This weekend pissed me off and reinforced my dim view of humanity and social situations. I don't want to say I was hurt, but fuck, I so want to just cuddle up in my bed and sleep the day away -- moreso now than ever.
---
So we had to scramble to find a spot for my alum's college football game Saturday. The place we go to has DirecTV, which does not have the Pac-12 Network. But Dish Network does, so we were scrambling around to find a place. But the president of the club finally did, and he told me where to go and what we reserved.
Except that this place did not have any record of such a reservation. So we were shunted to a part of the restaurant that did show the game, but without any sound. Per restaurant policy, they piped in music all night. So we were treated to a solid yet uneventful victory while Sugar Ray and the Bee Gees were playing. All 30 of us enjoyed as much as we could.
But my problem was this father-son duo all decked out in our colors. They got there before we did. They seemed to be cool until the father decided that I was crossing his view of the TV one too many times, and so he told me to get out of the way. "Sorry, I didn't think the game was that important to you," and this motherfucker started swearing at me. We're rooting for the same team, asshole!
This prick tried to defend the place: "They've done a lot for us. They're letting us watch the game." What, so we have to suck their dicks because they lost our reservation? Then my friend got in a good zinger: "Thank you for speaking for all of us." I don't know what he said next, but I hope it was good, because this Judas son-of-a-bitch responded by giving him the finger. In front of his son. And we're wearing the same colors, goddamn you.
This greasy jagoff (seriously, he was wearing an open shirt so that the air could bump around every single one of his disgusting chest hairs -- John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever called, he wants his look back) took off when the game was salted away, but just in case I stepped over to the window to see him drive off in his Nissan. So at least I got this rude and disrespectful piece of shit's license plate: RZE 820. I got you now, motherfucker.
Nonetheless, I am ashamed that I didn't do more to defend my friend. I just shook my head, sat down and made sure I didn't get in his way. But if I were more of a man -- really, if I were a man, period -- I would've gotten in his face, or grabbed him by his hirsute fucking chest and beat the shit out of him. This rude douchebag deserved it, especially after disrespecting me and my friend, all of whom wanted the same thing this fuckface did. God, I want to fuck with him so bad.
---
I help out production for Vikings and Twins games. I keep saying that I keep working there because a) it's sports and b) it's the only "job" that justifies my broadcast journalism degree. I have thought from time to time that I would love to do this for a career. But I forget the stress that continually goes on during a game. And it took this Sunday's victory for me to say fuck this, I don't want to do this anymore.
The first step up to work behind the scenes is as a broadcast assistant. He is the one who decides what graphics and statistics pop up on-screen. It's a great job, and while it's the lowest rung on the ladder, you have great influence on how you are informed over the course of the game. (I work as a game statistician, keeping rack of a few things that the production crew, especially the B.A., believe will be important for that game.)
However, he or she is at the mercy of the producer of the game. He sits in the other truck, and he decides how the viewer will see the game. And without fail, every single time I work with this network, the producer of that crew, regardless of what it is, is an denigrating asshole. Screaming, belittling, withholding information and being a jackass, he without fail is the definition of an abusive prick.
The guy on Sunday wasn't the worst, but he's the one that convinced me I can't do this job. My B.A. was great, although new. He treated all of us with respect. The same couldn't be said of the producer. The breaking point for me was the time he flipped out because the B.A. thought he had to tee up the score instead of Adrian Peterson's run stats, and after yelling at him to change the fucking graphic to show Peterson's numbers, he screamed, "YOU DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO SHOW!!!" All the B.A. did was talk back at a bully, and he pulled rank on him, he put him in what supposed to be was his place and state that he was above him and could break him if he wanted.
If I were in his situation, I would do what the B.A. did and apologize -- at the time. But then that incident would fester in my soul, and then I would talk back to him after the game was over. Or threaten him back. Or tell him to go fuck himself. Or spit in his face. Anything to show that I won't be knuckled under his thumb. I would probably be fired, but at that point I wouldn't care. I'd be standing up for my principles, and that is more important to me than any job.
And without needing to make that decision in the heat of the job, I think that's the way to go. Life's too short to work under abusive assholes. And maybe that's why I don't want to work. Any job you are probably going to work under an abusive asshole. So why I would submit to that shit when I could get up when I want to, do whatever the fuck I want, and not need to put up with someone putting me down? If that means I go broke or don't have the luxuries those who decide to tolerate the abuse, so be it. I consider that to be a way to maintain a good quality of life.
At the very least what happened Saturday has dissuaded me from seriously looking for a job in journalism, or at least live sporting events. I would love to be in the business, but not if it means submitted myself to bastards like this producer. And since guys like him are everywhere, not just in televising sports, that I would rather not work. So my good reason to prefer unemployment was justified.
No comments:
Post a Comment