We're back! now with more RAGE

I got my evaluation from work a few days ago and under the categories of “Fun” and “Friendly” I was given “unsatisfactory.”

Let’s back that up for a second.

I received a document that had been milled over by a team of managers, approved of by corporate, and then ratified by the human resources department to be used as part of my official transcript.

And all of those people, all those many hands that tainted that document, agreed that I, Max, was neither “fun” nor “friendly.”

“It’s not that you’re doing a bad job,” My boss said. “ You just look like you hate what you’re doing. All the time.”

She said this last part with a bit of an upward inflection, waiting for me to correct her. But I couldn’t really. I merely grunted and signed the bottom of the paper – making sure to make my handwriting devoid of any sort of “flourish” that might shatter my un-fun and hostile demeanor.

The truth is, smiling here seems to be out of the realm of possibilities. Since my last post one billion years ago not much has changed, except the huge fact that I graduated from an esteemed university with a degree that’s about as useful as a box of hair. I might as well have majored in Macramé or Rhythmic Gymnastics. At least then I could’ve impressed people at cocktail parties if you gave me a hoop and maybe a ribbon or two. I essentially majored in a hobby; the one variable skill I learned being how to play “make believe,” which I obviously haven’t mastered because I can never “make believe” like I enjoy serving expensive seafood dishes to Europeans.

To break it down, I graduated as a drama major in New York City which means one of two things – you either become of the 10 people in every graduating class to strike gold right out of college, or you become the hoards of other people who actively hates those ten. Considering I’ve been told continuous times throughout my education that I wouldn’t work until I was 30 (thanks guys) I wasn’t expecting much, but I have to say I was still pretty pissed off when I wasn’t immediately handed a Broadway contract (or at least a photo shoot with world renowned photographer Gil Bensimone and the title of America’s Next Top Model.) Instead I was given a free visit to Bobst library, a bundle of student loans, and a phone call demanding a donation to the Tisch Fund (NEVER.)

So I did what every other person in my situation does – I got a job at a restaurant. Oops I’m a cliché.

So back to my evaluation. It also included some suggestions on how I could improve my lackluster performance at said restaurant job:

“Max needs to physically walk faster on the floor.”

This I can only imagine is a jab at my weight and overall un-athletic appearance at work, considering my uniform’s blousy shirt creates an effect on my body that one can only describe as “doughy.” My entire restaurant seems to be staffed with meticulously attractive and fit people, while I personally hold down the fort for the “Average Joe” kind of guys – the kind of guys that are employed so dwarves and manatees won’t feel out of place when they choose to dine out for the evening. And last time I checked, neither dwarves nor manatees have the capability to walk swiftly. In fact, manatees can’t even walk on land, so I don’t know where this request to ‘walk faster” comes from if I’m clearly hired for non-attractive diversity purposes.

“He should smile more.”

This probably goes back to the “fun” and “friendly” thing. The problem here is -I don’t smile. It’s just not a thing I do, nor is it a thing most people in my family ever do. My uncle would rather be shot dead than smile for a picture and my mother tends to be wary around people that are “too happy.”

“What, does she have a feather up her ass or something?” she’d often say, scoffing at a group of elementary school girls giggling on the sidewalk.

So this is out of the question.

“But you’re an actor,” my manager says, “you could at least act like you’re having a good time.”

This here is the conundrum. To anyone in the restaurant world, I’m an “actor,” i.e. an obnoxious pest that keeps requesting time off for “rehearsals” and “performances” or missing shifts for “auditions.” To anyone in the theater world, I essentially work in restaurant; not having effectively secured a paying job in the theater world post-graduation that doesn’t involve wearing piggy ears (to be fair, that was for the purpose of a joke, that pig show will kick ass.) But this in between is frustrating, and it seems to be my life so far to fall through the crack.

“You’re not handsome enough to be a leading man, but you’re not ugly enough to be a character actor” say countless agents who ultimately reject me. This is always my favorite statement mostly because every time, the person speaking delivers it with a certain sense of revelation, as if they are the only person to ever come to this conclusion. It’s also my favorite because every person seems to disregard the fact that it is both offensive and useless all at the same time. “It’s the weirdest thing with you. Maybe when you’re 30?”

Great. So there’s that. That’s the update. Other than that I’ve been writing a lot, primarily things that involve amputees and rabid gazelles that not even fringe companies want to produce, and worrying a lot about my hair loss (it’s growing back!). Oh and selling people crab. Lots and lots of crab. It’s out top seller, don’t ya know.

But when I’m really famous, my memoirs are gonna kick ass, right?

-Max