Bossi-Stopheles

The only time the word "bossy" carries a positive connotation is when it is the first name of a cow. Someone who is bossy tells you what to do, pushes you around. Your older sister is bossy. Your mom doesn't like you playing with that spoiled kid because he's so bossy. Nobody likes a bossy-boots.

 

Yet, in your work life, there is a person whose job it is to boss you around, tell you what to do, and (hopefully inadvertently) make you feel like shit. There are some lucky Schmoes who get to be their own bosses, but then it's not really a bossy kind of thing. A boss wouldn't let you sleep until 11AM. A boss wouldn't let you work in your bathrobe. And a boss certainly wouldn't let you watch Ricky Lake instead of filing those TPS reports.

I have had my share of bosses in my relatively short time in the workforce. I had one boss who sexually harassed me on a regular basis, one boss who scared the living shit out of me, one boss who was so super that I was devastated when I eventually had to quit, and one boss who was just a few months older than me. My current boss has horrible breath (think serious decay) and a penchant for blaming her mistakes on me. She pretends to be my friend, or at least friend-like, and then turns on her bossy-heels to run a little pass-agg "We really need to get this taken care of right away. I'm sure I told you about this last week." This said inches from my face so all I can think is, "Please, Lord, deliver thy holy floss into thy unwilling creature's wretched mouth."

Maybe one day I shall be my own boss so I'll no longer have to fear being caught writing a sassy article instead of updating Excel spreadsheets.

'Tis the Weeks Before Cashmas

by Peter Eichenberger

“Only through the birth of Jesus was man forgiven,” the card read. On the reverse, a fir tree, pagan image of life everlasting and Coca Cola spokes model, Satan Claus.

December 25? The Solstice is a proper sort of religious Gumbo on par with Chanukah, Saturnalia, Solstice, Long Night, yadida. A fave is Lenanea, where Dionysus is torn to shreds and eaten by a pack of women. But Christmas? It’s purely a fabrication.

Nevertheless, it’s safe to say neither birfday boy nor our Deist forefathers would care much for our blood-and-toxin-wrought Christmas, US-style, courtesy of Milton Friedman (stamp on the devil), Christianity, WalMart and you out there. The WalMaliday ™ proves the superiority of our system.

Massive outsourcing of resources and manufacturing capability have let to the fulfillment of God’s Promise of abundance. Cheap goods keep inflation (aka currency devaluation) at bay, fill our landfills, and have established our dominion of the earth.

Religion? Glad I never got sucked into that poo. Needles and Guzzis worked fine for a while. Basically the same shit.

In God we trust, all others, cash.

American Devil

What is it about the brandless knit company that so turns me on? Do the colors dazzle my consumerist eyes? Am I tempted by the crew, v, scoop, and boatneck tees? Maybe it’s the comfortable underpants.

Whatever it is, I too often find myself stumbling through one of Dov Charney’s neon-lit American Apparel stores, hypnotized by the bee-stung-lipped vixens on the wall and repelled to the very depths of my soul by the overbearing sleaze and the bitchy sales associates.

Nevermind that Charney allegedly receives fellatio from models and sexually harasses his uber-hip employees. His I’m-a-pervert mustache says it all: “I’m a Terry Richardson wannabe who is all about chasing tail and making it with the foxes who work for me!” My inner ethicist tells me not to shop at American Apparel, for it is run by a man who conducts job interviews in his underwear. Alas, for my mortal soul is trapped in an abusive relationship with Dov’s juggernaut.

I’m ashamed (slightly) to say that I am sporting three articles of American Apparel merchandise as I write this article: a shirt, a hoodie, and a pair of socks. Damn you Dov! You who plaster my already over-sexed city with salacious images of underage T&A. You who have resurrected the well-forgotten sleaze of '70s porn with its yellow ambience and evocations of stale cigarette ash, cheesy motels, and extra large mustaches! I say, damn thee to a lake of burning shiny nylon tricot leggings! --CAT SPENCER

(Originally published 11/17/06. American Apparel store in Second Life from matteopenzo's flickr.)

New York Goes To Hell-Wood

Why, oh why can't you leave my city alone, Hollywood? We have Annie Hall; we have Taxi Driver; we even have the eternal crappiness that is You've Got Mail. Must you film yet another piece of shill-tastic drivel on my already overcrowded streets? Must you subject me to the surliness of teamsters during my morning commute? Can't you accept that Law and Order fills the quota of fictional scenes shot in New York ten times over?

While walking with a friend of mine through the park one day (not during the merry month of May, mind you), I was reprimanded—no, I should say harassed—by a member of the movie crew that was shooting in my neighborhood. I'm sorry, sir, I haven't realized that you and your fancy Hollywood entourage reckoned yourselves the neo-NYPD! I don't care if you have permits: I'm walkin' here! This is my home, and I have every right to walk down the street without being roughed-up by a self-important Best Boy or Key Grip.

My suggestion: make like Friends and use a cheesy California movie set. Or go to Canada. None of the fluff-brains who are foolish enough to shell out $10.50 at the multiplex to watch your stupid movies will be able to tell the difference. --CAT SPENCER

(Image from lgard_1956's flickr stream)

The Dev-L Train

Sometimes, I’m running a wee bit late for work. It’s to be expected: I hit snooze on the alarm one too many times, I couldn’t find shoes, I dropped something made of glass and spent fifteen minutes sweeping up potentially dangerous shards, what have you. But the lateness (five to ten minutes, max) grows infinitely worse on mornings when the dreaded L-train is fucked up once again.

For those of you who don’t live off the L and don’t need to commute to or from Williamsburg or Bushwick each day, I’ll paint a picture. You’re running to the train, reassuring yourself that you’ll only be five or ten minutes late when you see it: the Manhattan-bound side of the platform is clogged—six people deep.

Three trains later (yes, friends, the trains are so packed and there are so many people that you must wait for THREE trains to enter and leave the station before you can even think about cramming yourself aboard), you gently but aggressively force and shoulder your way onto the train with barely enough space to expand your little rib cage to draw breath. You will now be thirty minutes late to work, where you will undoubtedly have to nod your way through yet another passive-aggressive tongue lashing. Hurrah.

What could be worse? Oh, yes. Experiencing the very same thing on the way home.

(Photo from Runs With Scissors' flickr stream.)

The Devil and Miss Pram

A few weeks ago, while drinking at a somewhat posh East Village bar, I noticed a young couple approach the front door pushing what appeared to be your everyday, run-of-the-mill stroller. As they drew nearer, I saw that the toddler had sitting beneath him his younger sibling, strapped into his own little hammock that was attached to the underside of the stroller. All I could think was, “What the fuck?”

C'mon Park Slop mothers! Why do these New York moms raise multiple children in the city and throw away $200 on strollers that are designed to give their kids neurotic tendencies? Isn’t being raised in NYC hard enough?

Do they even wonder if they are consigning their children to a fate of thousands of dollars spent on psychological treatment so that they can finally admit, “Well, my parents did always like my older sibling best”? Perhaps the wee infant doesn’t know it yet, but methinks smacking his older brother right on top of him for the first months of his life does not bode well for his place in the family hierarchy come the terrible twos. Talk about being forced to take a back seat.