The Corporati

My first "real" post KFC restaurant gig was bussing tables during lunches at a trendy Vancouver eatery in the very very early 1980's. The restaurant was in the heart of the business district, so our clientele tended to the corporate.

I even cleared the plate of a sitting Prime Minister on the campaign trail.

Back in those days, the culture was more "Mad Men" than the antisocial deadeyed vortex of expensive bleakness that could all disappear in the blink of a stock decline. The expense account was king, the writeoffs numerous and unquestioned and things were only going to get better and better.

There was no global warming, terrorism was a car bomb going off in some place you'd never heard of, and stopping pollution meant throwing your garbage in the bin.

In the late 90's I found myself in Toronto, again serving lunches to those who had put all their eggs in the corporate basket. Gone were the expense accounts for the average, and their seemed to be a lot of talk about "groups" and "teams".

Gone were the easy pensions, the free golf club memberships, and the generous mileage allowances. Mostly it was replaced by the desperate eyes of people who knew that their fake little house of cards could disappear in a blink.

And all these years later, nothing has changed, though it is just more blatant. And accepted. Your corporate master exists only to please shareholders and provide outrageous rewards to the elites within for pleasing the shareholders.

Sadly, every loser with a cubicle and a nametag thinks that they can be Conrad Black, but I'm telling you, "it ain't necessarily so".

Tonight we had a crew from some brainwashing seminar come in, the tail end of some pathetic attempt to rally Nuremburg that ends with a lost key to an Econolodge room. When I see groups like this I think we should stock Kool Aid. Then I laugh to my self, realising that they gulped it down long ago.

Retirement? Stocks? Golf Club memberships? Not my scene.

Yeah, I may not have much in this world, I may be angry, and I may be fucked up, but I am going to live my life now.

Yes, I may drop dead when I'm sixty five (probably a best case scenario), but as you see the garbage truck lift my lifeless body in some Orwellian recycle bin that will crush me down to Soylent Green pull away into the distance I would hope that you would think to yourself " well, at least he lived his life a bit".

And I would hope to be able to say the same about you.

I would also hope that you would secretly wish that you could taste a little bit of me after I was turned into Soylent Green, but that is a whole 'nother post.

OK, now I am freaking myself out.

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