Job
(page 5)
Willie: You can't vote, ALF , you're not a citizen.
ALF: I'll apply for a green card.
Willie: That's only if you want a job.
ALF: Pass.
[pause]
ALF: I know, I'll marry Lynn. Become a citizen, vote, then drop her of like a hot potato.
Willie: ALF...
ALF: Sure it will be hard on her first. She'll cry, drink a little too much. Join with a bongo player named Waquine.
Willie: ALF.
ALF: You'd like Waquine, he doesn't like beets.
Willie: Neither you or Waquine may marry my daughter and you may not vote.
ALF: Fine. I have not voice in government, Waquine will get deported, and they'll make him eat beets.
Willie: How many cups of coffee have you had?
ALF: Forty. Why?
When I was 16, I had a job on the cleaning crew at a local hospital. I wore a pink uniform and cleaned bathrooms and buffed the hallway linoleum. Oddly, I don't recall hating the job. I recall getting choked up at the end of the summer when I went to turn in my uniform and say goodbye to the ladies.
I'd love to write a book and dabble in TV a little more — but only if it's right. I'm not going to go out there and beg anyone for a job.
The U.S. Military is us. There is no truer representation of a country than the people that it sends into the field to fight for it. The people who wear our uniform and carry our rifles into combat are our kids, and our job is to support them, because they're protecting us.
In '57, I got a job at the Blue Angel nightclub, and a gentleman named Ken Welch wrote all my material for me. I lived at a place called the Rehearsal Club that was actually the basis for a play called Stage Door.
Whenever things go a bit sour in a job I'm doing, I always tell myself, 'You can do better than this'.
The conventional view serves to protect us from the painful job of thinking.
All paid jobs absorb and degrade the mind.
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