a mime. I got my striped shirt, black pants (not tight stretch pants, oh thank you Jeebus,) white gloves, beret and make up from my buddy James at Decades costumes on Del Paso.

I will be hiting three locations tomorrow promoting "Libertage- The Expression Line
Corrector" while dressed as a mime. I will be paid $55 an hour for this, and will be chauffeured about in a limosine. Yep. Strange day here I come.

Want to come make fun of and harrass me? Here's a the schedule, but it's prone to adjustments.

Arden Mall by Macy’s entrance Spencer Gifts 11am to 1pm
Old Sacramento 1pm to 3pm
The Galleria Rocklin 4pm to 6pm

I'll take lots of pictures. And I'm guessing I'll have lots of fun. Either way, I'll be making lots of money. Woo hoo.

PS: The graphic is me panhandling as a mime. That story is here!

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

All My Links

2006-06-08T08:16:00.000-07:00

Wow. A-lot folks are linking to this blog and saying some nice things, so I figured I'd start a list. If you've linked me send me the information and I'll get you on here as well. Thanks everyone.

i found this website the other day of a guy who's done more jobs than a dozen people would in a life time.
http://rockass.net/allmyjobs/2005/08/all-jobs-in-order-even.html
ive been obsessed with it for some reason. it's like a novel for me that i cant put down. i tell myself i'll read one more and then close the window but i find myself clicking again and again. check it out.
http://spaces.msn.com/voidofchaos/

It’s fun to read about all Keith’s jobs.
http://Cockeyed.com

Stayed up way too late reading All My Jobs. Got the link from Ben. Very good reading. I reccomend you read the first page and you'll be hooked. And that's before the rampant sex and drugs!
http://goawaylosers.blogspot.com/

Keith Lowell Jensen's stories of all the jobs he's ever had. It's quite funny.
http://waldo.jaquith.org/

All of his jobs held, in order. Interesting reading.
http://www.stumbleupon.com/url/rockass.net/allmyjobs/2005/08/all-jobs-in-order-even.html

I found a new website of interest, http://rockass.net/allmyjobs, to waste internet quota on.
http://ocdiversion.blogspot.com/

So I read some stories. I'm not going to lie to you, man, you seem like bit of a jerk. But an entertaining jerk.
Thanks for writing these down. I'm definitely looking forward to enjoying the rest of them.
This guy didn't actually link me, he commented on my link at metafilter.com
Ha ha, the jerk called me a jerk

Post:
Interesting blog read, and a good story about every job this guy has ever had (and there are many)
Kind of a wacky insight into someone elses life.
Reply:
wow that guy writes alot
posted on the forum at strictlyea.com

you might enjoy this guy's stories about his crappy jobs.. he has had a lot of them. he once dunked his hand into kfc chicken batter, then stuck it into the deep-fryer.
posted on the forum at http://phantasytour.com

Keith Lowell Jensen is the very definition of "slacker". He's had more jobs than just about anyone else that I've ever met. He claims to be a writer, but it appears that he spends most of his time panhandling in a banana suit. (He says it's an "art form".) My favorite story is where he was fired from an ice cream parlor because his references didn't pan out.
Is this a hoax, a collection of made-up stories by someone trying to be funny? Probably. But it's still rather amusing if you have ever schlepped tables for minimum wage. Besides, he has a really cool picture. Must be a comic book fan.
http://www.hellinahandbasket.net/archives/002511.html

While stumbling around one of my favorite blogs Cockeyed.com, I came across a link to this list of all of All of Keith's Jobs in order even!

I thought to myself: I have an uncanny memory, a variable employment history, AND a place to write things down! I should copy him! I'm not going into the amount of detail that he does--I mean, this blog isn't SOLELY about my past employment experiences. I have to talk about my current ones as well!
http://nikekalami.livejournal.com/79076.html#cutid1

This one is accompanied by lots of snarky comments. Enjoy, but watch out for NSFW images.
Sensible Erection/All My Jobs

Jake is touched by Mike's words which makes me really happy.
jakerabbit.livejournal.com

"I found This tonight, and have been quite entertained reading it. It's a big long list of stories from every job this guy's ever had (seems to be around 45 by my count.) Despite his sometimes horrible grammar it's often funny and occasionally a bit insightful.

My favorite line from it:
Quote:
'I went back to the pizza place where Bill and Rob and Muffin were waiting, and laughing. Great, I'd been a pawn in a prank between two fags, a narcoleptic mechanic and a feminist dyke.' "
http://www.pavilionboards.com/forum/showthread.php?t=8780

This link is from a really cool blog that another working Joe is writing in realtime, or something like that.
http://bottomrung.wordpress.com/

Keep Them Links a comin'. Thanks all.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

HELP! I'm a MIME!

2006-06-06T13:24:00.000-07:00

Well heck, for $55 an hour wouldn't you be?

I'm being hired as a mime by the same folks who paid me to be Will Ferrell. I've also been The 40 Year Old Virgin for them. The gig is this saturday.

The good thing is the next time someone asks me how much my diginity is worth I'll have an answer. It's worth $55 an hour.

I don't know a-lot about the gig, just that it's a promotion for some line of make up. Too bad I can't speak, I heard a great make-up joke:

Q: Why do women wear make-up and perfume?
A: Because they're ugly and they stink.

When women tell the joke it comes across kind of feminist capping on the make-up and perfume industries.
And when guys tell it, like the old trucker who told it to me, well then it's pretty piggy.
When a mime tells it, it is of course utter blasphemy.

Confession: I wanted very badly to be a mime when I was a young un. I spent a-lot of time practicing pantomime, alteranting with my other love, ventriloquism. And yes, of course I discovered Magic within a few year too. My god what a geek I was. (WAS?) Yes, WAS! Screw you parenthetical.

Truthfully though, my miming did continue. Click Here to read about my adventures panhandling as a mime.

I'm actually only too happy to do this gig. I'm a HUGE fan of Harpo Marx, Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and pantomime was certainly a big part of their shtick. I think I'm going to have a great time. And I'm going to get paid outrageously for it. Nice!

When I find out where the gig is I'll post it here. So check back if you want an opportunity to make fun of a mime.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

Hot Little Nymphos in Heat, apply within

2006-05-31T11:28:00.000-07:00

Hey single moms, students, sorrority girls, etc. like being the center of attention? A friend of mine got this crazy e-mail.

Check out the e-mail below and be sure to call the number and listen to the ten minute message. It talks about dressing up "like a hot little nympho in heat" and working the guys up so their one-hour massages "only last two or three minutes. " Wow, this after they assure you the job isn't sleazy. And I see no mention of massages anywhere in the job description?! It is mentioned, barely, in the e-mail, and then explicitly in the phone message. I'm sure the actual touching of weiners doesn't get mentioned until the first day of work. They want to reel you in slowly and carefully.

Listen to an mp3 of the recording by clicking here, or right click and select "Save as" to download.

So this is what the rich are doing with their money. No wonder they get so pissed at having to give any of it to social programs and the like. Here's the E-mail and attachment (note the bold and italics are mine):

Hi Amber:

Thank you for responding to my email about the sexy cocktail server job! I apologize in case it's taken awhile to get back to you - we are opening clubs all over the country and have received a large response. In case you are still interested, we are currently undergoing an expansion at our Sacramento Mannesmann Club and as always, are definitely interested in vivacious and sexy young women for that club that enjoy the game of teasing men and who thrive on the resulting attention! In case you haven't seen it, I've attached a copy of the job description for the Sacramento club (SEE ATTACHMENT). You need to be aware that at this time we have a short waiting list for cocktail server openings at that location. I'm interested in you but won't be able to guarantee an opening for another several weeks. My suggestion is that you initiate the interview process (as described below) right away so that your name can be placed on the list as soon as possible. If you're interested in one of the massage trainee positions ($75/hr. cash – 20 hrs./week max.) we do have a limited number of openings available now.

If you are interested in either of the jobs, the best way to proceed would be the following: I am going to provide you with a phone number that you can call to hear a ten minute message from my boss, James Tucker. He is the person in charge of hiring for these positions (I just screen applicants and forward the ones that sound good). Try to pick a time when you can listen to it completely without distractions. It should provide a pretty complete picture as to what this job entails (also, it does cut off after 10 minutes exactly). After you've listened to it, if you decide that you still want to continue, you'll be able to call a different number and talk directly with James. He'll be able to respond to any of your unanswered questions and arrange to meet with you. He did request that I mention that it would be especially helpful if that when anyone did call him about this job that she try to be somewhere by herself (without distractions) so that she can speak openly without regard to her surroundings! That will enable you to have an honest and direct conversation, without wasting each other's time.

The number to call for the ten minute recording is: 310-599-9005. It can be called anytime 24 hrs – day or night.

The number to call James directly once you've listened to the recording is: 877-634-5510 toll free.

We are located in Los Angeles (although our U.S. headquarters are in Seattle) and the best time to call him is between 6:00 a.m. and 4:30 p.m. Pacific Time on weekdays OR between 6:00 a.m. and 11:00 a.m. Pacific Time on weekends. He's a morning person so it's OK to call early!

I don't want to be too presumptuous but in case you are interested I'm going to drop him an email that you may be one of the individuals calling about the Sacramento club. Good luck!

Michelle Calderone

The Mannesmann Club

888-923-9888

mannesmannclub@cox.net

P.S. Amber, you sound like someone that would be well suited for this job! If this is something you want to pursue I suggest that you not be shy about calling Dr. Tucker directly ASAP and expressing your interest in the job. He's a busy guy but this is his job. In case you don't get through to him immediately don't feel like you're being a pest, just keep calling or leave a message(s) and he WILL call you back. I'll make sure he expects your call!

P.P.S. I'd like to make another suggestion based on past experience - even if you decide against applying immediately; you may want to save this email in a permanent location. You never know when you'll need extra cash.

The Attachment/Job Description:

COCKTAIL SERVERS / HOSTESSES for upscale men's club – SACRAMENTO, CA - $24.50/hour plus $500/month cash clothing allowance!

Students, College Co-eds, Single Moms, Sorority Girls, Ladies looking to earn extra cash on the side discreetly without doing anything "sleazy or illegal" are welcome to apply! You don't have to look like a Playboy model to do this! (Though it's certainly a plus if you enjoy teasing guys in the way you dress and act!) If your favorite holiday is Halloween, this is for you! If your favorite pastime is frequenting clubs and teasing men, why not get paid for it? If you’re the type of gal that has a closet full of sexy clothes that you seldom get to wear, you’re our type of woman!

Part time and full time for national chain of private upscale men's clubs.

Not a strip club!

Throughout 2005-6 we will be opening new locations in close proximity to virtually every large college town throughout the U.S. and Canada, including SACRAMENTO, CA! To find other locations near you contact us by email or phone. You will receive a prompt response! If you are located near a college campus the odds are good there will be a Mannesmann Club near you!

NO NUDITY!

NO TOUCHING BY CLIENTS!

No tipping allowed.

Must be 18 years or older.

$24.50/hour plus $500/mo. clothing allowance. 8-32 hours/week.

No experience necessary - will train.

Must be open minded, responsible, and able to interface with mature, high profile clientele.

Club is open 24 hours/day, seven days/week.

Shifts are four hours long and there are six shifts in every 24 hour period.

Shifts are 12-4, 4-8, 8-12. a.m. and p.m.

Flexible hours available.

Anonymity guaranteed.

Call Michelle Calderone at: 310-485-2000 OR

email her: mannesmannclub@cox.net

PHOTOS (ONE OR MORE) ARE DEFINITELY A PLUS and may be emailed to the same address! PLEASE make an effort to submit one or more - they don't have to be professional! Provocative is better.

Please make sure to include a phone number where we can reach you.

This is a private club. Confidentiality is paramount. If you enjoy being the center of attention this is guaranteed to be an exciting learning experience!

No experience required.

Complete training provided.

Must be 18 years or older!

Must be comfortable wearing provocative attire!

Positive and enthusiastic applicants are especially welcome!

Direct email: mailto:mannesmannclub@cox.net?subject=COCKTAIL SERVERS / HOSTESSES - $24.50/HR. PLUS $500/MO. CLOTHING ALLOWANCE (SACRAMENTO - MANNESMANN)

Direct phone: 310-485-2000

Contact: Michelle Calderone

Although these jobs are available on a year round basis and you are welcome to apply at anytime, our hiring tends to be heaviest around the beginning of fall, summer and spring semesters.

THERE ARE NO BARTENDING OPENINGS AVAILABLE!

I do hope some of you will record your e-mail and phone interactions and share them. This is some hillariously sleazey business right here. Yes it is.

And if I may faux-mo out for a minute, DAMN! $500 a month clothing allowance! I'm there!

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

Another "All My Jobs" blog

2006-05-26T12:11:00.000-07:00

Victoria posted the following on her blog. Cool beans. And even though I'm disturbed that Rob at Cockeyed has ended the long standing tradition of people always refering to me as Keith Lowell Jensen or even KLJ instead of Keith, this is still pretty neat.

All my Jobs: Volume One
While stumbling around one of my favorite blogs Cockeyed.com, I came across a link to this list of all of All of Keith's Jobs in order even!

I thought to myself: I have an uncanny memory, a variable employment history, AND a place to write things down! I should copy him! I'm not going into the amount of detail that he does--I mean, this blog isn't SOLELY about my past employment experiences. I have to talk about my current ones as well!

Aiight, without further ado...all my jobs. In chronological order. This is volume one, because there is no way I could do all of them in one go.

To make this ultra-long list more manageable, I am only going to list jobs I was actually paid for. Maybe another time I'll do a volunteer list.

Job #1: Babysitting a Baby.
When I was 9, my mom loaned me out to her one-armed friend Marilyn. My job was to mind a baby that belonged to one of Marilyn's friends while Marilyn and her buddies got trashed in the next room. I was NOT to come into the other room unless "the baby started on fire". It was a tiny baby still in the un-fun,"dribble-cry-poop-sleep" stages of life. Personally, I wouldn't let a 9-year-old take responsibility for MY newly born infant, but these folks were pretty trashy. Their friends were probably in awe of their responsibility for getting a sitter. My parents weren't in-home partiers, so I'd never seen adults reveling in debauchery before. Once I got the baby to fall asleep, I spent the rest of the evening peering through the keyhole, spying on the drunken antics in the next room. It completely altered my worldview. I'd always suspected that adults were idiots but after that night I was certain.

Job #2: Apartment Mucking Assistant.
I was about 10 or 11 when my mom started loaning me out to another one of her friends, Kim. We knew Kim from her gig at Joe's Donut Shop. This garish red-and-white building is a Sandy landmark and going there was a huge event in our young lives. We were wicked poor, but occasionally we'd have enough extra money to stop in and get a donut, scalding hot chocolate, or a pop. Kim was always so kind behind the counter, but in her role as my boss she was a completely different person. She had a side business cleaning out recently vacated apartments. I was hired as her assistant, which meant that I got up really early on the weekends and spent all day and night doing the shitty gruntwork while she smoked and read magazines. I got to hunch over toiilets that had black crunchiness caked onto the bowls--trying to loosen the rock-hard sludge with toxic chemicals and a butter knife. I also got to crawl into disgusting cupboards and scrub mystery stains in the carpet. Once, I found a pipe and a stash of weed on top of a set of kitchen cupboards. I didn't know what it was, but Kim was really excited to see it and had me rip the place apart looking for more. I had to peel up the carpets even. I'd end each day exhausted, with cracked hands and a headache. I didn't care though--I was SO excited at the prospect of having my OWN money. I'd daydream for hours on what I'd buy with my earnings. The harder I'd work, the more detailed my daydreams became, but weeks went by and she didn't pay me at all. At one point, I wanted to do something with my friend Kim Yandell that I needed money for--Skate World? State Fair? Something like that. I knew I had the money coming, so I asked my mom to get my pay from Kim and Kim got really angry with me for asking for it. She said it wasn't payday yet. I pushed for it, and I eventually got $10--total. I guess even $10 was too much to expect--because I wasn't taken along again.

Job #3: Babysitting for the VanEttens.
Bob and Nancy VanEtten lived up the street from me, and I caught the school bus at their house. I never really noticed the adults that hung around the stop until a day that Nancy came up and thanked me for continuously defending her daughter from from the neighborhood bully Zack Lemmon. After that, Nancy went out of her way to be nice to me. Every morning, she acted excited to see me, and listen to me and ask me all about school. I liked the attention so much that I started leaving the house earlier and earlier to spend more time with the VanEttens. I was over at their house every morning, eating breakfast and watching cartoons. This started a trend--I spent grade school mornings at the VanEttens, middle school mornings loitering in front of the school with hooligans, and by the time I was in high school I was leaving for school at 5:30am. In addition to Nancy liking me, Molly and Kari absolutely adored me. Nancy eventually gave me a job watching them--and after a while I started helping her manage her Daisy Girl Scout troop. I minded Molly and Kari for years and years, until high school. We'd dress up their long-suffering cat Oliver, play Nancy Drew, and make Rice Krispie treats. One year Nancy gave me a gold Girl Scouting locket for my birthday. I wore it every day until 7th grade or so. She was the BEST. The girls got older, the VanEttens moved down by the river and I started being really busy at school...they started calling me less and less and the job just fizzled out. They had my sister sit fot them once--but it just wasn't the same. Nancy was infinitely important to me. She died in a car accident last year and I cried and cried when I heard. That bully Zack Lemmon is also dead but I was not sad about his death AT ALL. (How would you feel if you were 12 and the boy that had been tormenting you for years suddenly died? I was totally relieved!)

Job #4: Babysitting for the people that lived next door to Zack Lemmon.
Through my job watching Molly and Kari, I got a gig occasionally minding these two other girls that lived at the end of Hall Court up the street. I don't remember their names. I only watched them a few times, and the distinguishing memories of my time there almost all involve that ASSHOLE Zack Lemmon making my life miserable. Once, he started a fire in the front yard and laughed when I ran outside in a panic. When I was 14, I was meant to watch the two girls, but when I turned up their mom had let them invite 4 neighbor girls over and told me they'd signed me up to watch all six. She'd promised all of them that I would take them to Meining Park. So, I led 6 girls down to the Fantasy Forest playground and tried to keep these hyperactive youngsters from dying or running off. It was so stressful. At the park, I ran into Bobby Perkins from school and he and his friends made inappropriate jokes about all the kids being mine and called me a slut. Then the little kids yelled SLUT! SLUT! at me all the way home. Good lord. I was pretty frazzled and pissed by the time the parents came back home--and was shocked to discover that they were only going to pay me for their 2 kids. That was the last time I sat for them.

Job#5: Berrypicking.
Ah, berrypicking. The realm of illegal immigrants, tweaked out hippies, and poor rural kids. Nothing like spending hour after hour of your summer "vacation" barefoot in the dirt, mindlessly picking berries under the hot sun. I did this every summer, usually at my Grandma's farm. All three of us kids would pick--and be bitter about the fact that our cousins Tara and David got to watch tv inside instead. Berrypicking can be pretty boring--especially when you are doing it under the watchful eye of your mom and you get busted every time you try to goof off by feeding the cows green apples or cramming berries into your mouth until your cheeks puff out and glops of berry pulp ooze out of your lips while you try to choke back laughter. You get paid cents per pint--and if you are family you get even less. I also picked berries at the Vollmer family farm--which was mortifying because I went to school with the Vollmers. Berrypicking is poor-people work and the Vollmers are one of the berry farming elite families of Sandy. Krista Vollmer was always nice as nice could be--but her cousin Ryan was the hugest dick and always rubbed it in my face that I was one of "his" employees. When I got older, I'd ride my bike out to Game Farm Road and pick with my friend Suzanne Skibba--but that was actually kind of fun. We were unsupervised, loopy from the sun, and scandalized (but flattered) by the attentions of the old Mexican guys.

Those are my first 5 paid jobs, and all pretty marginal. Next volume: legitimate teenaged employment with a paycheck and EVERYTHING!

Check out her blog for future installments. Find it by clicking here.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

I've Been Cockeyed

2006-05-23T21:43:00.000-07:00

Can you tell what day Cockeyed.com put up a link to my site?

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

Working On The Railroad

2005-12-17T09:06:00.000-08:00

by Jason Adair

"I’ve been working on the railroad
All the livelong day,

I’ve been working on the railroad
Just to pass the time away."

When I was 25 and still in college, I was working as a puppeteer. This job was great because I never worked more than a couple hours a day, and I was getting paid to play with dolls. Unfortunately, from Thanksgiving until the local elementary schools came back from their winter break, it was slim pickings and not unusual to work only a couple days over that time.

It was my seasonal lack of work, along with the fact that my second job as a stagehand for the Sacramento stagehands union had come to an abrupt end (this had something to do with the fact that I always got in shouting matches with my crew foreman) that led me down the path of manual labor.

I was at my wife’s family’s Christmas party and word got around that I was out of a job. I was told by many people in the family that I should ask my wife’s cousin for a job, because he was always hiring. He was the president of a big time trucking, wrecking, salvage, and railroad repair company called Jim Dobbas Inc. I really didn’t want to ask for a job for fear of overstepping family boundaries, and for the fear that he might actually give me one.

The negotiations turned out to be relatively simple; I asked for a job and he gave me one. And oddly enough, it turned out to be the last time I would take a job from family and the last time he would offer one.

I was instructed to report to the Antelope Rail Yard at 5:30 in the morning. The whole idea of anything that starts at 5:30 in the morning should have clued me in to the fact that this was going to be a disaster. So, I got up Thursday morning, left my house at five A.M., and drove onto the Dobbas yard cluelessly under a blanket of clouds and drizzle.

The first hour of work consisted of my new employee orientation, which was without a doubt the best first hour of a job in my employment history. The lady in charge started off by talking about how not to get hit by a train. It was at this point when I started to wonder just what it was that I was going to be doing. That curiosity faded with the introduction of the single greatest safety video created by man.

It was put out by Southern Pacific and was made up of a gang of sixty second spots. The theme of it was about how the choices you make in the next thirty seconds could effect you for the next thirty years. They first clip started innocently enough with two guys talking, one of them wanting to take a shortcut on the job and the other one trying to talk him out of it. Every time someone did something wrong there was bloodshed. Once a guy walked between two freight cars and got smashed between the couplings. Another guy got hit by a train and went flying, and in my favorite vignette this guy reached down under this machine that sets and drives railroad spikes and got his hand torn off. The special effects were gory and great, and there were a couple times where I had to bite the side of my hand to keep from laughing.

After the videos we were quizzed and given hard hats, gloves, and vests and sent out into the yard. It was 6:30 and freezing cold. As I was led over to where I’d be working, people were looking at me and smiling. Not like, “Hey new guy, welcome aboard!” but more like it was really funny to see a guy this far out of his element, and if we keep watching he just might get his hand torn off and that will be funny. As it turned out, the smiles were due to the fact that my employment history had quickly fallen into the realm of general knowledge and the idea of a puppeteer working on the railroad was pretty funny. The only thing funnier was the fact that I was making less than half of what I was getting as a union permit worker, I was working outdoors in the winter, and that my new job was sorting scrap metal by hand.

Me and two other guys were taking a big pile of railroad detritus and sorting it into three smaller piles of: railroad spikes, spike plates, and these J shaped pieces of metal that are used to keep the track attached to the tie, called creepers.

I took a deep, “has it really come to this” breath and tore into the six foot tall pile of rusty metal in front of me. After a few minutes my two coworkers stopped me and told me to slow down because there was nothing to do once we finished this, so we had to make it last all day. I wanted to slow down, but there was no way I was going to be throwing metal around all day long. My hope was that maybe we would finish and I’d be asked to drive something somewhere, or maybe something needed cleaning, preferably with hot water.

We finished the pile in about five hours. At that point we were given a new assignment. Upon first hearing the details, I tried to convince myself that it might actually be fun. It consisted of knocking creepers off of old track with a sledge hammer. Honestly, it was kind of fun for the first ten minutes. Hitting a piece of metal that’s rusted or twisted in place and watching it shoot out the other end wasn’t so bad. It’s the kind of thing one might do with a friend for fun on the weekend. The reality was that when one is being paid eight dollars an hour to do it in forty degree, 98% humidity weather, it’s a fucking nightmare.

When I came back to work the next morning, it was a whole day of the same thing. Then came Friday night, the end of my first work week, and coincidentally the end of my job at the railroad. Unfortunately I wasn’t fired so I had to call the boss man at home and tell him that there was no way in hell I was going to work for him any more. He agreed that it was a good idea for me to quit.

I don’t think he really wanted to give me the job in the first place, and I know I didn’t want to take it. I guess it was just one of those things you do for family.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

Your Work Stories

2005-12-04T09:03:00.000-08:00

Of all the work stories I'm sent I manage to get maybe half of them edited and up on this page. I choose according to how complete they are, how much I enjoy them and of course I'm pickier when I'm recieving more of them.
I'm think a good way to submit stories is to post them here, in the comment section of this post. I'll grab some of these and give them their own page, but this way your story is up and can be read without depending on me. So, comment a way.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

My Life As Barbie, A Confession

2005-11-16T14:12:00.000-08:00

I met Amber when she e-mailed me wanting an interview for Short Bus Magazine. I was flattered to have a fan (as she described herself) and doubly so when I met her and realized I had a CUTE fan. I collect Barbies, as does Amber and we hit it off right away. I begged her to join ICBINC and we've been performing for together for four years now. She rules.

by Amber Kloss

I might play Barbie for my ‘side job’ but trust me, I certainly don’t live the life of one of America’s most popular icons. Usually when I tell people I play Barbie for Mattel, I get hundreds of the same questions. It seems to me that people think that it’s a real glitzy exclusive job but I’m here to break that stereotype and answer the many questions I get.

I’ll start from the beginning, originally, I do theater and film acting, but I was offered the Barbie gig a few years ago through one of my casting agents, it sounded like fun, the pay was good, and hey, I’m a shameless vintage Barbie collector, I’ve always had a fondness for the princess of pink, and I figured it would be a fun opportunity.

The first time I had the gig I was scheduled to go to a grand opening of a Toy’s R Us in the bay area. My boyfriend at the time escorted me to the store to protect me from all the madness that was to follow. My Barbie appearance was scheduled to start at 1:00, so I arrived to the store around 11:30 to get the dress on and go over the details. As soon as we approached the entrance of this Toy’s R Us, there were literally hundreds of little girls with their mommies waiting in lines that wrapped around the store. I had no idea it was going to be this big of a turn out!

The kids in line didn’t know I was the girl that was going to play Barbie as I passed them all in line while heading to the back of the store, because I was in regular street clothes, but I did notice a few observant girls looking at me with a big smile on their face as if they were thinking, is that her? It was actually kind of cute. Once I arrived to the back of the store the management gave me this huge pink, taffeta, satin and lace layered dress, it must have weighed 25 pounds, and I had to wear this for how many hours? Okay, whoever made this dress must have been thinking the real human person who wears it would have the actual measurements that the toy Barbie has, I don’t have those measurements Barbie has, which in real life Barbie’s would be 36-18-33, and if Barbie was a real woman her measurements would be so out of proportion that she would have to walk on all fours and she wouldn’t even have a menstrual cycle! So once I squeezed into this dress and came out of the dressing room, I had to have two people help me walk to where I would meet the kids because the dress was too huge to walk in alone without help. Someone handed me a Sharpie pen to sign the “Barbie Head shots” with and went over the job duties with me really quickly, everything was a blur as I was already sweating and feeling faint in this heavy dress.

The next thing I know, as I dizzily stepped out to meet the kids, I hear the kids screaming “Barbie”. Cameras flash and it’s a madhouse in this store. What have I gotten myself into! One by one the kids step up to take a picture with me, and I sign their pictures, and try to write their names, some names I couldn’t pronounce, and some names the kids couldn’t even spell, which was holding up the line. I had parents getting upset about waiting, babies were crying, kids were fussing kids, and perverted Dads were asking if Barbie does bachelor or private parties, I had to deal with everyone that day. The kids asked me questions like; “Where do you get your dresses?” Barbie has to think fast with these types of questions, what would they think if they knew this Barbie actually shops at thrift stores?...”Mommy Barbie doesn’t shop at Nordstrom’s!!!” the key to answering their questions is you want to tell the kids what they want to hear.

The kids want to tell you about every single Barbie and Barbie item they own, they want to tell you how many times they have dressed up as Barbie for Halloween, they want you to come to their birthday party or class. Barbie can’t do that, but Barbie can take a picture with you and send you off with your parents who might take you to get a Happy Meal, “Have a good day kids and Skipper says hi!”

What I noticed is how trusting some of these parents were of me, I had Mothers throwing their new born babies in my arms for a picture, and I had to look comfortable so they don’t realize I don’t even know the proper way to hold a baby! Hours go by, and the lines aren’t getting any shorter, but the kids are getting crankier and Barbie’s signature is getting sloppier. During this time in the background I hear people’s commentary as they walk by, I hear women saying “What an ugly Barbie, why did they use her?” and turn to see an overweight unkempt women with five barefoot children at her side. I hear slimy men saying to one another to “Check out Barbie she’s pretty hot! Hey Barbie can you sit on my lap for a picture!?” as I turn and give them the old Barbie evil eye! Don’t mess with a woman wearing shiny pink stiletto heels unless you want to be kicked in your ass, then run over by a pink Corvette! Finally Barbie’s gig is almost over, whew!

When they announce to the crowd that Barbie will leave in 15 minutes, the crowd get’s crazy, it’s not even the kids so much as their parents, whining about how they have been in line all day and their kids won’t get to see Barbie! Once the time is up, I’m escorted back to the dressing rooms with security as the kids continue to follow us, until security tells them they can’t go back into the room. The kids don’t care they all huddle around the room just waiting for Barbie to do an encore appearance or something. Hallelujah amen! I finally get to take this pink garb off...but I have to be careful not to rip anything, ah yes, back to being a regular girl! Just as I’m ready to head out of the store and hop in my ‘get away car’ I’m stopped and warned by store management that there are still tons of kids waiting right outside the door that will see me, hmm, I didn’t realize Barbie could traumatize kids by showing herself in regular clothes and sans Barbie dress, kind of like when kids see Mickey headless, or Santa without his costume.

But they had a backup plan, they told us to use the back door to get away and avoid the kids, what would the kids think if they saw Barbie in some thrift store vintage dress and not an expensive designer dress? They were right, I don’t want to leave these kids knowing that underneath the blonde hair and pink attire is really a struggling actress, college student, living in downtown Sacramento and not Malibu, driving a Saturn, not a pink convertible, and writing for Short Bus, not Mademoiselle? I couldn’t do this to the children! God forbid these girls grow up and be comfortable with themselves and don’t starve themselves to achieve model-esque thinness, and are good at Math, and don’t date only rich blonde white boys with perfect tans like Ken....ah yes, no wonder Barbie is such a popular pop culture icon for America! Once we reached the car we quickly locked the doors and sped off, it was all over!

Okay all in all, despite some of what I said, I actually do have a lot of fun playing Barbie, I’ve gotten used to some of the craziness of it all and can now have a lot of fun with it! The kids are great and the parents are always grateful for my being there. And Barbie’s going places, and making changes, as of about the last year and a half now they have given her a more healthier athletic shape, they have actually given her some hips, downsized her disproportionate bust, a smaller mouth and ‘relaxed eyes’ and she now she even has a belly button! She’s looks more like a woman than a stick figure! Imagine that! This really is an exciting rewarding character for me to play, and I always look forward to talking to the girls and seeing them smile when they go home with a picture of them with Barbie. Some times I wonder, if one day this Barbie will have her Malibu dream home, fancy car and diamonds...and her Ken.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

Chips Door to Door Adventures

2005-11-13T07:30:00.000-08:00

I love Sacramento, I really do. I've never been to Hawaii, but every thing I know of the place tells me it's heaven on earth but without all the pious halo polishing types. Why then do I keep finding out that folks who could have stayed in Hawaii have opted to live here? Chip, a talented local musician and owner of Body Tribe Fitness, where hung over musicians work off their beer gut, sent us this great tale of his childhood money making experiments. Visit the home page www.rockass.net.

My very first job was a door-to-door experience. It was actually my second round at hitting all the houses on my block, but the first time I went door-to-door, I wasn’t making money. I was selling money. I was 3, maybe 4, and my friend Lynn gave me a small box of change, maybe about 80 cents total, and I went down the neighborhood street, knocking on every door to see if anyone wanted to buy this little box of money. No takers. Thank god, because I don’t think I knew how much to sell it for.

After that my very first attempt at actually making money was selling paper. It was self appointed employment, and sure to be more successful than the previous pseudo-job of giving away money. I grabbed a stack of my mother’s typing paper and then bothered the same folks I bothered with my money scheme. The day was horribly windy, as was common in my neighborhood in Honolulu, and I was often running down the street retrieving a loose paper or two. Eventually Lynn, of the generous box-of-cash fame (who, by the way, wasn’t too pleased when I tried to sell it) came to my aide as the paper retriever, probably curious to see if I had any takers in need of mid-quality typing papyrus.

After a few doors of rejection, and about a dozen sprints down the block to retrieve loose papers, I said to no one and the Universe “if the wind is going to keep blowing my papers, then it can blow ALL of them!” I threw the stack of papers to the mercy of the elements, and the sheets were, within seconds, spread around the entire neighborhood downwind of where I was standing.

This, of course, meant the yard shared by my family and the townhouse next door was blanketed in blank, white sheets of my once hopeful product. The Kagawa’s were our neighbors on the other side of said yard, the Patriarch of whom wanted to talk to me as I stormed past him sobbing dearly. I still to this day wonder what his sagely advice would have been, which may be sugarcoating the situation a little, since he probably wanted to whoop my littering ass. But throughout the years, he was never too severe in his reactions to my neighborhood hijinx and poor choices. But on this ill-fated business day, I simply ran up to my room and cried, avoiding Mr. Kagawa’s gaze and possible wisdom.

This door-to-door thing eventually became something I tried a few more times, with MS read-a-thon subscriptions, magazine subscriptions, and, similar to Keith’s first job, selling stationary and greeting cards (same company, I believe). I even enlisted partners, including my friend Phil Pickens, who hit the neighborhood with me selling books we didn’t want anymore to raise money to go see the new Osmond film “Going Coconuts.”

Funny enough, the biggest suckers for shows and movies shot in Hawaii were the people who lived in Hawaii. My family, friends and I were extras on episodes of Hawaii 5-O and later, Magnum PI, several times, with my uncle landing a small speaking part as a dentist on one episode when he visited us from New York. We islanders loved these shows and all the silly sitcoms and family shows that followed the trend of having that ‘Hawaii Special,’ ala Brady Bunch, hence the importance of “Going Coconuts.” Dude, it was the OSMONDS! Donnie AND Marie! In HAWAII! Thankfully our parents appreciated the effort we made, because they footed the bill after we unsuccessfully tried to unload our little libraries for over an hour. If the movie was worth the effort is still debatable.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

Being Will Ferrell

2005-11-11T11:16:00.000-08:00

Just when I thought I was out of jobs to write about I get another weird gig. I have some more guest work stories coming up. Send me yours and please check out my other blogs by visiting the home blog, www.rockass.net. Thanks, Keith Lowell Jensen

My pal Amber Kloss forwarded me the email from Action Promotions. They were looking for someone who looked like Will Ferrell and who could be "high energy." I am told at least once a day that I look like Will Ferrell. I don't see it, but, for $30 an hour, sure, call me Will Ferrell.

I sent in my response including a picture of me dressed as a banana. I told them I am so high energy, my nick-name is Ritalin (thanks Spike).

Within in an hour I got a call, I was their Will Ferrell. They mailed me the track suit, like the one from Kicking and Screaming and a bunch of pamphlet's and Key Chains promoting the movie and promoting Video On Demand. I would be acting like a dork at the local cable TV giants call center, trying to get the operators there excited about selling some cable with the Video on Demand feature, and encouraging them to mention the movie when they pitched the Video on Demand.

My buddy Nic was my assistant. He picked me up, and we had a quick conference call, meaning I used the little speaker on my cell phone so we could both talk to the promotions folks. Jessica was overseeing the project and she was really nice. She asked me if I'd mind getting a whistle, I told her I was on it, and I bragged that I'd also get some glasses like Will's in the movie and that I had powder blue converse.

Nick and I went to target and then to WalMart, sorry, I don' t like givin' 'em money but time was of the essence, to get the whistle, a head band and a pump for the deflated Kicking and Screaming soccer ball they'd included with my costume.

I also got a head band, figuring it would hide my un-Ferrell-esque hair do. I was in character as soon as I put on the outfit. I kept asking folks at Wal-Mart if I looked good, or more telling them that I did. "Hey, I look good don't I?" Oddly nobody seemed to think I looked all that good.

I collected job applications from a bunch of corporate hell places, WalMart, and some faceless Tex-Mex place. I forgot to get one from Hooters. I want to get crappy jobs so I can write about them here.

We got to the call center, and off we went. We goofed around with folks, kicked the soccer ball around the office, and we got folks to play soccer in the aisles, watching the ball bounce off of expensive flat screen monitors.

I noticed folks watching movies on portable DVD players as they waited for a call to be transferred to their stations, hitting pause or even just switching to subtitles when they got an incoming call. Pretty funny.

I saw a woman holding up a help sign and it was explained to me that she had an upset customer or a customer who wanted more than she was authorized to give them. I've often been that customer and I was amazed at how lackadaisical she was about being seen. I decided to help here and I grabbed the sign and stood on her desk yelling "Hey, we need some help here! Can we get some help here!" The help came quick and I shook some hands, telling they that they were welcome, despite their lack of thanking me.

Nic was a big help, making sure the actual work got done as I mostly acted a fool. We'd see a meeting and barge right in. I tried to get a bunch of execs to play soccer on their table. They wouldn't do it. We did get one supervisor to do push-ups.

Getting paid to act like a dork is perfect for me. That's one area where I need no training. The promotions agency seemed real happy and hopefully I get some more gigs like this.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

Scottmon's Tech Support Woes

2005-11-07T11:53:00.000-08:00

People bitch about tech support all the time. Let's hear from the other side of the coin. Scottmon is a regular on the RetroCrush.com boards and he often vents there about the fun people he deals with at his tech support gig. Here are some highlights. Enjoy. And be sure to visit www.RockAss.net.

Scottmon:

Things I wish I could say over the phone to customers. Based on actual experiences.

"You forgot the password that YOU chose a minute ago? Are you always this stupid or today special?"

"Ma'am, Left clicking doesn't mean moving your mouse over to the left side of your table!"

"When I asked how long was your phone cord, I didn't mean when did you buy it from K-Mart!"

"Sir, Could you find and press your shift key. Its on both sides of your keyboard and its labeled SHIFT!"

"Ma'am, I understand that you're upset, but if you'd just STFU, I could've solved your problem 20 minutes ago."

"Ok Mister Network Engineer, Its the internet, not a f****** print server."

"As a tech support guy, I'll be happy to fix your billing issue. Just gimmie your credit card number."

"Sir, If there are paramedics in your house attending to your wife, WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO FIX YOUR PC NOW??"

"We don't fix Sony PlayStations because we're NOT F***** SONY!"

"I realize that Tech support for this hardware is in India. I'm sure they don't like talking to you either, buttmunch."

"Umm. Everquest isn't working? But everything else is? Try using hammer. Now everythng will work equally as well."

"You have thousands of dollars in transactions online and you can't even spring for a ten dollar a month dial up service? I can fix this issue for you. Just gimmie your credit card number."

"You're good friends with the president of the company? And he'll hear about me? Hmm, good luck with that. The president is a woman."

I was working at a PC repair shop. We had an irate customer call about how his sound card doesn't work. So I listened to him cuss me out for a solid 5 minutes. I calmed him down long enough to do some troubleshooting. I asked him if he had his speakers plugged in to his sound card. He vehemently responded that he knew what he was doing. So as a spark of inspiration, I asked him to plug his speakers in to his voice modem jack.

Sure enough, he got them confused. I heard his audio Cd start playing as soon as he switched the jacks. He quickly said thanks and hung up.

Last year, I was doing phone tech support for internet net DSL. I often ask "How long is your phone cord?" I often get "3 months", "2 years" etc.... I've since learned to ask them if its about 14' or 6 meters.

The words I hate the most are "I'm an engineer." It means that he's totally messed it up because it doesn't operate as he would've designed it. I'd much rather deal with an 80 year old grandmother who's half deaf and doesn't know what a space bar is.

I got a network engineer on the phone once. He had all his certs and was well versed in corporate networks. I spent a half hour debating why the internet isn't like a corporate network. I finally asked him if his corporate network would survive a bomb attack. He said no. I said, then you now know the difference.

As posted at my workplace, I should "Speak Clearly and Professional."

How does one speak clearly and professional when stating the following...

"Mrs. X, your son has been downloading goat porn and has infested your PC with the spyware from hell."

"Reverend Y, Get off your fat ass and see if the mouse cord is actually plugged in to the computer. We can't send a tech out for that."

"Mr Z, threatening tech support with canceling your service is pretty friggin pointless."

"Mrs A, It may have worked before, but we don't support it. You got friggin' lucky."

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

Selling Blood; The Stab Lab

2005-11-01T17:47:00.000-08:00

Wow. We've been getting a crazy amount of hits lately. At least partialy because of my cousin's cop story. Read it by clicking HERE. Check out the new home page, www.RockAss.net and please link my site and tell your friends. Thanks, KLJ

The stab lab, where a few bucks can be made (very few) in exchange for hours of sitting around waiting for test results so that a big needle can be shoved in your arm, your blood removed, seperated into plasma and that other stuff that isn’t plasma. The other stuff is returned to you and then you get a cookie and a Dixie cup of punch along with your payment.

I first went to the stab lab during a time when I was making an artform of finding ways to get by without getting a job. I recycled bottles and cans, panhandled and lived cheaply. My friend Christian told me about the plasma center, known to those who utilized it as The Stab Lab, where getting stabbed paid.

The lab sit on residential street in a run down neighborhood in a typical storefront type building. Entering through the glass front doors puts you in the waiting room, where the storefront windows let you feel like you're in an aquarium, for hours! You see, after filling out your questionaire and pissing in a cup and giving a small sample of blood for testing you have to sit and wait, for four hours at least, sometimes over six hours, while tests are conducted to determine if your blood is safe. You can't leave the building, lest you go out and contract one of the diseases they are testing you for, so bring something to read and be prepared for some fascinating people watching.

You'll be entertained for a few minutes at least filling out the questionaire, all about anal sex and I.V. drug use. You can get creative in your answers, but be cautious not to disqualify yourself. For instance, "Have you had anal sex in the last month?" Should not be answered, "Do you mean with a person?"

If you are a smoker the long wait is especially fun. There is a glass box in the waiting room and you can stand in it with four our five other smokers, puffing away while a fan above you does a poor job of removing any amount of smoke even worth considering. If you're out of smokes just stand in there anyway, you'll have breathed in a packs worth in mere minutes as the smoke soaks in to your cloths and skin and eyes and lungs. You exit feeling like you were pickled in nicotine.

No coffee is provided so a thermos and a good book are a must (the magazine selection is mostly Cosmo, vogue and hunting mags.)

There are people who have their sample of blood taken and then sit for two or three hours, but find they can't take any more. Watching someone who has invested that much time already walk out the door to get a drink is indeed sad (note to alcoholics: Sneak a bottle in with you.)

When your results come in, providing you passed, you are called to meet with the vampire nurses who lay you down on a chair/bed hybrid, perfect for passing out in. The back room is full of such beds and you will not have blood removed in private. One of the vampires will stick you with a big old needle and the process of draining your blood and running it through the machine begins. In the machine the much needed plasma, a strange yellowish/orangey goo, is seperated from the less valuable stuff. You may feel a bit light headed but once they put back that less valuable stuff you start to feel a bit better.

There are generally enough beds to spare so you're welcome to lay there for a while if you're dizzy or if you fear the outside world having been removed from it for so long. You can also leave right away and walk around enjoying the high, the lightheadedness, jut be carefully not to become addicted.

Be sure to ask for you cookie and punch as they don't always remember to give them to you. One of the vampires might be trying to horde them. It's important you get your sweet snacks, they are needed to make this experience worthwhile since it pays crap. The first trip gets you $14. The next trip, around $7. A third trip puts you back up to $14. Eventually you get some sort of six pack bonus or something, and the free newspapers in town even have a coupon that get you a few extra bucks. Bringing a friend can also earn a small bonus.

When you're done your hand is stamped with a black light sensitive stamp that is damn near impossible to remove. This will prevent you from selling more than three times in one week. There are other stab labs in the city, and the ink at one of them comes off easily, so if you're desperate for cash, go there first.

I bored of going to the stab labs, but every once in a while I'd find myself absolutely desperate for a couple of bucks. I could write while sitting in the lab and that was kind of like being paid to write, my life's goal after all. When I went in and sold my own blood so I could take my then girlfriend out that night I considered it the most grand romantic gesture in the history of civilization. She was considerably less impressed, proof that she just wasn't the girl for me.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

The Bowery (NYC Beat Cop)

2005-10-30T08:05:00.000-08:00

As promised here is the story my cousin Andy Mavraganis wrote about bewing a beat cop in New York. It's my favorite story to so far grace this blog. Andy followed his father into the NYPD, and it's especially haunting for me to read this and think that this was his peek at what made up his father's world.
This site now has a home page uniting it with my other pages. www.Rockass.net.
Thanks and Happy Halloween, KLJ
PS: Send me your job stories.

I was assigned a foot post on Bowery Street, that section of New York City made infamous by its' squalor. I suppose there are sadder places in the world, where people lie dying in the streets, of starvation and disease. Then again...those places are an indictment of humanities sadistic criminality, of its' greed. Such places inspire in me anger, as much as sadness. That such conditions exist demands the word "altruism" be stricken from the books...it doesn't exist. It’s so easy to stop physical hunger, if less simple to cure disease. How do you feed a persons soul? What can you say to someone who's felt too much pain? To one who suffers from "too much”? The "Bowery" was the saddest place i'd been.

It was about ten in the morning. I’d just shared a breakfast counter with four black prostitutes, one of whom offered me a free sample of "the funky jiff" she had risin' in her "breadbox” after two days in jail. I asked for a rain check and stepped out to have a smoke on Bowery and Grand. A man with raging eyes and "Hells Angels" tattooed across his once impressive, presently shirtless chest growled menacingly "Gimme a smoke"! I asked him if he was still an "Angel" to which he replied "fuck them"! "I'll kick all their fuckin' pussy asses and yours too!" making sure i knew he meant it. I smiled with my teeth, leered with my eyes, gave him the smoke and said "You're welcome", making sure he knew i wasn't looking for a fight but was all ready to bash his fucking brains in if it would please him. He laughed his crazy man laugh and stampeded off, his gait befitting a man on the deck of a destroyer rolling out to sea, looking for a wall to walk through.

It was late July and, though early in the day, getting hot, humid and sweaty. I crossed to the shady side of Bowery St. and looked in the direction the ex-"Hells Angel" had stomped off in, half surprised he hadn't paused to crush somebody’s face when "Good morning officer, could you spare a cigarette" eased my tension. Not that giving out cigarettes had been therapeutic for me. It was the voice, the quality of it, its' noble gentility. He was somebody, who and how long ago i had to ask, “A lawyer? Wall Street?” Still wearing the pinstriped suit he disappeared in or so it seemed, he didn't like my question, if a sudden facial contortion and simultaneous eye glazing were any indication. Just as suddenly i felt the heat of regret expose me. As i lit his smoke and was thinking what to say next, the radio dispatcher called for an available unit to handle a possible D.O.A. (dead on arrival) on Bowery and Hester. “Perfect timing" i thought, excused myself from his eloquent if tortured presence and took the assignment.

The dispatcher informed me a bus (ambulance) was on the way and the desk clerk at the S.R.O. (single room occupancy) would bring me to the specific room wherein the possible D.O.A. was located. We always had to say "possible" D.O.A. If some poor bastards head is across the street from the rest of himself, he’s a "possible" D.O.A. It's a legal technicality, all radio and paper communications being matters of court record. Only an E.M.T. or M.E. (medical examiner) can legally pronounce someone, or his or her parts, dead. As i walked south on the Bowery i took a mental run through the paperwork and order of notifications. My graduation from the police academy which seemed so long ago was in fact only a month behind me. I tried to imagine what i would encounter...would there be a crowd, a distraught relative(s) or friend(s)...would it be a homicide, an accident, an overdose?

I opened the door and looked up the stairs, two stories straight up to the caged and bulletproof front desk. I climbed up to the window and was greeted by a nervous, disheveled clerk who says "I called you officer and i'm coming right out". When he joins me i ask "are you sure he's dead"? He lowers his head and nods, frowning. “Please follow me".

We walk through a big doorway to our left, taking us into a very large, loft like space, with high ceilings. The walls were milk chocolate brown half way up, with eggnog yellow binding them to the ceiling. In the center and to our left and right is a room within a room. This "room within" has doors all along, about ten, ten feet apart, each with a number on the door. The inner rooms' walls do not reach the ceiling; i assume they were about eight feet high. We walk to the left, pass a few doors and stop. “He’s in there.” pointing to one of the closed doors. I asked if he'd touched the doorknob "in case there was foul play" to which he answered yes. I pulled out my shirt and opened the door, just like in the movies, saw the foot of the bed to the left, the end of the room on my right, stepped into the room and went stiff. He was right next to me, almost touching my left shoulder, almost drooling on me, hanging by his neck, from one of the 2x4's to which the wire mesh ceiling was fastened, like his neck, to keep things "out”. I stepped back and tried to look like i bumped into the door jam purposefully. Cockroaches crawled all over him, his blue face too, sticking its' tongue out at me, all purple and swollen, like his lips, as if to taste the slime oozing over them, down to his chest from his nostrils. The room stunk from the shit that dripped out the bottom of his gripes stained pant leg onto the floor, where the flies were feasting. His shit speckled thick yellow toenails were like talons. His white t shirt hadn’t been white for a long time. There was a note "safety" pinned to his holey grey cardigan, apologizing for any inconvenience he would cause. That was all it said...all he had to say, his epitaph. The bare light bulb was soft white, a warm, if perverse, contrast to his cold blue flesh. The "room" is about ten feet wide and six feet deep, just enough space for a single bed, a foot locker, a dresser on which his Crawley hot plate rested and his self strangled corpse.

The desk clerk kindly brought me a chair on which to sit right outside the room and start my paperwork. I was angry. I thought the clerk could have...should have warned me. I didn't let on. Not 'cause i'm considerate, or even professional, I just had to act hard to compensate for my too young to have seen much face. I was twenty two. As the hours ticked by, the EMTs, detectives and medical examiner come and go as do the inhabitants of this sad place. Some of their faces are hidden behind empathetic masks; others i just wished were hidden. I’m wet with sweat, tight like a knot, tired and depressed. Ah, finally, the morgue guys show up. In a few minutes i'll be out of this hell hole, out in the sun, out where the roar and stink of truck and cab traffic, the stench of sun baked urine will be as refreshing as talcum powder after a shower. They wrap the black rubberized plastic "body bag" around him like a dry cleaner would a hanging whatever, zip it from the bottom up to the neck and cut the rope. He hits the floor in a deadened thud. They close the top, noose and all, drag him into the hall and put him on the stretcher. They pick him up and we're off. I follow them. Left to the big doorway, right to the stairs and ah...almost done now when...they throw him...literally just toss him crashing down the straight, two story stairs and he hits the bottom with a final earsplitting bang! I freeze. I must not show the shock on my face...i must act hard, unaffected, fearless! The sudden alarming noise confirming what my eyes refuse to believe, the sight of what was just a few hours ago a human-being being thrown down two flights of stairs! I'm blazing mad! I want to smash those fucking scumbags with my nightstick, over and over again...for scaring the hell out of me with the sudden, unnecessary noise and sickening me with this horrific vision! I swallow it and don't let on. This is just more than i'd bargained for! Alright, the guy IS fuckin' dead,(i'm telling myself),he's got no relatives, no-one gave a flyin' fuck about him while he was alive, certainly no-one cares now...but what about all the "other" no-ones here? Don't those fucking morgue wagon ghouls think their throwing that guy down the stairs will crush any of them? Maybe not...what the hell do i know...forget it man, just get the hell out and walk as fast as i can, back to the locker room, outta this monkey suit and outta this fuckin' neighborhood.

I didn’t think about this day again...or wouldn’t, until about fifteen years later, about eight years ago. It was about six in the morning, the twenty-eighth and last day of my stay in an alcohol rehab, perched on a mountain top with panoramic views of New Hampshire’s' Green Mountain range. Nine years after my first rehab. A detective who'd been drinking a quart of Jack Daniels a day at work and another when he got home and a commercial fishing boat captain/magician whose' coupe de grace made a ninety foot, two million dollar trawler disappear through the tip of a crack pipe, had asked me to share a coffee and a sunrise with them before i returned to "civilization"(hahahahaha) the next morning. After coffee and the sunrise, a fellow lunatic handed me a poem about the penniless, alcoholic death of the composer of "Camp town races”. I read it, excused myself, got in the shower and it all came back. More accurately, i was still there, in that S.R.O....i cried so hard, for forty five minutes i cried in the shower, for that old man, for the morgue wagon guys, for the detective, the captain, the murderers, the starving, for myself, for everyone who's cared enough about life to ask "am i doing enough?" (because we never do)... and especially for those who haven't.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE
My Cousin's brutal tale of being a beat cop in NYC is HERE
Swimming with dolphins in Gay Hawaii is HERE.
Being Will Ferrell is HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!
and my home page is HERE.

Spammer Chapter 4

2005-10-28T07:57:00.000-07:00

By Bailey Armadale

Here's the final installment of the spammer series, or is it? I'm working on getting Bailey to give us a fifth, we'll see. Be sure to check back monday as I put up a beautiful but brutal story from my Cousin Andy, a retired NYC Cop. In the meanwhile I love to get comments, and I appreciate you all spreading the word about this site. Peace, KLJ
PS: If you're jonesing for more check out my other true stories and my fiction by clicking on my picture to the right.

2003 was the year that the entire email marketing industry fell apart. Spamming and email marketing still continue today and will be around for many more years, but it is on the decline and thanks to tougher laws and better spam filters, most spam is never even seen by its intended recipients. It was also the final year of operation for The Evil Email Company. In just a few months time, a barrage of problems would force the company to close its doors for good. Some were caused by the way the industry as a whole was changing while others were due to good old fashioned internal office drama.

At the beginning of the year it was very obvious that things were very different from how business had been just a few months month earlier. Business was slow during the holidays, as it typically is every year, but unlike other years it did not pick up in January or even February. An overabundance of email companies had finally burned out the effectiveness of the medium. Most of us didn’t care though. We were just weeks away from being sold, and that meant big bonuses for every employee, particularly those in management like me. I was expecting something in the neighborhood of $50,000 for just having been a loyal employee. Unfortunately it was not to be.

The first major blow to the company came in March when the large company that was in the process of acquiring The Evil Email Company retracted their offer. While their accountants were reviewing our books it began to dawn on them that their recent acquisitions of Spamabunch and other email marketing companies were not the profitable venture they were assumed to be. In fact, it had turned out to be a dire mistake. These email companies were only generating half of their projected revenue. After a few months the acquisition company realized that they had been taken, and did their best to stop the bleeding. They immediately cancelled all plans to acquire more email companies, and began severe layoffs to the companies that they already bought. Meanwhile the owners of all those acquired email companies were sleeping on pillows stuffed with hundred dollar bills. Chalk up another victory for the spammers of South Florida.

With the bid to purchase The Evil Email Company retracted, the top members of the company were at a loss. Everyone had assumed that it was a given, and that they would all be getting a piece of the pie and wouldn’t need to work anymore. Now everything had changed. With the industry a wreck, long-time clients having left the company, and no plans for the future the only thing the company had was a big pile of uncertainty.

Drug use had been a part of the company as long as I had been employed there, but for all the pot, coke, and painkillers that came through the office, it had all been done at a recreational level. With only one or two exceptions, it never interfered with anyone’s duties. Nobody played until their work was complete. However, with the business in a rapidly decaying state and a cloud of depression looming overhead, the drug use was becoming more common and more of a problem. Those who had been hiding their problems as functional addicts weren’t able to hide it longer. The best example, or perhaps worst, would be the company’s Executive Vice President.

The V.P. was one of the most likable guys in the world. He had that old Bostonian charm, but not coupled with the arrogance. He was friendly, funny, and the kind of guy everyone would want to hang around. Before coming to work at The Evil Email Company, he was also a manager of a popular strip club. How that qualified him to run an email company was never very clear to me. Then again, the company drug dealer had previously been his personal connection, and all the beautiful yet completely under qualified female assistants were his old employees and these were things that the owner appreciated. The V.P. had only been hired a week or two before I was and because of that I think he made an effort to look out for me. Whenever I had something bad going on in or outside of the company he was the first to help me out with a few extra bucks, time off, or whatever else I needed. For this reason it upset me to see what happened to him.

While he was a great guy, nobody would ever accuse him of being a saint. He liked to drink and he liked cocaine. Normally this was something he did on the weekends only. Once the offer to buy the company had been retracted that changed from a weekend activity to an after business hours activity. It wasn’t too long until his habit was something he was doing in the office, usually right off his desk. His drinking was even worse. It got so bad that after a while a couple of us got together to assign days of the week when it would be our turn to drive him home. I will admit that he was a fun drunk. He would become even friendlier and very determined to shake your hand. It did become a bit troublesome on the drives home though. Eventually his wife and a few of his friends in the office persuaded him to go to rehab. While there he was let go from the company.

With so many problems surrounding his company, the owner found solace by finally settling down in a monogamous relationship. Unfortunately for his wife, it wasn’t with her. For the better part of 2002 the owner has been sleeping with one of the top sales people in the company who had been going through a nasty divorce at the time. Once her divorce was final, the owner found the time to start up a more stable relationship with her instead of spending time and money chasing younger girls at the local bars. She wasn’t attractive or particularly pleasant to be around, but she was convenient and for the owner, that was enough. During 2003 the owner was almost never in the office, though the company’s suite at the Marriot got more use than ever.

With the owner almost entirely absent from the company, coupled with the downward spiral the industry was going through, things were going to hell very quickly. The talented sales and IT people were leaving left and right for better jobs. The ones that remained were too dumb to get a job elsewhere, or like myself, were just too lazy to look for employment elsewhere. At the beginning of the summer our office had thirty people working in it. By the time September rolled around only 15 people were left, and each week someone else would head out door, either getting fired or finding a new job.

The office, oddly enough, was still enjoyable experience in those depressing times. Those of us that remained did our day to day jobs, but with fewer clients and an executive staff that either quit or stayed at home, most of us found ourselves with a lot more free time than before. So most of our time was filled with playing PC games, watching movies, and occasionally drinking.

The day after the company’s accountant finally quit we found a giant half-empty bottle of Sky Vodka that three people managed to kill before 1 PM. That was probably the only time I had ever been completely drunk at the office. In my inebriated state though I finally came to grips with certain undeniable truths, with the primary one being I needed to get the hell out of that office and find a new job. Why I avoided the truth and put off finding a new job is still something that confuses me. I suppose it was just comfortable. Whatever the reason a new job was the immediate goal. It didn’t take too long for me to find one either. I called up an ex-coworker who owed me a favor and moved on to new e-mail company, and luckily this was one of those rare occasions when I got the favor paid back. An interview was set up at this new company and I was hired on the spot.

With three days notice I gave my resignation to the head of the two-person IT department since he was the closest thing the company had left to management, and said goodbye to the other three people who remained. I probably didn’t even need to give those three days though since at that point we were doing almost nothing. The week after I quit the owner finally returned to the office and announced his intention to close down the company in the next two weeks. That didn’t matter to me though. I was headed off to a new company that was growing and headed in a positive direction, or at least so I thought. Little did I know that the new email company I was headed for was going to make my old corrupt company look like the Red Cross.

Read chapter 1 HERE
Chapter 2 HERE
and Chapter 3 HERE
Will there be a Chapter 5? Spam me with requests for it and I'll pass the requests on to the Spammer himself.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE.

Or Check out Becca Costello's madcap adventure with dolphins in Gay Hawaii HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!

the rare personal post

2005-10-27T21:20:00.000-07:00

Where am I now.
I guess I haven't escaped a career after all.
I just finished Jeffrey Brown's new book.
I feel kind of melancholy.
I started off all happy to have a new book to read, a cold fall night, a hot cup of tea.
Now I wonder why I'm thirty three and I am still working dumb meaningless jobs and writing and hoping that someone's reading it.
I'll go off and do another stunt soon to get more attention to my writing.
It feels cheap.
Like I should just be able to throw the writing out there and it will gain an audience rapidly cuz of course it's so damn good. yeah. Ha ha.
Oh well.
I keep writing. Something's gotta happen sometime.
The longer you do something the better you get at it. usually.

Spammer Chapter 3

2005-10-26T07:54:00.000-07:00

By Bailey Armadale

(These spammer stories are getting a great response. I have to put in a few words here asking you all for a hand. If you can e-mail folks about this blog, link it from you site, or otherwise help promote it, I would be most appreciative. I will continue to put a-lot of work into the content rather than promotion, and that's why I need your help. Thanks, KLJ.
PS: Send in your work stories.)

2002 was a remarkable year for the Email Marketing Industry. Revenues were going through the roof for every company in the industry. New email companies were popping up left and right and most were no further than five minutes away from our office. Many people in the business joked that you could solve the world’s spam problem simply by dropping a bomb over a few blocks in Boca Raton, FL. The biggest event of 2002 though was the sale of the country’s biggest email marketing company to a legitimate company whose management had no idea what they were getting themselves into.

The biggest source of spam in South Florida was a company I’ll call Spamabunch. They were the first organized email marketing company in the country and over the years had developed a reputation that put them in a category reserved for Hitler, Satan, and the music of Michael Bolton. In an effort to hide their identity they would often buy small e-mail marketing companies and then assume the name of the smaller company. This simple process allowed them to legally purchase new email records, but more importantly it helped them to temporarily fly under the radar of anti-spammer groups. Eventually they caught the attention of a large acquisition company that does credit checks and reports as well as teaching credit management. From an outsider’s perspective Spamabunch was a well run company that was turning a profit. If you could look past the reputation they had carved out for themselves they could potentially be a good acquisition for the right company. After doing a little research the acquisition company thought they were the right company.

The reasoning for the acquisition company buying Spamabunch was logical. If they owned Spamabunch they would have access to over 125 million postal and email addresses. With that information they would have new ways of contacting existing clients and would be able to create new clients as well. At the same time they would own a company that was supposedly earning tens of millions of dollars each year. So after some heavy negotiating and light research, the acquisition company purchased Spamabunch for 134 million dollars. Less than a year later it would be a decision The acquisition company would regret, but in the meantime the entire industry was turned upside-down at the news.

Once Spamabunch was sold, the owner of our company saw dollar signs. At first he was quite bitter, as he was one of the original founders of Spamabunch along with two other men. Being unable to get along with them though, he accepted a buyout from them for a little over a million dollars. Had he stayed, he would have made significantly more than that. However upon learning that the acquisition company was still buying other smaller email companies in order to get their hands on as much data as possible, he made it his goal to sell his business, the Evil Email Company.

During this time I also received my final promotion that put me into the management level of the Evil Email Company. Originally I was hired as a sales assistant, and while I was an excellent assistant it was becoming painfully obvious that I was a terrible salesperson. This was primarily due to the fact that I had a conscience and always had a difficult time trying to convince other companies that they should advertise with spam. However, I was very good over the phone and very personable so it was decided I would be the Director of Customer Relations. As a member of management I was now getting a much bigger paycheck, and perks like access to the company stash if I so desired.

The job entailed of two things. First I would assist any sales person who was having a difficult time with an unhappy client. This was not an uncommon problem because at the time email was very easy to sell, and anyone of ambiguous morals who could pick up a phone and say his name without stuttering too badly could become a salesperson. Unfortunately this filled our office with many inexperienced salespeople. Often times these salespeople would not know how to handle an unhappy client, so it would be my job to get on the phone and smooth out the problem. I actually enjoyed this part of the job. By doing my job right the client would praise me as a hero and thank me for taking care of the matter, and the salesperson would buy me a round of drinks for saving their client. The second part of the job however, was a much more miserable experience.

In an effort to generate more revenue and look more attractive to a prospective buyer the Evil Email Company began pumping out twice as much email to increase campaign success. As a rule whenever we mailed out an email ad to our member base we would double the amount of mail sent. If a client paid for a campaign of a million records, we would mail out two million records. By doing this, the click-thru rates and purchase rates looked much more impressive, and a client would be more likely to have a successful campaign and thus more likely to spend more money with us.

Now we were quadrupling that number. A client paying for one million records would actually have four million mailed out. Campaign results were going through the roof, but in the process we were burning out our lists and creating a very unhappy member base. In addition we also began buying other companies’ email lists without even running a permission pass on them. What ended up happening was a nearly endless stream of member complaints. And who got to handle all of these complaints? The new Director of Customer Relations.

Each morning when I got to the office I would have at least 100 emails awaiting me. Some were polite simply asking to be removed from the list and never mailed to again. My favorite came from a very nice woman who wrote an email in prose insisting that she did not need Viagra. Others were a bit more aggressive. One disgruntled gentleman threatened to drive his pick-up truck through our office. The most violent of all threatened to kill several of us and wished that we had been on the 22nd floor of the World Trade Center on 9/11.

The phone calls were the worst though. The CAN-SPAM Act now requires contact information to be included on all emails so that if someone receives an email and wants to be removed they will not have a hard time in getting this request fulfilled. In mid-2002 though, the CAN-SPAM Act was still over a year away from being implemented and we made sure that there was as little contact information in our emails as possible. That still did not stop everyone from finding us though, and after jumping through all the hoops necessary to find our phone number, most callers were not happy.

All the calls would start out angry, often with a good bit of profanity, but most of the time they would calm down after the caller realized he had found an actual human being to talk to and would finally be removed from the list. There were plenty of exceptions to this though. One man named Mike berated me over the phone for 10 minutes threatening to burn down the office and cause me bodily harm. For some reason, at the end of his call he refused to give me his email address though, so he was never removed from the database. Another man claiming to be a lawyer gave his life story to me and how it was his goal to wipe slime like me off the planet. Some were angry while others were just exasperated. I once took a call from a woman who was in tears, and repeatedly told me she could not get off the lists no matter what she did.

I could understand the frustration these people felt, but I could never relate to why some people got so emotional over it. Unwanted email is an inconvenience, but if a couple dozen unwanted email is the worst thing that will happen to you, I will happily switch lives with you. It was this thought that helped me to rationalize what the company was doing no matter how frustrated I got with the situation. Still at the end of the day I was having a hard time feeling good about myself. The company bar tab was coming in real handy around this time.

While I was inconvenienced by it to say the least, the aggressive mailing did pay off, at least in the short term. 2002 ended up being the most profitable year the Evil Email Company ever had, increasing profits by over a million dollars from the previous year. In December we were preparing to be the next big buy-out for the acquisition company, as their accountants were in our office once a week going over our records. Our Christmas party was held on a yacht that sailed up and down the coast while all of the employees drank, danced, and smoked whatever they could get their hands on. No one doubted that 2003 would be an even better year. Unfortunately as good as 2002 was, 2003 would be the exact opposite and it would be the year that the fortunes of entire industry would start to disappear.

Read Chapter 1 HERE or Chapter 2 HERE.
Check back soon for Chapter 4

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE.

Or Check out Becca Costello's madcap adventure with dolphins in Gay Hawaii HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!

Spammer Chapter 2

2005-10-26T07:51:00.000-07:00

By Bailey Armadale

In Palm Beach County, FL there is a stretch of road called Misery Mile. You will not find the road on any map, but if you ask around, plenty of people will know what you are talking about. The stretch of road containing Misery Mile is in one of the most affluent areas of South Florida and is the last place you would expect to have earned such a name. But the name does not reference the beautiful trees, golf courses and expensive homes in the area. Instead, it was dubbed Misery Mile because of several companies that have made their homes in the corporate office parks found scattered along the road. Many of these are direct marketers, companies that people curse on a daily basis, and still they managed to take root in a very exclusive area. For those of you who may not know, a direct marketer is more commonly known as a junk mailer and sends you hundreds of fliers, brochures, and special offers to your mail box each year. So it should come as no surprise that the email marketing industry made its home here, as well.

It was only logical that it should happen. The spam industry is the direct offspring of junk mail industry. During the late nineties, a small group of junk mailers realized that they could reach the same people to whom they sent hundreds of pieces of unwanted junk mail via the Internet and, in the process, save thousands of dollars by avoiding the costs of postage and printing. It was a simple idea and the results were impossible to argue with. As word got out among advertisers that they could reach their target market through email and save a great deal of money, the spammers flourished, and one of the men who profited the most was the owner of my company.

The owner started an email marketing company with several other men in the late 90's that would eventually go on to be the single biggest spam house in North America. However, the owner was such a loathsome being that even his partners could not stand him, and eventually they bought him out for a little over a million dollars. With that money, he set off to start his own company, the Evil Email Company -- a venture that allowed him to continue making money off of email, but still have plenty of time for his outside interests, namely infidelity and cocaine.

My first impression of the owner was not positive -- nor was my second, my third, or any other impressions I would later have of him. I had worked for The Evil Email Company for about two weeks before I finally met him. When I was hired as a sales assistant, meeting the new guy was not exactly a high priority for The owner, but the company was still small enough that everyone knew everyone else in the office from the owner down to the receptionist, so in time I would get my chance. Before I met him, words like "pioneer" and "genius" were thrown around when other employees described him, and many went so far as to call him the most brilliant man in the entire industry. So when I finally met him, I was disappointed to say the least.

The owner was unspectacular in every sense of the word. He was a homely and slightly overweight man who stood a towering 5'7". At age 35, he looked 50. His rapid aging was the result of a combination of his entrepreneurial spirit and a lifestyle that would have Scott Weiland saying "slow down." I would not know this until several months later at his birthday party, where I spent the rest of the night asking others, "Is he really only in his thirties?" His first words to me were actually just a grunt and a nod before he went into his office. There he remained for the rest of the day. As a new employee, I was a bit disappointed that I would not get a chance to impress the owner of my company and get to knowhim. Later on, I learned that getting to know The owner was actually very easy as long as you were willing to go to the bar across the street where he would spend several hours each day after work running up the company's tab.

The owner's greatest contribution to email marketing is the single most devious and sneakiest trick in an industry that prides itself on finding new ways to trick people. For years, email marketers were looking for a quick and easy way to add new email addresses to their databases. The more recipients you could mail, the more money you could make, but collecting the names took a lot of time. Buying the addresses was easy enough, but just simply using someone else's database as your own was illegal, even if you paid for it. Challenged by this, the owner managed to find a gray area and with it he created a process that would make him millions of dollars. It was called the permission pass.

The permission pass is a simple system designed to legally increase the size of a company's mailable database without letting the recipient realize they have just opted-in to receive more e-mail. An email is sent out to a person with a generic offer for a vacation special or debt consolidation or anything that would not really interest the recipient, but would not offend them either. It would be the kind of email that most people would just look at for two seconds and then delete. However if they scrolled to the bottom of the email, there is a message in very small print with verbiage that tells the recipient that they are being added to a new mailing list, and unless they respond to this email with a message saying they did not want to join, they would start receiving advertisements and offers immediately. Since most people delete the email before they even bother reading the entire message, the permission pass successfully generated extremely high rates of new usable email addresses.

If the owner bought a list of 1 million email addresses and used this permission pass, he would easily end up with 99% of the names legally his. It was brilliant, and best of all it was totally legal. As long as you received that email and did not respond to it, you were automatically a new target. The model was quickly noticed by other email companies and was adopted by all of them. It was the perfect way to add a couple million new members to your lists without the bother of taking the time to convince people to knowingly subscribe. The process is now illegal as set forth by rules in the "Canned Spam Act," but for several years this model was responsible for millions of people getting added to new lists on a daily basis.

If the owner was known for something even more than the permission pass, it was how hard he partied. Few people in the email industry were saints. One of other early spammers in the area was a former drug dealer and had served several years in prison. Others had backgrounds in porn and other industries that you would not tell your parents you worked in. But the owner somehow managed to put many of them to shame with his lifestyle, and more impressively got the company to soak up all the costs. The perfect example of this is how our company came to be one of the local Marriot's best customers.

In any given week, the owner would spend about half his time in the office. The other half would be spent at a bar across the street drinking himself stupid and/or trying to pick up women. Despite being married and extremely unattractive, The owner still managed to do pretty well for himself, and when he had no luck at the bar he could always come back to the office and dip his pen in the company ink. Whoever he picked up though would inevitably end up with him at the Marriot for the afternoon, the evening, or sometimes up until the next day depending on whom he was with and if our company's corporate drug dealer had made a recent visit. Once he returned to the office he would hand the receipt to the accountant and have her file under entertaining expenses.

Once the trips to Marriot reached over $10,000, our poor accountant had enough and we had to find a way to curtail his expenses. Eventually, our top salesman was brought in to work out a deal with the Marriot so that we would have a permanently reserved room that was good whenever he needed it at a much discounted rate. When the deal was done, the owner was so happy he took the salesman out to lunch to a strip club that offered a free buffet and that was the last we saw of either of them that day.

Once again, the owner was setting the model for both the industry and his employees.

Read Spammer Chapter 1 HERE.
Check back for Chapter 3 Tomorrow and 4 on Friday.
Monday I have a gruesome and beautiful story by a New York Cop.

Read indy comic hot shot Jeffrey Brown's story HERE.

Or Check out Becca Costello's madcap adventure with dolphins in Gay Hawaii HERE.

And of course all of my own work tales are HERE!