Author: [email protected]

There are a lot of undesirable jobs out there. Genital herpes spokesperson. Adult peep show jiz mopper. Poop Lab Technician. Maybe less grotesque, but also joining these embarassments in the doldrums of career aspirations is Pizza Delivery Guy. Definitely not at the top of the list of undesireables, it’s up there.

I feel few people complete their career aptitude test hoping it returns pizza delivery guy/girl, and I doubt many people major in home delivery at college. I could be wrong, though.

And actually, I kind of hope I am.

Because if you think about it, there are quite a lot of benefits to holding a career in the italian culinary delivery industry. This list is by no means comprehensive, but this is what I could come up with:

1. Your car always smells phenomenal. I am not a pizza delivery guy, and as such, my car does not always smell phenomenal. After going to the gym, it often smells like BO. Most other times it smells like farts, because, well, you know… Perhaps some of its few high moments are after I get take-out and have to transport it home. The next day, I am often treated to the residual smells that smell great. As a pizza delivery guy, your car always smells like that. If you can get them into your car…the women won’t be able to resist.

2. You work for a Fortune 500 company. This is about 90% true. If you work for one of the chains (Pizza Hut, Dominos, Papa Johns), then you’ve got a pretty impressive company to drop on your resume. Some creative wording on the title “Pizza Delivery Guy”, maybe “Human Resources – Sustenance Provider” and you are good to go.

3. People always welcome you at your door. Nobody ever pretends they aren’t home when you ring the door bell. You aren’t a Jehovah’s Witness. People welcome you with open arms. They want you. They need you. That has got to feel pretty good.

4. Free Auto Accessories. People spend thousands of dollars pimping out their cars with lights and accessories. You get to do this for free with your clamp on window sign. Not only does it pimp out your car, every girl that sees you, instantly gets your phone number. Imagine the possibilities….especially when you combine that fact, with point #1. Pizza isn’t the only thing you will be delivering home, if you know what I mean…

If things don’t work out for me in advertising. I know where I am headed…

Note: this story is not for the faint of heart or the weak of stomach.

It had stopped raining shortly before I left work and headed home. I was walking my usual route, and as per usual, when I saw dried leaves or twigs or anything that looked particularly crispy and crunchy on the ground, I landed my foot directly on them and consequently enjoyed a most satisfying euphony of crunch. I don’t know exactly what makes this sound so satisfying to me, but it does, and it does so enough that I’ll even go out of my way if I see an object that looks particularly crunchy.

There was a special project going on at work, so I was working late into the night. I got off work that Wednesday around 9:30pm. I remember it was 9:30 because it’s a 30 minute walk home and I arrive just in time for my roommate to start watching some trashy top model/house flipping/top chef show on Bravo. In hindsight, I would have been much better off staying at work for another hour, not only because I hate all shows on Bravo (except West Wing reruns, which for some reason show on Bravo), but because of what I’m pained to describe next.

About five paces from the front gate of my apartment complex, I saw a perfectly crispy looking leaf, and it having been a somewhat stressful day at work, this seemed to be karma’s way of sweetening my day just a little bit. I actually quickened my stride ever so slightly in joyful anticipation of the sweet music that I would soon hear. When I arrived, I stopped, lifted my right foot, and planted it firmly on top of that dried leaf, and the sound gave me immense pleasure. It was only after my right foot slipped almost out from under me that I realized the tragedy that just happened.

In my haste and my ravenous anticipation, coupled with the darkness of night and the lack of adequate lighting, what I mistook for a dried leaf was actually poor Mr. Snail. And now, for an ever so slight pick-me-up, I had ended Mr. Snail’s life in one aurally satisfying crunch.

I paused for a moment, contemplating the life that had been lost. I bowed my head, even, though that was more because I was looking at the ground than I was paying respects. Finally, I told myself there was nothing that could be done, Mr Snail looked like maybe perhaps he had lived a good, long, full life and was ready to go. He certainly moved a little slower than the sprightly young snails. If he had moved a little faster, I may not have mistook him for a leaf.

Rest in peace, Mr. Snail. We hardly knew ye. But I thank the snail gods every day for the joy your death brought me.

Over the past few months, I’ve gotten to know my downstairs neighbor a little better. We have never met, but through primitive exchanges and eavesdropping on his music, I feel that I have come to get a gist of his being.

The month of January has been a rough one for him. Nothing but Death Cab or Bright Eyes pounded through my carpeted floors. His tempered mood had him banging at me through his ceiling as I practiced my shuffle-ball-changes, and my accordion playing didn’t calm his spirits one bit.

February has brought some definitely brighter times with the weather warming up and after delivering a Valentine’s card to his door (anonymously) thanking him for “putting up” with me (har har) he seems to be in a better emotional state.

Bright Eyes has stopped completely and the frequency of Death Cab has diminished, being replaced with the still slightly depressing, but much more upbeat and uplifting The Postal Service.

I have also come to find that February brings hope of a social life for my downstairs friend as his drumming has increased and band practice has begun.

This has got me scheming. Since he definitely has a fondness for music, judging by his musical endeavors and loud music playing, why not send him a mixtape? Well not really a mixtape, as I do not have the technology to make one, but maybe a mix cd. It definitely does not have the same sentimental attachment that a mixtape captures, but let’s save that for lovers. This is a neighborly relationship, and a lighthearted, friendly gesture is more appropriate.

I will call it “The ‘I Don’t Mind If You Play These Songs Super Loud’ Mix”. Now, creating such a mix holds enormous amounts of pressure seeing as though his loud music playing must be heard by a larger audience than just he and I. It’s almost like being an Apartment DJ… only anonymously. The Apartment DJ holds much importance as music plays a huge part in human emotions and moods. This mix must be super fantastic and somewhat communal.

So, I am asking for your help. I plan on getting this mix to my Downstairs friend by Monday, March 31st, 2008. Make your song requests to be included in this mix cd (you can either post it as a comment or send it to: [email protected]) and I will collaborate songs, post the playlist and deliver this mix to my downstairs neighbor along with a short note explaining the purpose of this mix cd. Remember, these songs should be songs that you would not mind hearing played at extremely ridiculous volumes sporadically throughout the day and/or night.

If you do not mind (and please indicate this along with your submission) I will also include your first name in the above mentioned note so that my neighbor will know just who these songs are from. If your business/workplace would like to make requests, send those over as well and we can dedicate specific songs from your place of employment. We can even dedicate songs to him from cities/towns/states where ever you are from and whatever you are in association.

This could be your chance to be a part of something uber amazing, maybe even revolutionizing. We can all play a part in being The Apartment DJ.

The hardest part about life is waiting to find out who you’re going to become.

It’s not the day to day work, the stresses of relationships or responsibilities. It’s the waiting.

Nobody likes waiting. Waiting in line. Waiting for the oven to preheat. Waiting for your ride or a person to show-up. Waiting always feels like time wasted.

Which is weird, because that’s what we spend our whole life doing: we wait. We just wait. We just wait to find out who we’re going to become.

Sure, we do stuff along the way, a lot of stuff actually, in the hope it carries us to that desired destination. Sometimes, even aggressively so. You work on the assumption that it will pay off, but you don’t know. It’s a guess, a hope.

Sometimes, I picture life like a TV show. You watch something happen, it cuts to the outside of a building (maybe the “Family Matters” house) and the words “three months later” or “three years later” appear, and you find out what happens right away. It happens so quick. There’s an immediate payoff and you learn the consequence (unless, of course, you are watching “Lost”, in which case you don’t find out anything. Damn, I love that show, though).

What does the next year hold in store? The next five years? Ten years?

I guess that’s the “fun part”. I didn’t mean to use quotation marks there, it is fun. Bastardly fun.

Just, sometimes, I wonder…

I don’t think you “can”. Or, at least, I didn’t so. Until now.

First, though, let’s tout the good qualities.

Vienna Sausage. Corned beef (hash). And perhaps the holy grail of canned meat, Spam. There’s not a swear word among them. Nothing but salty, succulent delicious words. And yes, I know the heavily-covered Spam pundits out there will be quick to naysay its “succulenticity” but I’d dismiss their claims faster than a fart in the wind. In most cases, the naysaying is little more than uneducated claims based on a tainted perception rather than a first-hand experienced disdain. Sure, outside of Hawaii, a hurricane is the only appetizer that would precede a Spam entree, but shouldn’t discount its savoriness.

Canned meats are always there for you. These sodium-saturated snacks never go bad, which also means, these sodium-saturated snacks are always good.

How is that for some solid logic?

Unfortunately, in recent weeks, the unblemished record of deliciousness is being challenged by a German company trying to expand the canned meat market. Take it upon the country responsible for the Nazis to champion their next “great” invention, the Cheeseburger in der Dose (roughly translates to “Cheeseburger in a Can”).

I will admit that this critique is one on concept alone. I have not tried the “cheeseburger in der dose”, but gladly would. I’ve stated a number of times before that I am willing to put most anything in my mouth. This is not an exception.

I suppose I am not against the meat, so much as everything else: the special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.

I cannot imagine how this would be good. This review seems to support my lack of imagination.

But really, the question is: why would someone do this?