My Friend The Man

I'm not dead I promise. Youll be getting a full Note From the Author very soon. I wanted to type it tonight but since Im going on about 12 hours of sleep over the last 4 nights combined I really am just not feeling up to it at the moment. But soon. I promise. I swear on the grave of Matt LeBlanc's career that there will be tons of new entries soon. But in the meantime, here's a piece about my job that I wrote a while back for the zine 20-Sided Die. I know I said I would never delve into my personal life in this blog, but in the words of Shakespeare "fuck it". Plus a lot of you have probably already read it anyway. Enjoy.

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My Friend The Man

As a world famous actor/waiter people often have many questions for me. For example- “who are you?” “why are you touching me?” and “what’s that smell?” But probably the most common question I get asked is “what’s it like to work for The Man?” You see I’m not just any waiter, but I’m a waiter who works for a large faceless restaurant corporation that has a location in Times Square. As I don’t want to lose my job, I think it is probably best I not mention this restaurant by name, but suffice it to say that it is very large and prominent and serves a lot of seafood. Also, as I mentioned, it is run by The Man. And not The Man in the Samuel L. Jackson/Eugene Levy sense, but The Man in the “Damn The Man” sense.

Anyway, thing is, as a recent college graduate with no discernable skills other than dressing up in funny clothes and pretending to be other people, I had no choice but to submit to my fate as a walking cliché and sign up to wait tables for The Man. Which leads us back to the question at hand – what is it like to work for him? Well, so far I haven’t had to do any TPS reports. Or file things. Or personally harm any cute puppies or rainbows or Dakota Fanning. But I have had to ask movie trivia questions to foreign tourists who have a Bush-level of English language comprehension. And I do have to ask if you want fries with that. And I seriously can’t find my stapler.

But on the other hand, he does pay me well, and sometimes when I pass by with a tray full of food I could swear I feel his hand gently caress my left buttock letting me know that I’m loved and appreciated. Or maybe I’m thinking of prison.

In all honesty though, I do enjoy my job as much as one can enjoy such things. Dealing with tourists is nice as long as they don’t speak any English. Getting a 50% discount on a bucket of fried fish glazed in butter makes me feel like my gym membership is worthwhile. And drunk Germans are surprisingly good tippers. So all and all I would say working for The Man aint as bad as some would have you believe.

Which makes what I have to do all the more difficult.

You see, as an actor I had to sign a contract in my blood to promise to fight The Man, possibly with performance art and/or Tim Robbins. However I choose go about it though, it is my sworn legal and artistic obligation to bring down The Man and make the world safe for the less successful tenants of our free market based economy as well as for Godless gay black abortion doctors everywhere. And so I do my part on the job to subvert The Man’s authority. I don’t always write down customer orders. I allow my facial hair to often appear slightly unkempt. I don’t wash my apron with great regularity. Its through little things like this that I will bring The Man TO HIS KNEES! At least that’s what they taught me in Theater 101. By bitching about The Man loudly to those around me and then acting out softly and passive aggressively when The Man comes around I’m fulfilling my role as an artist in society. So there! If my feeble actions don’t take him down than surely this awkwardly written and poorly punctuated diatribe will!! Because The Man must die!!!

Unless of course he’s reading this. In which case- I got nothing but love for ya brother.