Somebody asked me if maybe some of the stupid things I’ve done — and written about — may be hurting my chances of finding a steady paycheck. I’m not advocating being dumb, but I think goofy things happen to just about every type of person. If an employer doesn’t want to hire me and needs a few more reasons, here they are:
My first tattoo
I wanted to show my college buddies how tough I was, so I walked to the closest tattoo parlor to get inked up. I picked out the hardest of hardcore icons: Darth Vader. Then I decided to put it on the outside of my calf, because I thought it wouldn’t hurt as much.
The artist’s name was Sketch, and he had the word “PAIN” tattooed across his neck. He oozed toughness. He also weighed about 300 pounds. While the tattoo didn’t hurt, the big fella leaning on my knee made me think he’d snap my joint in half. I didn’t want to look like a wimp, but after an hour, I finally gave up. When I told him about my knee, he jumped up and said, “Why didn’t you tell me? That had to hurt like hell!”
High school sports
If only I didn’t suck at football, people from my hometown high school wouldn’t remember me as “the guy who sucked at football.” Just kidding, nobody from my high school remembers me.
Friend: You’ve finished three novels and a screenplay! Wow! How cool! So you’re just waiting to hear back from agents and editors?
KC: Actually, I haven’t submitted them yet.
Friend: How do you expect anybody to ever see them if you don’t submit them? That’s stupid.
KC: I know.
I thought “The Wrestler” was a comedy, so I took a date to see it. Hey, I thought a movie about a washed-up Hulk Hogan would be hilarious! Also, I thought “Gone Girl” was a romantic comedy. It was about Ben Affleck pissing off his girlfriend, so how does that not sound like a satire about every minute of Ben’s life?
A behemoth with a buzzcut sat next to me at a bar once and asked, “Did you serve?”
I nodded, “Yep. At Catacombs and Conor O’Neill’s for a while. Most of the time at the Foundry. But I worked as a waiter for a while in New York.”
“No, dumbass, did you serve in the military? I see you’ve got dog tags.”
Shrinking and smiling sheepishly, I brought up the things hanging from my chain. “No. Um. That’s my medical alert necklace. I’m an epileptic. But I’m guessing you served, so thank you for your REAL service.”
“You’re welcome. Dumbass.”
Then we took a lot of shots together and became temporary best friends.