I hate my stupid day job...

I am here to bitch. Do not mistake my doing so as whining. In fact, I HATE whiners. To me, whiners are people that complain about everything, and refuse to do absolutely nothing about it. I am bitching because I have every intention to do something about this stupid day job that I have. Not because I have a lot of time on my hands, not because I have nothing better to do, but because I HAVE to so I can stay somewhat sane in this dead end town. I’m hoping if I reach enough of you out there, if my words somehow interest you, if you agree with what I say, if you completely disagree with my thoughts and beliefs, that someday I will be able to finally leave my stupid day job and buy a great hacienda in Mexico where I can see the beach from my bathroom.

My stupid day job is at a restaurant in downtown Syracuse, New York. For those of you not familiar with this horrid place, Syracuse is part of the great snow belt of the Northeast United States. We get inches upon inches of what they call “lake effect snow” dumped on us every winter. I don’t think it is quite fair to even call the season “winter” given that I have trick-or-treated through snowflakes as a child, and run up and down a lacrosse field in slushy white, grey, and brown shit as a young adult. Note: lacrosse is a spring sport around these parts.

At one significant point in history, Syracuse was actually a hot spot. Not hot in the sense of being temperate year round, but meaning “popular” or “chic.” See, in addition to all the white stuff I already talked about, some peeps a long time ago discovered more white stuff, in the form of salt. For this reason, and because my city was built smack dab on top of the Erie Canal, lots of folks moved to Syracuse way back when. They built huge houses that the University’s fraternities have now turned into party pits. Every day on the way to my stupid day job, I pass these once glorious homes, that I imagine were filled with fine china and butlers, only now to be replaced by half naked college girls and homemade water bongs. This makes me sad, as does the ugly sloppy snow everywhere, and it gets worse (depression sinks in) as I near closer to downtown Syracuse, and the “heart” of it – Armory Square.

My stupid day job is one of a handful of small, privately owned restaurants and bars in this square radius, the only section left downtown that provides entertainment to its zombie-like, overly bundled residents. From time to time, aliens to my hometown inquire, “So what’s there to do here? Where should we go tonight for fun?” With which I reply, “If you walk about 25 yards in either direction, and pray to the heavens above that people are drunk enough, you most likely, but not positively, will find something to pass the time.” The problem is, the people that usually ask this question are not interested in the bars and the people that I would be. They want to go somewhere to “go dancing” or somewhere with “a great jazz band.” I’m sorry dude/sweetie/ma'am/sir/douchebag, but you may have to burn this Salt City to the ground, rebuild something much more trendy on top of it, before you ever experience such a rarity in entertainment. However, what I can offer you instead is maybe a house blues band served with brunch, or an over-priced craft beer in a bar playing the entire 3 day long Phish set over a sweet satellite radio. Does that work for you? No? Well get outta my way then. I’m already late for my stupid day job.

Stay tuned. Next post will be equally riveting as we will finally leave the bitter cold and enter the doors to my stupid day job.