this is the perfect place to get jumped

Month: April, 2013

a note:

on june 1st 2013 i will finally make use of my dusty, unfinished basement for bushwick open studios. i have thirty one days from today to think of something that will frighten and confuse the numerous, sophisticated, self-important strangers who invade my neighborhood every year expecting a classy Parisian vernissage. i have brainstormed the following short, vague list:

fog, fog machines, goggles & dust masks for gallery patrons, red lights, yellow lights, blue lights, black out the windows with garbage bags, facing staring confusedly down the stairs into the clouds of light, wet pants litter the floor, a shelf of discarded liquor bottles, devil’s spring vodka and one dusty shot glass, a zine with photos and collages of food on the ground, scattered wigs, throaty moaning gurgling on loop, faux gallery setup with b&w print outs of 7th heaven characters and mentally disabled yearbook photos and digimon and some sailor moon and inuyasha, friendly naked artist is present guiding the frightened patrons, a receptionist is at the top of the stairs to give out the zine and offer patrons masks and a drink, only one couple at a time, he wears a glitter suit, photographs of the visitors are available when they leave their email, bedroom with a bed and a hidden and dangerous dungeon haunt that entices patrons into his stinky dark lair behind the boiler room, full of chicken bones and crusty tampons. tiny pictures of art on the walls with are supported by air conditioner units. everything is for sale, it is a silent auction. latex gloves for the patrons so they do not disturb any of the art, and a coat check. a studio with scribbles on napkins pinned to the walls. the artist is there to answer questions.

it’s a start


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iPod image dump #12

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She smoked weed before work, read the Bible at her desk and called me handsome everyday in passing. Her first words to me were, “You have beautiful eyes.” Not only is this false, but it does not become believable on repetition. It becomes annoying.

She was inept, easily confused and knew the least of all us temps. Yet she handpicked herself as my “Floor Manager,” often confusing it with various other titles she gave herself to customers over the phone.

Hello this is Joy, I am the Floor Supervisor. Can you give me a verbatim over the phone?

She used to sell cars over the phone and then she was a housewife. She had Chinese letters tatted above her left tit. She lived in The Bronx and liked my nose stud so much that she wanted to follow me home to Brooklyn after work so she could get her nose pierced where mine was done. (There had to be a closer place, right?)

What happened with her was, was that…what I think is happening is, is that…the situation with the restoration center is, is that…

She was the “Floor Supervisor” requested by a caller that I made feel stupid when I misspelled his FEMA number.  She took my headset and gave callers lengthier reiterations of our professionally blunt protocol because she liked to think she was more than just a temp. She talked him down while rubbing my leg beneath the desk. I knew she had a husband, so why was she trying to fuck me?

Sir, everything we do is basically put into the system. Everything is put into the system, which is, is basically, we put it in the system sir.

I was transferred to the Hotel Booking Unit where we received two incoming calls per shift, which was a paradise until she was selected to be our “Program Manager” two days later.

Orientation was simple, yet it took H.R six hours to dictate it: When we receive a call from a restoration center, select the closest hotel to the disaster area and then call that hotel to book a room under FEMA. Once the room is booked, call the restoration center to confirm check-in.

We would answer the calls and she would sit at a desk with her stupid, vacant eyes and watch us. She would talk to us and reassure us after a customer was rude over the phone by rubbing our backs and shoulders and thighs, forgetting what she was saying to us as she was saying it, needlessly over complicating simple tasks by asking the wrong questions and confusing herself.

Within a few hours of our first shift together Bruce turned to me and said, “Joy is stupid.” It was the only time I cracked a smile at work.

Once I booked the hotel, confirmed and filled out the form with the name of the family members moving in. She wanted me to get the first name of the woman calling from the restoration center. A woman who only introduced herself as Mrs. Johnson.

Get me her first name.

I returned a few minutes later with the unnecessary information.

With reproach. Who is Asia?

It’s Aisha.

Who is that?

It’s the name of the woman at the center.


Mrs. Johnson’s first name.

Why do I need this?

I don’t know, you asked me for it.

Any one of the customer service reps would have been a better floor manager. Even Jemel.

One day I received a call from the restoration center informing me that a family of four had been booked for a room with a single bed and asked me if it was possible to move them. The hotel they were staying in had no vacancies, so I called another hotel across the street which did. So I moved them.

When I foolishly volunteered this information to her non-temp superior I was called into the office, oblivious of my wrongdoing. I expected to be reprimanded by my actual “System Manager,” but was then met with reiterated reprimands, dusted with her insufferable, personal ignorance. When I looked into her cow eyes I walked out of the office and never went back.

She wanted a permanent position and I hope she got it because she deserves to work in a call center forever.