By Emily Jean
The final question on the application reads, “Why do you want to work at Summer Camp?” Nearly everyone writes some cliché bullshit along the lines of “Camp is my home away from home” or “I really want to embrace and explore my Jewish roots.” That’s the sort of sappy crap the directors look for during the hiring process. Each summer, they employ a staff of us ranging from seventeen to thirty – everyone on the verge of futureless and bringing the single-and-ready-to-mingle mentality of a sexually desperate high schooler. So let’s be honest here. If we were all to answer that question truthfully, we would collectively type: Continue reading
By Sydney Maier
Once upon a time, there was an average millennial living an average millennial post-grad life. Like other average millennials, she was grossly underpaid, completely unaided by her singular worthless degree, and struggling to feel of any value to herself or the world. (Like the average millennial, she believed the world should find her important and felt slighted by her own smallness.) She, like others, became exceedingly familiar with the 3am shame spiral.
For the above-average millennials who are blissfully unaware, the 3am shame spiral actually begins with the descent around midnight when you realize there are no clean dishes and you’re a failure of an adult. Continue reading
By Emily Jean
The other day I fell in love with a dress I knew I couldn’t afford on one of the overwhelmingly delicious racks at Urban Outfitters. And after experiencing the back and forth battles of joy versus angst and I-Cant-Live-Without-This versus Broke-Ass-College-Kid, I realized that the dress represented more than just floral, cotton, and my entire paycheck. It represented a Friday night on a beautiful peninsula in Middle-of-Nowhere, MO. The dress represented too many posey photographs taken in front of the mural outside the dining hall, hairy Shabbos chicken and dry chocolate cake, checking for daddy long legs on the chapel benches at services before returning to sitting after the Mourner’s Kaddish, and lots and lots of clapping, dancing, and cheering out random words in Yiddish. Camp’s Shabbat was all up in that dress, because plainly and simply, thoughts of camp are always all up in my mind.
By Sydney Maier
It was mid-February. I spent a few minutes trying to decide whether I was dying of heat stroke from the noon day sun pressing right in my face, or simply from boredom.
I had, as always, completed my day’s worth of tasks in about seven minutes: check the messages (none); check my email (none); take the ‘closed’ sign off the door. Each hour was a week, which meant today was five weeks long. The thought was exhausting. Continue reading
By Christopher J. Cannon
The sweat started early that night. It must have been the multiple shots we slammed minutes before we went on. Feeling the moisture drip down my back and slowly work its way down my very cute bubble butt always took my mind off of what I was doing, but I hated being sweaty on stage. It was hot that night, and the 900 middle-aged, screaming drunk women chanting, “PENIS! PENIS! PENIS!” only made it hotter. I loved my job, but the one hundred year old theater somewhere in the middle of Canada didn’t have air conditioning, no surprise, and I was starting to regret my fourth tequila shot I had slammed before going out on stage.
Too late now. Continue reading
By Lirot Comma Brian
I glide across the rainy road as the darkness turns grey. A regretful high-pitched tone beats the drums of my ear due to the trials and tribulations of the recent hours past. I cannot go into work without a shower…no way. I fold down the passenger side sun visor to see my brown hair laying above my greasy forehead in clumps.
Six hours slide by, and just like that, the adventure’s over. As soon as David pulls into the driveway of my parents’ house, I swing the door open before he can get the chance to park.
“Thanks for doing that, Mike.” David hollers as I grab my backpack from the trunk.
“Anytime homie.” I respond as I speed walk up to the garage door. “I’m always down for whatever.” Continue reading
By Brandon Patrick
It’s 12:45 on a random Tuesday, and I’m taking one of my extended lunch breaks. My boss doesn’t have a clue what I’m doing. My job is entirely dependent on my own effort, and right now, I’m putting none in. I’m currently in the parking lot of a shopping mall getting a mediocre blow job; I’m technically being paid for this. According to my title, I’m a Junior Account Executive, but if you followed me around for a day, you’d see that I’m a salesman (and a shitty one at that). I sell cell phones door to door at businesses for the 4th largest cell phone provider in North America. I’m very bad at my job. Continue reading
By Lirot Comma Brian
Everyone seems to be a little shell-shocked after the past winter, but since the Midwest began to boil, my loving locks lack practicality. I didn’t cut my hair while studying Art & Design this year in downtown Chicago, but now that I’m back in the west suburbs, I can’t walk around looking like a fuckin’ hippie…or so my parents say. Oh the irony…
“Have any summer plans yet?” the European barber says under her thick accent. Why does she always think I want to talk to her?
“No not yet, I’ve had a couple interviews since I got home from school, but I haven’t heard anything back yet.” I reply while a couple hair follicles fall into my mouth. Continue reading
By Grant Robbin
Hang on Sloopy. We’re going on a magical mystery tour. The 60’s. New York City. Greenwich Village. A kaleidoscope of sights, sounds and smells. A psychedelic happening! Everyone Peter Maxed out in bell bottoms, platform shoes and long sideburns (mostly the guys). The scent of weed and body odor blowin’ in the wind on MacDougal Street.
The Village is Grand Central Station for all kinds of performers – musicians, singers, actors, comics. Many famous, more desperately trying to be. Among the chosen: Jimmy Hendrix, Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, Richard Pryor, etc. They performed in clubs like The Bitter End, The Village Gate and Gerdes Folk City, and they hung out in the Village between gigs and tours. Continue reading
By Grant Robbin
“Have your agent call us!” All too familiar words to any struggling actor or performer trying to get a gig. Yes, there are open calls, but most of the juicy jobs require an agent to tout your unbelievable talents. Without an agent, you’re nobody. With an agent, you’re somebody! Somebody people should pay attention to.
Backstory. When I was in college, a little after The Holy Wars, there was a draft. No, you twenty-somethings, I don’t mean a cold blast of air. I’m talking about Vietnam and the opportunity to die for your country for no good reason at all, and, guess what, you didn’t need an agent, and you get to play a soldier. Awesome! (I never use this word in real life, but I’m trying to connect.)
So, there I was, standing in line with dozens of other young “hopefuls,” naked, as a cold hand clenched my testicles, and I was told to cough. Continue reading