Rant Farm

So I wrecked my car and ended up getting a check for almost a third of what I grossed for income last year. It feels like Christmas, only without the shitty holiday music, sickening jewelry ads, and overwhelming melancholy that accompanies family get-togethers. Granted, I have to buy a new car, but I only need a beater to last me until the end of the year. Then I plan on being blissfully free of car ownership for the next several years. At least. Anyway, I promised myself and some of my abhorring fans (they're like adoring fans, except they don't like you) that I wasn't going to post anything new until I had some less depressing shit to write about. I don't have anything but depressing shit to write about. Mostly because my previous facade of cockiness and narcissism has been, through recent events and realizations, replaced by a general self loathing and defeatist perspective. I need to talk about that, too, but not to all you assholes. So, instead, I'm going to fall back on subject matter that I have in abundant supply: Stuff That Pisses Me Off.

I've written before about the subject of identity; about how I constantly see people trying to scrawl out a definition of themselves based on others' standards and not their own. But what about this entrenched idea that what someone does for a paycheck is their most important facet? It's not new. Shit, it's so ingrained that some of you have last names that were heaped on your ancestors based on their professions. Every time I meet somebody new, the "So, what do you do?" question invariably arises.

For about the past two or three years I've made a conscious effort to avoid this line of conversation. I won't lie. In the past three years I've had a couple jobs that made me want to kill everyone around me and then turn the gun on myself. But that's not why I always play off the question. Hell, last year I had a job that sounded pretty fucking impressive. Or at least I could make it sound that way with esoteric descriptions of my day to day. No, when somebody asks me what I do I'll give an ambiguous response like "A little bit of this, a little bit of that," or something obviously farcical, like "I'm a platypus wrangler for a prominent movie production studio," and then I'll steer the conversation in a different direction (not just because I'm an unemployed student right now... I've been doing it for awhile). I don't want to tell you about my futile oversight of a bunch of stoner college kids working for beer money, and I don't want to hear about your boring ass sales position or clerical responsibilities. It's fucking lame. If your job is the most interesting thing you have to tell me about yourself, go the fuck back to your miserable cubicle/office/cash register/fryolator and stay there, and keep that shit to yourself.

Before you accuse me of narrow minded generalizations, let me cover my ass. Yes, there are a handful of people out there whose choice of profession can speak worlds about them, for good or bad. The social worker who could easily be raking in a fat salary running somebody's HR department, but instead chose to work for the city or state to coordinate a drug rehab program. The sports agent who made it his life's purpose to make money making money for somebody who already makes too much money. The pediatrician who turned down private practice to work with the Red Cross, or MSF. The junior exec that's going to get a promotion and a fat bonus because of his money saving action plan that costs 2500 people their jobs. Yes, some peoples' professions are a direct reflection of their character.

Most of us, however, are stuck deep in the middle of those extreme examples, trudging through monotonous routines, dealing with petty office politics, pandering to management, and upholding the almighty Company Best Practices. You do it because you have to. You have to eat, right? Hell, I even know artists, writers, and musicians who had to set their creativity aside to pay the bills. But come on, is that really you? Are you that empty and shallow that the only thing you have left to identify with is your job? Or is it just easier to identify with that than to figure out what really makes you yourself? Are you really just Jane Doe, Finance Analyst? If so, fuck off. I don't want to know you.

For most of us, what we do for work doesn't really matter that much in the end. You're going to go to work 40 to 60 hours a week for most of your life. Then you're going to die. You want to let those working hours define you? Fine. Do me a favor and hurry up and get to the dying part. I'd prefer to focus on the other 128 hours a week, and make the most of them. I've done things for money from selling car parts to doing research and analysis on Intellectual Property infringement. You want to hear about that? Fuck you. That's not who I am. I'm David. I'm a huge clothes snob. I love cars. Working on them, reading about them, pretending I have more money than I do and conning dealers into letting me test drive them. I laugh every time I hear Nixon's vice-president's name because you can rearrange Spiro Agnew into "grow a penis." When I'm bored I write or play my guitar. Badly. Sometimes I feel guilty when I eat at restaurants because of third world nations. Local news shows make me want to stab my eyes out with an icepick. I make damn good sushi. And jambalaya. When I hear Steve Buscemi's name I think of ischemia, 'cause they kind of sound the same. I love Maker's Mark bourbon. Probably too much. I think rock 'n roll is an attitude and isn't limited to a genre. My Spanish gets way better when I drink. If the Red Sox were a girl, I'd gladly embrace the institution of marriage.

I could go on, but you get the idea. There are so many more things about you than your job... why let it run roughshod over them and consume you? Go to work, but get over it. If you're doing something that makes a difference, good. But there still has to be more to you than that. If there isn't, I feel sorry for you. And if all you can think of is to ask me what I do for work, please go buy yourself an imagination. So when I meet you at a party, in a bar, outside of class, I'm not going to ask you what you do. Because I don't care. And, because I'm getting really sick of finding out everybody's a stripper.