Just how I like my Christmas elves... large and creepy.

After visiting the mall this weekend, I’m extra happy that temporary holiday season job at the big department store fell through. What a horrible nightmare of crowds and slush and noise. Holiday spending may be down, but holiday shopping is alive and well. As is the Queens Christmas spirit, which translates into lots of pushing and screaming and grabbing. I’m actually making a documentary about it; the working title is “Holiday Kill! Kill! Kill!” I did find a little temp work to prop up the bank account. Rather, a little temp work found me.

Wifey’s company sends out holiday gifts every year to contacts and clients. Most companies do. It’s a corporate holiday tradition to get in a little branding with the giving. Though in my experience, few companies are as classy and generous about it. They hired me to run the show, to be head elf. I was happy to oblige.

I’d forgotten what it’s like to wake up for work. Sleeping in isn’t my usual approach to weekdays. But I never have to be anywhere for anything either. My schedule is fluid and flexible, yet stuff always fills up the time. It felt oddly freeing to wake to an alarm and know that I had an hour to leave the apartment. Those with jobs may be wondering exactly what kind of crack I’ve been smoking. The 2008 model Norm would’ve asked a similar question. But unemployment is a seemingly endless series of uncertainties. Something defined and concrete frees up the brain to think about other things.

That something was putting gifts in boxes. Wifey’s employer sends out snazzy-looking hats emblazoned with the company logo. They design a new one each year. As a rule, I prefer my baseball hats to advertise for overpaid, underperforming sports teams, not corporate brands. Overexposure to crap-tastic corporate conference schwag has scarred me for life. But sports teams are just corporate brands anyway, and these hats are sharp. So what do I know? That’s right, nothing. You can say it. I know the truth, or, uh, I don’t. I’m so confused.

There were five of us to do the job. Each person was a friend or family member of a company staffer and in a similar situation – unemployed and/or cash-poor. The project was straightforward and is best presented in list form, last week’s diatribe notwithstanding…

1. Separate box tops from bottoms.
2. Put tissue paper in box bottom.
3. Put hat on tissue paper.
4. Put top on box.
5. Put bellyband on box.
6. Repeat steps 2-5 approximately 1300 times.

Some boxes got mailing labels and postage. Most didn’t. That was the extent of the project.

With our marching orders, we convened in a conference room and set about separating the boxes. The space was a little cramped, the back wall a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over much of the office. It didn’t occur to me until later that we were on full display. Within a couple hours, we filled the room with swaying stacks of box tops and bottoms. A gentle breeze would’ve toppled them all, spelling disaster for the fearless crew, or at least minor annoyance.

We didn’t talk much initially, being complete strangers and all. Nor did anyone want to make an executive decision on what online radio station to play. Group deference led us to a middle-of-the-road pop station. I’m not up on what the kids like these days, not since the end of my DJing days many years ago. So figuring out samples in songs was a fun diversion while working. One co-opted Elton John‘s “Tiny Dancer” in the name of Hip-Hop. Another put a melody over Gary Glitter‘s “Rock and Roll, Part 2” – the “Hey” song played at every sporting event ever, by law. I mentioned that the artist who recorded the original, went to jail for child pornography. Nothing like a little light trivia to break the ice and let everyone know I’m completely normal. After that, we all became fast friends, chatting about everything from Michael Jackson to AARP to hair salons. Did you know that hair stylists have to rent individual chairs in salons? I didn’t.

After separating boxes, we filled them. Two people took on tissue paper duty. Two others did hats and box tops. I did a bit of everything, from getting more supplies to breaking down boxes to hat stuffing. All the boxes were stuffed by late morning the next day, and the belly bands affixed by lunch the day after that. We hit a little snag with postage, because I miscounted the number of boxes. But that soon resolved itself.

With the boxes done, two of us stayed on to put together holiday gift bags for extra special contacts. The bags -themselves reusable shopping bags – contained some serious schwag, including fancy brownies, a cookbook, spices, a dove made of blown glass and more. All of the gifts came from companies that do something good for the world. And a booklet was included to explain what.

The work was mindless and monotonous, as assembly line-type work tends to be. My feet and lower back hurt by the second day. And a dull headache lingered throughout. But my coworkers were friendly and hardworking. And we had unlimited access to the stocked snack closet and all the holiday sweets that came through the office. I was happy to be productive, and to push back my unemployment insurance by a week. Box stuffing isn’t a career move, nor will it bolster the old resume. The experience was worthwhile though. I always think of temping as a horrible soul-sucking experience. But this time was different. I didn’t sense the least bit of condescension, maybe because they knew me already. More likely, it’s just a good company with good people. I also felt like what I was doing mattered in some small way. It’s nice to have a purpose, to be relevant again.

Behold the mullet, feel the mullet, be the mullet.

An old buddy of mine texted me last night. He’d been listening to the first Tears For Fears album, The Hurting, from forever ago. You may remember “Mad World” and the great cover of it that scored a Gears of War video game trailer. His favorite song from the album – “Suffer The Children” – starts out like the opening of a sex scene in an 80s porno. At least that’s what he tells me. I wouldn’t know. I was too busy studying and doing community service in high school to have viewed such unwholesome debauchery. But one 80s music reference was all it took to put me on an extended high school/college music jag.

It started yesterday, and I kind of thought it would end yesterday. These things generally run their course in about a day. But I heard this insidiously infectious song at the gym today, one that owes Toni Basil of “Mickey” fame an enormous debt of gratitude and has probably been adopted by every high school cheerleading troop between here and California. Maybe you’ve heard it. Maybe you’ve sung it to yourself. Maybe you’ve told your daughter to turn it down or you’ll disown her. It goes a little something like this…

They call me hell
They call me Stacey
They call me her
They call me Jane
That’s not my name
That’s not my name
That’s not my name
That’s not my name

They call me quiet girl
But I’m a riot
Mary Jo Lisa
Always the same
That’s not my name
That’s not my name
That’s not my name
That’s not my name

It isn’t my favorite song ever. But it also doesn’t make me want to jam plastic sporks in my ears until blood washes away the pain. The Ting Tings song (like the name of the artist matters) is rather catchy actually, and it put me right back in 80s mode. Playing evil scientist and implanting that song in your brain is just a nice ancillary benefit. Some the stuff that made the playlist is still great, and some of it, well, isn’t and probably never was. All of these albums could use some serious remastering. I’m sure the music industry will get to it right after they figure out the whole digital thing. I’ll start holding my breath now.

So without further delay…

The Church – Gold Afternoon Fix
The Church is one of my favorite bands ever, still. They had one hit – “Under The Milky Way” – 20 years ago, and have been ignored ever since. I discovered this album on a friend’s dorm room shelf freshman year of college.

Tears For Fears – The Seeds Of Love
I couldn’t find The Hurting, so I went with this one. It’s got a little too much of that 80s over-produced thing going on. But how can you not love someone named Roland Orzabal?

The Stone Roses – The Stone Roses
This album indoctrinated a generation of anglophiles and holds up well to this day. Everything else they did kind of sucked.

Rush – Power Windows
I was a teenage boy. Is any more explanation needed?

New Order – Technique
A Korean friend of mine insisted that only Asian people could like New Order. I thought that was ridiculous. It’s not like New Order was The Communards or some other such band. Besides, I always turned up “True Faith” to some insane volume whenever it came on the radio. So I bought this album on cassette – as one did then – pealed away the shrink wrap, breathed in that glorious new-tape smell and put it into heavy rotation.

Catherine Wheel – Ferment
This is one of those albums that influences my tastes even today – Early Day Miners, The Black Angels, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and so forth. And it still f**king rocks! I saw Catherine Wheel at the HFStival in 1992. It was about 100 degrees with 90% humidity that day… real outdoor weather. Heat stroke only made the music better.

The Charlatans – Some Friendly
Ever worked ground crew on a golf course? Ever cruised the empty fairways in a golf cart at 7:00 in the morning blasting British shoegazer music through ratty headphones? You should try it sometime.

The Ocean Blue – Cerulean
Ok, so they’re a little dippy. I can accept that. I’ve come to terms with my love of jangly pop made by Pennsylvanians trying to sound British. I suggest you do the same.

Mr. Big – Mr. Big
Not sure what I was thinking back then. The mullet, no doubt, drastically affected my judgment, and not for the better. I can’t tell if this album is so bad it’s good, or so bad it passes good on its way back to bad. We’ll just go with the latter.

Living Colour – Vivid
This album was my psych up music for the SATs, or maybe it was the PSATs. Either way, I can still picture cruising in my orange 1981 Chevy Citation to my high school early that Saturday morning. And wouldn’t you know it, it still holds up.

And an unfortunate, last-minute, post-jag entry…

Micheal Jackson – Thriller
Ma Ma Se, Ma Ma Sa, Ma Ma Coo Sa, Michael. Ma Ma Se, Ma Ma Sa, Ma Ma Coo Sa.

Every so often a funk grabs a hold of me, for no good reason. And not the sequined Rick James funk of awesomeness either. I feel sorry for myself. I lament my unemployment and the general state of my life. I start to envy all the things everyone else has and I don’t – big apartments, cars, jobs, stuff. It’s an ugly scene, and the envy can reach ridiculous proportions. The other day I found myself begrudging Matthew McConaughey his success as an actor. Why should I care? I don’t even want to be the male lead in bad romance comedies that should go straight to DVD. The six-pack abs would be nice though. And the million-dollar paychecks… I’d take those.

When in these funks, I feel like the only person who is struggling – a ridiculous notion, but true in the world of me, myself and I. This is a selfish and irrational way of looking at things. And people would be right to call me out on it in the forums and comments sections. Hell, you have my permission to walk right up on the street and slap me across the face if you have to. I forget to give equal weight to all the good things in my life – family, health, etc. They get minimized and pushed aside. The feeling sorry for myself isn’t productive. But it happens every now and again, often enough that I recognize the cycle for what it is.

My birthday was such a good time that the letdown afterward probably sparked this latest round of woe is me. But any little slight or setback can do it. Getting out of bed that next morning took some serious effort. I lay there staring at the insides of my eyelids, thinking that more sleep might make everything better. But more sleep only makes me feel guilty for wasting the morning. So I dragged my ass up, put on my workout clothes and headed off to the gym.

This funk-y workout wasn’t very good as workouts go. They never are. I tried to harness the negative feelings to push myself harder. In the movie version of my life, this would be the montage scene before the moment of truth. Alas, without the ’80s music, the cameras and the inspiration, this tactic didn’t work. Rocky had Drago. Lane Meyer had Roy Stalin, that blond-haired skier guy. I have unemployment as my nemesis. There was no face to picture when eking out that last set. There wasn’t even a last set. I just wanted to go home and stay there.

Home is the best place when I’m in a funk. The only people around the apartment during the day are the cats. And they just sleep and leave behind tumbleweed-like fur balls. I did go out that afternoon for cookies and coffee – the bread and nectar of life. I have to stay strong in case a potential employer wants to interview me. I can’t be scaring children like Michael Jackson or Sophia Loren if I ever want to work again. Walking the streets was a challenge. People were everywhere and always in my way. Part of that is just my neighborhood, Jackson Heights, where most of South America now lives. Everyone seemed to be going important places and doing important things. Most of them, of course, were not. But I saw everything through a lens of negativity. It made me want to just push people out of my way.

Nothing seemed to work right during the funk. My muscles felt heavy. My brain couldn’t hold a thought. I moved with lethargy and less purpose, avoiding new tasks and lingering over tasks that are second nature. My attitude was poor, and my temper short. I complained about really stupid, unimportant stuff. And I got teary-eyed and emotional over sappy TV. (Damn you Sarah McLachlan for showing me hurt animals!) The frustration, boredom and dissatisfaction inside leaked out in weird ways.

Something always pulls me back into real life. This time it was a two-year-old boy on the subway discovering the world outside. He stood on the seat watching the passing buildings, pointing and laughing as his mother held him steady. I sat across the aisle, iPod on, watching him. Something about the scene made me feel better. Maybe it was his joy. Maybe it was his innocence. Maybe the chemicals in my body picked that moment to readjust in a way that improved my mood. I don’t know, but I’m glad it’s over.

We all have ups and downs in our moods. They’re part of life. But unemployment can make the peaks higher and, in my case, the valleys lower. I go through these cycles often enough to recognize them. If I could steer clear, I would. That hasn’t worked so far, so I just try to just be productive and minimize the downtime. My best is the most I can ask of myself.