It's my dick in a box (office)
Apr. 25th, 2008 11:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficSo I have been promoted to box, which is our theater industry jargon for box office. Our way of saying is superior to you lowly non-theater employees, for box office is two words whereas box is only one word. In the time saved by this, we hope to cure cancer. Gooooo team!
As you might've guessed, working inside box (snicker) is a good sign as I've only been working at Unnamed Major Theater Chain for two months and so having a job that is reliant on greeting people all day is superior to, say, cleaning up after people who have spilled popcorn when the show is over. The job entails of sitting on a stool, waiting for someone to want to buy tickets. As people do not always want to buy tickets, a high percentage of this time is spent A. Writing fanfic on a notepad, some of which is not even about Wonder Woman spanking Catwoman (in Wondy's defense, Selina is a very bad kitten and Diana makes sure the audience picks up on this subtle subtext) and B. Writing novel which would make a pretty good film adaptation I think, if by a studio like New Line on a Lord of the Rings sort of day ("And then the Chosen One, prophesized to lead the people out of darkness, is murderlized by a Machiavellian plot, leaving the losers to sort things out while having gay/hatesex, respectively." Oh, shut up, that's more of a plot than Pirates of the Caribbean had to go on) or C. reading Neil Gaiman whilst looking intellectual in an approachable sort of way.
The only way to really excel is in the selling of our discount cards, which are remarkably easy to sell once you realize that the primary selling point of such is not that they can lead to free movies, popcorn, and soda, but that they are free.
Me: Do you have a discount card?
Customer: No.
Me: Would you like one? It's free.
Customer: That sounds like a bargain!
Me: As long as you're filling things out, would you like to sign this waiver for me to surgically remove your kidney to sell on the black market? It's free!
Customer: Oh boy!
So, hopefully the fact that I gave away five of these self-selling cards in one shift (my sales pitch is laid down, as they say, quite flat) and have climbed the corporate ladder into a position of semi-responsibility (while still maintaining the irreverent, in-your-face attitude that scores so popular among the 13-to-35 demographic) means that I won't lose this to-be-honest-pretty-rocking job and its concordant free movies/popcorn/soda. Because let me tell you, nothing makes you feel quite as much like a winner as seeing a long line at the concession stand, punching in a code, walking right back there and getting yourself a popcorn refill without paying a dime.
But in today's top story, Baby Mama was not actually delivered today. Yes, the physical film, which we had listed that we were going to play in the newspapers and online and which Fandango was selling tickets to, was not handed into our hot little hands. Cue an afternoon spent explaining the fact that people could not see the show because we didn't have the show. And this is not one of those cases, like Nim's Island, where the show is best served by not being able to be seen. There were shenanigans and swear-words and recitations of bloody vengeance between our corporate overlords.
Manager: I have been through four corporations looking for this movie... it's in Ohio.
Me: Ohio?
Manager: Yeah. That's random.
It is the Buckeye State.
Like so many jobs, this one does tend to save the worst for last. When you just want to get home (where I can also write fanfic and read stuff... but on a computer), every little aggravation is magnified ten times. But one of my managers (there are managers, who are as unto nobility to serfs, and the Boss, who is as the Henry VIII to the nobles, only with little-to-no wife-beheading) is... uhhh.... flamboyant? Like, if your average person has a little hamster running around in a wheel to represent their mental process, this manager has a hamster covered with sprinkles and with disturbingly short jogging pants running along while lip-syncing to the Cher song playing on its simply darling iPod. He sings. I'm okay with that. Whistle while your work in all that, have a song in your heart, don't be ashamed of your singing voice, but...
But...
If it's going to be a showtune, does it have to be Andrew Lloyd Webber? And if it has to be Andrew Lloyd Webber, does it have to be Cats? And if it has to be Cats, are you sure you can't just shoot me in the head? I'm just saying, there is a limit.
Manager (who I really need to think up a clever nickname for, as I have about a half-dozen managers of distinctive level of cool): Did you know I'm in theatre?
Me: No. I did not.
Manager: Can you tell?
Me: ...a little.
Ladies and gentlemen, should you ever want to know what it is like to in a film under the Hayes Code, feel free to ask.
Manager: Do you consider the eating of oysters to be moral and the eating of snails to be immoral?
Me: ...Andrew Lloyd Webber makes anything immoral.
ETA: And my dad just sent me an e-mail, the gist of which is as follows...
"You know, if you spend any amount of time without health insurance, you will get cancer and DIE!"
Me: Well, you know, cancer can kill you despite any amount of treatment...
"Oh, not right away, you will live into your fifties in a constant torrent of pain as your body turns against you. You will probably also be bald from the radiation shot into you. Not the good, Hulk-radiation either. The radiation designed to kill you slightly less than it does the cancer. Do you want to be killed slightly less than cancer?"
As you might've guessed, working inside box (snicker) is a good sign as I've only been working at Unnamed Major Theater Chain for two months and so having a job that is reliant on greeting people all day is superior to, say, cleaning up after people who have spilled popcorn when the show is over. The job entails of sitting on a stool, waiting for someone to want to buy tickets. As people do not always want to buy tickets, a high percentage of this time is spent A. Writing fanfic on a notepad, some of which is not even about Wonder Woman spanking Catwoman (in Wondy's defense, Selina is a very bad kitten and Diana makes sure the audience picks up on this subtle subtext) and B. Writing novel which would make a pretty good film adaptation I think, if by a studio like New Line on a Lord of the Rings sort of day ("And then the Chosen One, prophesized to lead the people out of darkness, is murderlized by a Machiavellian plot, leaving the losers to sort things out while having gay/hatesex, respectively." Oh, shut up, that's more of a plot than Pirates of the Caribbean had to go on) or C. reading Neil Gaiman whilst looking intellectual in an approachable sort of way.
The only way to really excel is in the selling of our discount cards, which are remarkably easy to sell once you realize that the primary selling point of such is not that they can lead to free movies, popcorn, and soda, but that they are free.
Me: Do you have a discount card?
Customer: No.
Me: Would you like one? It's free.
Customer: That sounds like a bargain!
Me: As long as you're filling things out, would you like to sign this waiver for me to surgically remove your kidney to sell on the black market? It's free!
Customer: Oh boy!
So, hopefully the fact that I gave away five of these self-selling cards in one shift (my sales pitch is laid down, as they say, quite flat) and have climbed the corporate ladder into a position of semi-responsibility (while still maintaining the irreverent, in-your-face attitude that scores so popular among the 13-to-35 demographic) means that I won't lose this to-be-honest-pretty-rocking job and its concordant free movies/popcorn/soda. Because let me tell you, nothing makes you feel quite as much like a winner as seeing a long line at the concession stand, punching in a code, walking right back there and getting yourself a popcorn refill without paying a dime.
But in today's top story, Baby Mama was not actually delivered today. Yes, the physical film, which we had listed that we were going to play in the newspapers and online and which Fandango was selling tickets to, was not handed into our hot little hands. Cue an afternoon spent explaining the fact that people could not see the show because we didn't have the show. And this is not one of those cases, like Nim's Island, where the show is best served by not being able to be seen. There were shenanigans and swear-words and recitations of bloody vengeance between our corporate overlords.
Manager: I have been through four corporations looking for this movie... it's in Ohio.
Me: Ohio?
Manager: Yeah. That's random.
It is the Buckeye State.
Like so many jobs, this one does tend to save the worst for last. When you just want to get home (where I can also write fanfic and read stuff... but on a computer), every little aggravation is magnified ten times. But one of my managers (there are managers, who are as unto nobility to serfs, and the Boss, who is as the Henry VIII to the nobles, only with little-to-no wife-beheading) is... uhhh.... flamboyant? Like, if your average person has a little hamster running around in a wheel to represent their mental process, this manager has a hamster covered with sprinkles and with disturbingly short jogging pants running along while lip-syncing to the Cher song playing on its simply darling iPod. He sings. I'm okay with that. Whistle while your work in all that, have a song in your heart, don't be ashamed of your singing voice, but...
But...
If it's going to be a showtune, does it have to be Andrew Lloyd Webber? And if it has to be Andrew Lloyd Webber, does it have to be Cats? And if it has to be Cats, are you sure you can't just shoot me in the head? I'm just saying, there is a limit.
Manager (who I really need to think up a clever nickname for, as I have about a half-dozen managers of distinctive level of cool): Did you know I'm in theatre?
Me: No. I did not.
Manager: Can you tell?
Me: ...a little.
Ladies and gentlemen, should you ever want to know what it is like to in a film under the Hayes Code, feel free to ask.
Manager: Do you consider the eating of oysters to be moral and the eating of snails to be immoral?
Me: ...Andrew Lloyd Webber makes anything immoral.
ETA: And my dad just sent me an e-mail, the gist of which is as follows...
"You know, if you spend any amount of time without health insurance, you will get cancer and DIE!"
Me: Well, you know, cancer can kill you despite any amount of treatment...
"Oh, not right away, you will live into your fifties in a constant torrent of pain as your body turns against you. You will probably also be bald from the radiation shot into you. Not the good, Hulk-radiation either. The radiation designed to kill you slightly less than it does the cancer. Do you want to be killed slightly less than cancer?"
