A house full of boxes

A dude just showed up with 75 cardboard boxes and tape, so it looks like I have a lot of work ahead of me before we go to Denver tomorrow. We’re getting a full-on moving thing with the dudes packing everything, but they’re willing to shave off a few bucks if I pack my books myself. And I guess I feel like doing that anyway, since I don’t want someone denting all of my Bukowski and Kerouac or whatever.

[Oh, if I didn’t mention it elsewhere, tomorrow I’m just going to Denver until Tuesday. I don’t actually leave leave until the 25th.]

Speaking of fake boxes and taping down things, my esteemed colleagues at my former job decided to take me to a tranny bar last night to bid me farewell. I guess you have to understand the ritualistic hazing we’ve had over the last few years. Much like any job in the food service (see also Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential), a good deal of the camaraderie among my coworkers has to do with frequent discussion of who is sucking dick, who is fucking who in the ass, who is going to Enumclaw, Washington this weekend to get fucked in the ass by a horse, and so on. I guess in a normal work environment, we’d be talking about nailing the new chick in accounting, and I’m not saying there isn’t a small amount of that discussion, but we find much more entertainment value in photoshopping each others’ facebook pictures onto gay bondage porn. Is this wrong? Of course. Is it homophobic? I don’t know – it’s not that we’re saying that homosexuality is wrong or sick or anything, because I don’t feel that way. It’s more about who’s dominant and who’s the bitch in the ongoing hazing and scuffles within the workplace. I don’t know, maybe years of reading Jerkcity has permanently damaged all of us. And if you need a better answer on the “why” aspect of this, you need to know how fucked the management of any company typically is, and that if you don’t have a twisted sense of humor about things, you’ll most likely have an aneurysm after your first week.

Anyway, a few of my former coworkers took me to this tranny bar. Okay, it wasn’t a bar where transsexuals come to get shitface, like where Jonathan Ames hangs out; it was a dinner club/bar where transsexuals served food and one of them MCed and hosted with a little show-type thing, and then it eventually dissolved into a very bad karaoke free-for-all. This was my idea, by the way. See, my company probably would have rewarded me for my service by having an open bar at this shithole place behind the office where every party for everything is always held, and then every insufferable prick from all parts of the company would show up because it was an open bar. “HI, I TALKED TO YOU THREE TIMES IN SIX YEARS, DO YOU LIKE MY HAIR, ITS SORT OF A RYAN SEACREST THING, BRAH. I GOT A NEW SPEAKER PHONE. WHERE ARE YOU MOVING? DENVER? IS THAT IN THE MIDWEST? NEW YORK RULES. OH WAIT, I GOTTA GET SOME TEQUILA SHOTS, LET ME SEE IF I CAN ORDER SOMETHING REALLY ESOTERIC TO SHOW THE BARTENDER I’M A PRICK.” That times ten thousand isn’t how I roll. So i figured I should have my going away at a place that nobody would want to go, and I should not invite more people than I did invite, and especially avoid inviting the people that actually made me quit the damn job in the first place. Right?

(I did this at my first job in Seattle. They were hemmorhaging people at a rapid rate, and every single goodbye lunch was at this shitty TGIFriday-esue place, the prototypical “restaurant with shit on the walls”, and I didn’t want to go out that way, so I had my party at Chuck E. Cheese. Much more fun. And a lot of Bellevue MILF action.)

Anyway, the tranny place. The show was good, and the hostess was pretty good, sort of a draggy version of Tyra Banks but much bitchier. The moment of the evening was when Julian had his shirt ripped off and was given a full-on lapdance. That alone was worth the price of admission. It was also interesting that most of the crowd was comprised of straight women from Florida, Georgia, or whereever else. Lots of banter, lots of talk about cocksucking, lots of cattiness, and the hostess gave Julian this whole “honey, if you weren’t gay” schtick, which was priceless. Overall, a very good sendoff.

So yeah, going to Denver tomorrow, and I haven’t even thought about it. And I have 75 boxes in the hallway, and I need to write this damn book. So why am I still writing here? Off to work.

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