So yeah, I still work at McDonald's. As Rebecca Black would put it, 'fun, fun, fun'. Now, people don't really give Maccas workers all the credit that is due. It's not a particularly challenging job, but it does take a lot from you. Depending on how many hours you are working, it can be fairly exhausting, and the inane repetition gets old very quickly. So, in order to amuse myself, I have come up with a few little things to do at work.
1. Pointlessly flirt with unassuming co-workers.
New Zealand is a great country, but it suffers from one crucial issue: jailbait. Where I come from, people mostly look their age. A 16 year old looks like a kid, a 19 year old looks twinky, a 25 year old looks ready for business and a 40 year looks just sad. You know, how things are supposed to be. New Zealand people, however, do not apply. I work with a fair amount of 17~19 year olds, and as creepy as it sounds, they're pretty damn hot. So whenever I'm bored (which is fairly often) and one of them is around, I practice my flirting techniques. Nothing too out there (specially cause pretty much all of them are straight), just small things, like giving them a coy smile from across the restaurant, giggling at their stupid jokes or bending to get something from the cupboard and giving them a view of the good china.
Yeah, I'm a perv. Sue me.
2. Guessing what people are gonna order.
That's one I got down to a fine art. People are surprisingly transparent when it comes to their fast-food preferences. For example: kids up to 9~11 years old will always get a Happy Meal; Old people always get either a white coffee or a white tea, and if I don't give them a tray, they will always ask for one; teenagers add mayo to everything; when a family comes to order the father will always ignore my existence and tell his wife what he wants. She then proceeds to tell me he wants a large combo with an extra burger on the side (usually a Filet), her kids will either get Happy Meals or normal combos (with mayo added to the burgers) and she'll get either a wrap or a medium McChicken combo with Diet Coke.
Apart from what I learned from working there for so long, quite usually I'll be serving them and just guess what drink they want before they ask for it. I'm kind of a fast-food psychic.
3. Dance.
A recent one. Whenever I'm working out back making the burgers, if there's nothing to do and no one to talk to, I'll just start getting down and dirty next to the grills. Me and my friend Denim will every now and then have some good 5 minutes of move busting before one of the managers comes to tell us off.
Y'know, as much as I bitch about it, I actually like my job.
Thursday, 28 April 2011
Sunday, 24 April 2011
Don't mix money and friends.
I could do a post about it, but the title pretty much says it all. Just don't.
Tuesday, 19 April 2011
Britney Spears doesn't exist.
So, I was listening to Til The World Ends by the aforementioned Ms. Spears just before. Good song, pretty awesome imagery on the video, same old same old. As I was listening (and awkwardly dancing along), I went on wikipedia and started reading about her new album, Femme Fatale. While reading the critical response to the album, something stood out. Pretty much every critic that didn't like the album pointed out that Britney's voice is what makes the least difference in the album, being utterly unremarkable and heavily auto-tuned. Now, I'm not gonna go all crazy Britney fan on you guys, but I say, so what? The songs are still good, what difference does it make if she's singing them or not?
The way I see it, Britney, for all the shit she does and her unmatched talent to embarrass herself, sells. Her songs ARE good. They're good, honest, unashamed pop. But as opposed to Gaga, Madonna or others like them, Britney's songs don't have anything to do with the art of music. Britney is not an artist. I daresay she's not a singer. She's image. Not even a image, but just image. Her producers literally made the Britney that's on magazines, on the cover of albums, "singing" her songs. The real Britney is that chick going to the store at 4 am to get some Cheetos.
And there's nothing wrong with that. Truth be told, one of the reasons why I love Gaga is because she is truly artistic. She is very much a singer, very much a composer, very much a performer. She's talented, trained and capable, and I love that. But Britney (the image of Britney at least) has her merits too. She has released 7 albuns, and not a single one of them hasn't got at least one song that we all know. Most of us probably know the songs by heart. There's no denying, bitch is good at making pop songs. Even if it isn't her making them.
The way I see it, Britney, for all the shit she does and her unmatched talent to embarrass herself, sells. Her songs ARE good. They're good, honest, unashamed pop. But as opposed to Gaga, Madonna or others like them, Britney's songs don't have anything to do with the art of music. Britney is not an artist. I daresay she's not a singer. She's image. Not even a image, but just image. Her producers literally made the Britney that's on magazines, on the cover of albums, "singing" her songs. The real Britney is that chick going to the store at 4 am to get some Cheetos.
And there's nothing wrong with that. Truth be told, one of the reasons why I love Gaga is because she is truly artistic. She is very much a singer, very much a composer, very much a performer. She's talented, trained and capable, and I love that. But Britney (the image of Britney at least) has her merits too. She has released 7 albuns, and not a single one of them hasn't got at least one song that we all know. Most of us probably know the songs by heart. There's no denying, bitch is good at making pop songs. Even if it isn't her making them.
Saturday, 16 April 2011
An argument.
I've been watching a lot of The Big Bang Theory lately, and it tends to bring out my geeky side. So yeah.
-----
- Ok, Jean Grey versus Galactus. Who would win?
- Well, technically that wouldn't be possible. Jean Grey became the White Phoenix of the Crown and now resides on the White Hot Room, so even if Galactus were to attack Earth she wouldn't intervene.
- Just go with it.
- Ok, are we talking Ultimate universe Jean Grey, or Earth 616 Jean Grey?
- 616.
- And are we talking Jean Grey the Phoenix, or just Jean Grey the mutant?
- It doesn't make any difference. Death itself stated that Jean is the rightful host of the Phoenix, so they are essentially the same being.
- Fair enough. Well, I'd say Galactus. He's immenselly powerful and has destroyed countless planets.
- What? That's bullshit. The Phoenix has the power to obliterate anything that's alive and bring back anything that has died. She would kill the shit out of Galactus.
- Well, Galactus is not exactly alive, he's one of the Forces of the universe.
- Nah, that doesn't work. What make Galactus so scary is that he just goes around eating planets. If he eats planets he needs sustenance. If he needs sustenance, the lack of it would kill him, therefore making him alive. And if he's alive, the Phoenix can kill the shit outta him, like I said.
- But Jean is an X-Men, and X-Men don't kill.
- I'm pretty sure that if she had to choose between killing Galactus or watching the whole planet be destroyed, she would go with the first one. Besides, this whole "X-Men don't kill" thing doesn't even work anymore. Ever since Cyclops took over he hasn't shied away from getting rid of opponents he thinks are just too dangerous. Just look at X-Force.
- Well, flawed as Cyclops may be, the X-Men motto still applies. If it didn't, Beast wouldn't have left after Nightcrawler died and he learned about the clandestine missions that the X-Force were doing.
- I miss Nightcrawler.
- Me too. What's with Marvel getting rid of all the cool mutants? First they make Jean stay dead for years, then they kill Kitty Pryde, and now Nightcrawler.
- Hmm, Kitty didn't die. Magneto brought back the bullet she was riding on, and now she's being kept at the laboratory underneath the X-Men base in San Francisco.
- Yeah, I know that. But now that she's permanently stuck in her phase mode and can't talk, move or anything like that it's like she's still dead.
- I suppose... God, you're such a nerd.
- You're one to talk.
-----
I didn't make anything up btw. I just know more about X-Men than I care to admit most times.
-----
- Ok, Jean Grey versus Galactus. Who would win?
- Well, technically that wouldn't be possible. Jean Grey became the White Phoenix of the Crown and now resides on the White Hot Room, so even if Galactus were to attack Earth she wouldn't intervene.
- Just go with it.
- Ok, are we talking Ultimate universe Jean Grey, or Earth 616 Jean Grey?
- 616.
- And are we talking Jean Grey the Phoenix, or just Jean Grey the mutant?
- It doesn't make any difference. Death itself stated that Jean is the rightful host of the Phoenix, so they are essentially the same being.
- Fair enough. Well, I'd say Galactus. He's immenselly powerful and has destroyed countless planets.
- What? That's bullshit. The Phoenix has the power to obliterate anything that's alive and bring back anything that has died. She would kill the shit out of Galactus.
- Well, Galactus is not exactly alive, he's one of the Forces of the universe.
- Nah, that doesn't work. What make Galactus so scary is that he just goes around eating planets. If he eats planets he needs sustenance. If he needs sustenance, the lack of it would kill him, therefore making him alive. And if he's alive, the Phoenix can kill the shit outta him, like I said.
- But Jean is an X-Men, and X-Men don't kill.
- I'm pretty sure that if she had to choose between killing Galactus or watching the whole planet be destroyed, she would go with the first one. Besides, this whole "X-Men don't kill" thing doesn't even work anymore. Ever since Cyclops took over he hasn't shied away from getting rid of opponents he thinks are just too dangerous. Just look at X-Force.
- Well, flawed as Cyclops may be, the X-Men motto still applies. If it didn't, Beast wouldn't have left after Nightcrawler died and he learned about the clandestine missions that the X-Force were doing.
- I miss Nightcrawler.
- Me too. What's with Marvel getting rid of all the cool mutants? First they make Jean stay dead for years, then they kill Kitty Pryde, and now Nightcrawler.
- Hmm, Kitty didn't die. Magneto brought back the bullet she was riding on, and now she's being kept at the laboratory underneath the X-Men base in San Francisco.
- Yeah, I know that. But now that she's permanently stuck in her phase mode and can't talk, move or anything like that it's like she's still dead.
- I suppose... God, you're such a nerd.
- You're one to talk.
-----
I didn't make anything up btw. I just know more about X-Men than I care to admit most times.
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
I have a confession to make. I'm one of those annoying people that reads classic books in order to look smart. We've all seen them right? That one wanky douchebag sitting in a café reading Sartre, Nietzsche or Oscar Wilde trying to look like an intellectual. So, yeah, that's me.
The beauty of it, however, is that while trying to look smarter than I am, I end up learning stuff. Which means I'm slowly becoming less and less stupid. Maybe in a few years time I'll finally go through a philosophy book without having to go back three or four times on each sentence to grasp the concept.
I'm currently reading Adieux by Simone de Beauvoir btw. But that one I'm reading just cause she was such a badass.
The beauty of it, however, is that while trying to look smarter than I am, I end up learning stuff. Which means I'm slowly becoming less and less stupid. Maybe in a few years time I'll finally go through a philosophy book without having to go back three or four times on each sentence to grasp the concept.
I'm currently reading Adieux by Simone de Beauvoir btw. But that one I'm reading just cause she was such a badass.
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
A daisy.
There's a man that goes to the same café that I do. Some days I get there at six, order something quickly and rush off to work. When I do, he's there. Sometimes I get there at seven thirty, order a nice breakfast and eat it reading a newspaper. When I do, he's there. Sometimes on the weekends I come with my flatmate at nine. We order hot chocolates, and drink it while throwing the marshmallows at each other, laughing. When I do, he's there, but never for long. He usually leaves at nine thirty.
The man looks old. He's very short, with a rather pronounced hunchback, as if the weight of his whole life still rests on his shoulders. He walks with the aid of a cane, a beautiful one, made of gorgeous dark wood. He wears woolen trousers, shirts that never seem to be ironed, suspenders and those hats that used to be exclusive to old men, but now are popular among teenagers. And everyday he comes to the café, he brings a daisy.
I think that's what sparked my interest in him. Everyday, he'll get to the café, order a coffee, put his daisy on a little vase and just sit there for 3, 3 and a half hours. He always looks... nostalgic. Not sad, but behind his glassy eyes you can almost see the past he seems to be remembering.
And it makes me wonder, what is that past? My imagination runs wild. I ask the girl with shaved hair that works at the café if she knows anything about him, and she tells me he never speaks much. He just comes in, orders his coffee, and sits there.
After some time I make wondering about his life my hobby. Maybe he's an imigrant. Maybe he came to this country forty years ago, holding on to a promise of money and easy work. Maybe on the way here he met a woman; a beautiful woman. Maybe they fell in love during the trip, but were sent to different places upon arrival. Maybe they kept in touch. Maybe they sent letters to each other every day, telling one another about how difficult not speaking the language was, how exciting their new life was, how they met tons of new people at the factories they were sent to work at. Maybe one day he finally gathered enough money to go meet her at the place she was living. He would've put on his best suit, combed his hair and wore perfume. On his way to her house, he would've picked a flower to give to her. A daisy.
Maybe after arriving at her house he would've discovered she was already married. Devastated, he would've gone to a bar nearby, decided to drink himself to death, not seeing a reason to live if he couldn't be with her. But as soon as he raised his first glass of scotch, she would've entered the bar running, her cheeks red, her hair blown off, the daisy he had given her resting behind her ear; the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
And then they would've eloped. After that, life wouldn't have been easy, but they managed. They had a few children, raised then to be honest adults and watched them leave. One year, after the kids were long gone, she gave him a cane for his birthday. The doctor had said he needed one, and she secretly saved money for months in order to give him the prettiest cane she could find. It was the best gift he had ever received.
And one day she was gone. It was only him. So everyday, instead of staying at home and remembering the sound of her singing while making breakfast, the smell of her hair as she walked around the kitchen, the sound of her laugh when he told her how beautiful she looked that day, he prefered to come to the café. And he brought a daisy. Cause he never forgot her.
I finish my coffee, put the newspaper I wasn't reading away, and get my bag. As I get up, for one second I consider if I should go over to the old man. Pull a chair, sit in front of him and ask him what is his story. But I decide against it. To hear the truth would be to kill this perfect couple I have created in my mind. And I love them too much to do that.
The man looks old. He's very short, with a rather pronounced hunchback, as if the weight of his whole life still rests on his shoulders. He walks with the aid of a cane, a beautiful one, made of gorgeous dark wood. He wears woolen trousers, shirts that never seem to be ironed, suspenders and those hats that used to be exclusive to old men, but now are popular among teenagers. And everyday he comes to the café, he brings a daisy.
I think that's what sparked my interest in him. Everyday, he'll get to the café, order a coffee, put his daisy on a little vase and just sit there for 3, 3 and a half hours. He always looks... nostalgic. Not sad, but behind his glassy eyes you can almost see the past he seems to be remembering.
And it makes me wonder, what is that past? My imagination runs wild. I ask the girl with shaved hair that works at the café if she knows anything about him, and she tells me he never speaks much. He just comes in, orders his coffee, and sits there.
After some time I make wondering about his life my hobby. Maybe he's an imigrant. Maybe he came to this country forty years ago, holding on to a promise of money and easy work. Maybe on the way here he met a woman; a beautiful woman. Maybe they fell in love during the trip, but were sent to different places upon arrival. Maybe they kept in touch. Maybe they sent letters to each other every day, telling one another about how difficult not speaking the language was, how exciting their new life was, how they met tons of new people at the factories they were sent to work at. Maybe one day he finally gathered enough money to go meet her at the place she was living. He would've put on his best suit, combed his hair and wore perfume. On his way to her house, he would've picked a flower to give to her. A daisy.
Maybe after arriving at her house he would've discovered she was already married. Devastated, he would've gone to a bar nearby, decided to drink himself to death, not seeing a reason to live if he couldn't be with her. But as soon as he raised his first glass of scotch, she would've entered the bar running, her cheeks red, her hair blown off, the daisy he had given her resting behind her ear; the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
And then they would've eloped. After that, life wouldn't have been easy, but they managed. They had a few children, raised then to be honest adults and watched them leave. One year, after the kids were long gone, she gave him a cane for his birthday. The doctor had said he needed one, and she secretly saved money for months in order to give him the prettiest cane she could find. It was the best gift he had ever received.
And one day she was gone. It was only him. So everyday, instead of staying at home and remembering the sound of her singing while making breakfast, the smell of her hair as she walked around the kitchen, the sound of her laugh when he told her how beautiful she looked that day, he prefered to come to the café. And he brought a daisy. Cause he never forgot her.
I finish my coffee, put the newspaper I wasn't reading away, and get my bag. As I get up, for one second I consider if I should go over to the old man. Pull a chair, sit in front of him and ask him what is his story. But I decide against it. To hear the truth would be to kill this perfect couple I have created in my mind. And I love them too much to do that.
Friday, 21 January 2011
Love.
- I love you.
"Crap."
- Why?
- What?
- Why do you love me?
- I... Don't know. I just do. You make me happy.
- Do I, really? I mean, we've been going out for what, 2 months? How can you know you're happy because of me? Maybe you're just having a good couple of months. For all we know you could lose your job tomorrow, break your leg next week and then break up with me cause I drink all the milk and then put the bottle back in the fridge or something.
- Was that you?
- It doesn't matter. All I'm saying is: you don't love me. You may like me. A lot. But love is just too much.
- But I do! I love being with you, I love looking at you, every moment away from you is like hell to me.
- Well, that's not love. That's some weird kind of psychological addiction.
- So what if it is? I still love you.
- No you don't.
- Why are you saying all this? Why can't you just accept that I love you? Why do you keep trying to prove me wrong?
- Cause you are wrong. Love is huge. It's never-ending, intense in its mildness. It makes the small things seem huge and the big ones seem irrelevant. It gives life a reason. It's beautiful and awful all at the same time. Love is not like they show it in tv. It's not about liking someone, fucking him a couple of times, having a big talk with him where you tell each other about your endless love and go get married. It's not that simple.
- Sometimes it is.
- It's not.
- How do you know?
- I just do.
- So you're saying you don't like me?
- No. I'm saying you shouldn't go around saying you love people like you were asking them to pass the salt shaker.
- But I really do love you!
- Really? So when you see me everything leaves your mind and you just enjoy the moment, right? When you know we're gonna see each other you look forward to it like a child looks forward to Christmas, and when we're together you feel like the luckiest guy in the world, right?
- Yes, exactly.
- Well babe, sorry to inform you, that's infatuation. That goes away in six months at most.
- ... Look, I don't know what's wrong with you today, but I'm gonna leave, ok? You're obviously not in a good mood, and I don't wanna turn this into a fight.
- We're not fighting.
- Whatever. I'm going now. I just don't know why you think you know what I'm feeling. How do you know so much about love, anyway?
He leaves.
"... Cause I love you."
"Crap."
- Why?
- What?
- Why do you love me?
- I... Don't know. I just do. You make me happy.
- Do I, really? I mean, we've been going out for what, 2 months? How can you know you're happy because of me? Maybe you're just having a good couple of months. For all we know you could lose your job tomorrow, break your leg next week and then break up with me cause I drink all the milk and then put the bottle back in the fridge or something.
- Was that you?
- It doesn't matter. All I'm saying is: you don't love me. You may like me. A lot. But love is just too much.
- But I do! I love being with you, I love looking at you, every moment away from you is like hell to me.
- Well, that's not love. That's some weird kind of psychological addiction.
- So what if it is? I still love you.
- No you don't.
- Why are you saying all this? Why can't you just accept that I love you? Why do you keep trying to prove me wrong?
- Cause you are wrong. Love is huge. It's never-ending, intense in its mildness. It makes the small things seem huge and the big ones seem irrelevant. It gives life a reason. It's beautiful and awful all at the same time. Love is not like they show it in tv. It's not about liking someone, fucking him a couple of times, having a big talk with him where you tell each other about your endless love and go get married. It's not that simple.
- Sometimes it is.
- It's not.
- How do you know?
- I just do.
- So you're saying you don't like me?
- No. I'm saying you shouldn't go around saying you love people like you were asking them to pass the salt shaker.
- But I really do love you!
- Really? So when you see me everything leaves your mind and you just enjoy the moment, right? When you know we're gonna see each other you look forward to it like a child looks forward to Christmas, and when we're together you feel like the luckiest guy in the world, right?
- Yes, exactly.
- Well babe, sorry to inform you, that's infatuation. That goes away in six months at most.
- ... Look, I don't know what's wrong with you today, but I'm gonna leave, ok? You're obviously not in a good mood, and I don't wanna turn this into a fight.
- We're not fighting.
- Whatever. I'm going now. I just don't know why you think you know what I'm feeling. How do you know so much about love, anyway?
He leaves.
"... Cause I love you."
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