I'm pretty old school.
Old fashion stuff like loyalty ... doing what you say you're going to do ... following through on commitments ... taking care of the down and out ... still picking up hitchhikers ... whispering prayers ... crying when it's right ... mean a lot to me.
It's who I am.
I'm made of these things.
"The world's not like that anymore," my wife tells me as we discuss my job. "There's nothing old school about today's work place."
"Well," I protest, "it should be."
"But it's not," she shoots.
"It's about being replaced if you cost too much or question anything ... it's about getting by without making waves ... there's no room for creativity ... and you do what you're told regardless of the logic ... or the result."
I open my mouth but ... there's nothing to say.
She's right.
Today's about keeping a job no matter how much it hurts ... the amount of abuse ... or the fact the majority of modern managers are mental midgets with the IQ of a fence post.
There is no kindness in work anymore.
I must confess I hate McDonald's almost as much as winter.
The one on Whitemarsh Island has achieved standards lower than snake feces under wilted grass ... but their marketing is great ... in spite of the rude incompetence of the staff poorly serving tasteless food.
"Why isn't it ever as good as looks on the commercial?" Sarah asks watching television of a steaming Quarter Pounder with Cheese when in reality ... McDonald's doesn't melt the cheese ... throwing a slice on the bun in hopes you'll believe you're tasting what you saw on television.
It's the same at work.
"We're a great wonderful Team" ... when we're not raping you ... demanding doing more with less ... using your own money so you keep the job ... saying things right even when they're not ...and claiming "WE ROCK!" ... even though they're mostly thrown.
The illusion of productivity is easily demonstrated by the lack of results.
Satisfaction's achieved only by pretense.
"How do you fuck up dying?" I asked last night, introducing a song at Monty Park's Tuesday Night Acoustic Jam.
Pointing at Faye Allen, a Hospice Nurse, who's laughing at the question, I say, "Money."
Covering her mouth as though I've spoken the unholy, she nods in affirmation.
"Oh they tell me of a home far beyond the skies," I sing. "Oh they me of a land far away."
Oh they tell me.
I just don't believe them anymore.
