(Temporarily) Unemployed

Where I've Been

2006-09-23T16:56:00.000-05:00

In the interest of cutting to the chase, I'll have out with it: I got a job as a copy editor for a group of small magazines based in southeastern Connecticut.

I started on Tuesday.

The office is 40 miles from my house, but my route takes me mostly along the Merritt Parkway, which is a thoroughfare that is notoriously susceptible to delays, jams, and accidents. Depending on when I leave my house and whether traffic is flowing smoothly, the commute can range from 45 minutes to an hour-and-a-half.

It's a small office--there are five other people that work in this particular location (an editor, an editorial assistant, two production people, and a sales guy). There's no dress code in the office, and, like most publications I've worked for, salty language flows freely (not that I've allowed myself to curse a blue streak just yet).

The magazines are essentially internet and electronic media trade publications. I (obviously) won't name them here, but a typical article in one of the magazines might describe an emerging internet technology and provide instruction on how to incorporate this technology into one's internet-based business.

Two of the magazines I'm working for are produced in the office I work out of. Two others are produced in Madison, Wisconsin. My responsibilities are essentially to edit every article that will be published in each of the magazines for grammar, syntax and overall clarity. The work has thus far involved referring often to the AP Style Guide and The Elements of Style, doing a little layout work in Quark (the younger cousin of the PageMaker software we used at the Herald), and asking lots of style- and substance-related questions of my editor (the learning curve has been fairly steep in regards to the technical ins and outs of the software/technology/online media world).

My sense at this point is that this is an excellent opportunity. I don't necessarily see myself working in electronic media trade publications for the rest of my life, but I can certainly see myself working in some corner of the publishing industry. The real-world editorial experience I'll gain after just a few months at this job could (and should) bolster my resume enough to allow me to move up in the world. I'm essentially learning a trade, and the skills that I'll gain from this job could open a lot of doors.

But better not to count any of those chickens before they're hatched, of course.

Anyway, that's where I'm at.

In terms of the future, I'm planning to make a plan soon. It's still early fall, so I'm thinking I've still got time to apply for graduate programs for next year. (I almost certainly won't apply to law school; I'm thinking more along the lines of a short-term graduate degree in English or writing.) Also, I'm thinking very seriously about teaching for a while. Probably not Teach for America (I don't know that I can handle the two-year commitment). But perhaps a Dead Poets Society-type gig at some idyllic New England prep school. I'm sure I'd feel a few pangs of guilt (about the whole privilege perpetuating privilege thing--not that my upbringing was all the precious), but I'd just look at that kind of gig as a springboard into a more civic-minded career.

Surprisingly (or not), my state of mind is almost as turbulent now as it was back in the dark days of real unemployment. So I imagine this chronicle will be as angsty as ever. If not, hopefully it'll be just angsty enough to sustain your interest.

Until next time, friends. I've missed you.

Coming Soon...

2006-09-15T12:33:00.000-05:00

...the return of (Temporarily) Unemployed.

A lot has happened over the past couple of months, and I fully intend to bring this chronicle up to speed on all that has gone on.

I've been grateful for the break from blogging in many respects. Spending a lot of time writing about how feckless my existence has been had the unitended consequence of miring me even deeper in self-pity and hopelessness. Without this blog as a crutch, the need to evolve became much more urgent. Granted, it took a full two months to right myself, but at last I can say that I've done it (more on the specifics in the next post--I'm not going to New York or Boston or Oregon, but I will be doing something stimulating and hopefully fulfilling for 37.5 hours per week).

There have been things that I've missed about keeping this record. I've longed for the sense of personal connection that comes with knowing that there are a few people out there who are mildly interested in reading about my comings and goings. There's a good chance that I'll never write something that gets published, but in whatever small way this blog has resembled the experience of being a real live author, I've enjoyed it.

Just to be a shameless tease, here are some of the events/topics of the past two months that I hope to recount in coming posts:
-The dental magazine debacle
-Marathon (4+ hour!) interviews in NYC that went nowhere
-Applying for a job as a travelling textbook salesman in Kansas City
-A pseudo(?) health crisis
-How I couldn't even get a second interview at the MIT Press
-How I almost went to work for a law firm
-How I'm going to ditch Kaplan for a second time
-What I want to be doing a year from now
-And MUCH MORE! (Shameless)

I'm going to make a few calls and text messages tonight, and over the next few days I hope be back on a regular writing schedule. (If for now other reason than to keep the pen and the wit sharp.)

Thanks for having me back. I've missed you.

On hiatus

2006-07-12T00:25:00.000-05:00

I've come to a point where I need to take a little time to work some things out on my own. I've been on a steady decline over the past month, and I need to refocus my energy on the business at hand: getting a life. I've spent too long being bogged down in my present circumstances (and I've spent too much time writing about them). Somewhere along the line a big chunk of my former identity got swallowed up by this pathetic new identity with its myopic self-pitying worldview. I think this blog has been a little too effective in encouraging those unhealthy attitudes. So it's time for a break.

(In case you were wondering, I won't be taking the dental magazine job because I didn't get it--which I think is a good thing.)

So I'll be going now. I'll be back when I've reclaimed a little dignity. Promise.

Until then, if you want to know what I'm up to, send me an email or give me a call.

I leave you (for now) with a few appropriate stanzas from my old pal Elizabeth Bishop:

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster;
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Oregon Trail

2006-07-11T09:50:00.000-05:00

Last night, the Pacific Ocean got a little (or maybe a lot) closer.

I was out with my friend Dave (a buddy since the third grade) and thought I'd ask him, just for kicks, if he would want to move out to Oregon. He's been living at home since December (he was working at a Whole Foods in Boston after he graduated, but quit because he couldn't stand the condescending customers). I thought for sure he'd say he would but couldn't afford to move out, or that he plain wasn't interested.

Instead he said, "You know, just this weekend, Leslie told me that she wished I'd move out there."

Leslie is Dave's ex-girlfriend, but they've maintained a close friendship. She's been working in Boston since she graduated from college two years ago. In September, she's starting a Ph.D. program in psychology at the University of Oregon in Eugene.

"Leslie wants you to move to Eugene with her?" I asked.

He said, "Yeah, well she said she thinks I'd really like it out there. I'd consider it, but I wouldn't want to move out as a couple. So, actually, this sounds like something that might work out pretty well."

Hmm. I never imagine that all of these competing interests (Dave's, Leslie's, mine) would fit together so efficiently.

After I dropped Dave off, I went home and did a little Craigsresearch. A nice two-bedroom in Eugene can go for around 800, which is what I was planning to spend for a one-bedroom in New Haven. On the job front (a topic that always makes me nervous), Eugene is home (obviously) to the University of Oregon and all of the job opportunities that a large research university has to offer. It's also an hour away from the city of Corvallis, which is where Oregon State University and its attending job opportunities are located. And, if worse comes to worst, there are plenty of restaurants, bookstores, coffee shops and even a Kaplan center where I should be able to find some source of income (oddly enough, I meet the qualifications to teach a Kaplan LSAT course).

I was feeling pretty good about this plan until I went to bed. I tossed for a while, dreamed a few fitful dreams, and woke up in a panic around five. All I could think of was that yawning gulf of America between the Atlantic and the Pacific. Everything I know is in a little corner on one side. Between here and there are the daunting obstacles of a two hundred dollar plane ticket or a four(!)-day drive.

Needless to say, I've got some (more, ad nauseum) soul searching to do over the next couple of days. Plus, Dave and I have to pow wow.

Ah, one more thing: apparently William and Mary is well-known for being whoreish with their fee waivers. They flash those things all over town.

A few developments, briefly

2006-07-10T15:25:00.000-05:00

Just got back from my *third* interview at the dental magazine, and I still don't have an offer from them.

They'd asked me back to retake part of the proofreading test (curious) and because the head of the magazine (the one doing the hiring) wanted me to assure her that I would devote myself to this job for the fairly long-term ("several years" was how she put it). They're worried that I'll leave to go to law school in six months (which I assured her wasn't possible). She said that, given the amount of energy it takes to train someone and acclimate them to the work done at the magazine, they want someone who's committed, someone who might want to make a career at this particular publication. You can probably imagine how I feel about that.

She said she'd call me tomorrow to let me know one way or the other.

All the way home I was thinking about taking that westward road trip. Quite frankly, I'm god-awfully scared of it (would I be able to find a place to live and a job to pay the rent?; what if I get hurt or sick or what if something happens to the car?; what if I get there and I'm incredibly lonely?). But maybe it's time to do something I'm god-awfully scared of doing. (Anyone reading this want to move out to Oregon?)

Today's other minor developement was that I got my first bit of correspondence from a law school. (I signed up for the referral service--LSAC gives out my address, undergraduate institution and LSAT score to schools and they send me informative literature if they're so inclined.) This bit of correspondece was an email from William and Mary letting me know that if I chose to apply to their law school the application fee would be waived (i.e., they're enticing me to apply by making it free). That pepped me up a bit. If I do decide to do the law school thing, a little flattery (and money) will probably go a long way. (It's nice to know that someone thinks I'm at least moderately qualified for *something*).

Two roads diverged

2006-07-06T14:33:00.000-05:00

It's been a while since I've posted because I've been taking some time to think about what my next step is going to be. In particular, I've been thinking about some of the comments and suggestions I've received from people who read this blog.

I've spent plenty of time on these pages making excuses for why things are the way they are, and how they're not actually as bad as I make them out to be. But today is not the day for excuses. I hold myself fully and solely accountable for the decisions I've made, and I accept as inevitable those things that are out of my control.

At this point, all of my bases are covered: if I'm going to apply to law school or grad school, all I've got to do is apply. If I decide to move out, all I've got to do is pack up and put some gas in the tank. If I decide to take a job around here, I could get myself an apartment within the week.

By early next week, I expect to hear from the dental laboratory magazine. If I don't get it, my decision is made for me--I'll get it the car, drive west, stop when I hit water, get a job at a coffee shop or a bookstore, get a cheap apartment and...live.

If I do get this magazine job, I'll have a decision to make: take it or leave it. The argument for taking it at this point might be a little more convincing: it'd be good money and good experience. I don't have to make any long term commitments; I could leave after a year (or even less) and almost certainly still have enough freedom to move across the country (I don't intend to have any kids at this point next year).

Maybe the lesson to learn at this point is to stop seeing myself in terms of the things that I can't do. Some of those things are things I can't change (i.e., I don't have the grades or the scores to get into a good law school, I don't have the talent or experience or personality to get a good job in publishing). Some of them are defense mechanisms brought on by fear (i.e., I don't have the natural ability to be a good writer, I don't have the courage to move out and go somewhere far away). If I apply to good jobs or good law schools with a measure of confidence and without regard to my credentials, maybe I'll get lucky (it worked for undergrad) and maybe I won't. If I write or move out (and just do it) maybe something good will happen.

I can't really say whether I want this last job to work out or not. My sensible, rational side thinks there's still plenty of time to do something drastic and still plenty of opportunity to grow up while I'm living around here. My frustrated, ambitious side thinks it's time to listen to what it (and others) have been saying for a long time.

One of the most misguided things a person can do to himself is make promises. Like, "I promise that if I take this job I'll quit in a year and then I'll move away and won't look back until I've made something of myself." I've heard lots of stories of whole lives turning on single decisions. I don't want to be editing press releases about dentures and crowns twenty-five years from now. I just want what everybody wants--A little happiness (and somebody to share it with).

It's a long way down

2006-06-30T00:00:00.000-05:00

Major developments today. None of them good.

This morning I drove out to Monroe for my second interview at the dental magazine. I was ten minutes late, but they didn't seem to mind (I called to let them know I'd gotten caught in a traffic snag on the highway). I met with the editor and the senior editor (my last interview was with the president and the managing editor). The interview took the form of a pleasant discussion and a series of what I hoped were amusing anecdotes--I talked about working in Toledo, editing at the Herald, my career ambitions (or lack thereof). I thought I was effective at ingratiating myself to these women, and if I wasn't already a shoo-in for the gig, I must have been at this point. I ended by asking when they expected to make their decision (half-assuming that they'd tell me right then that they'd want to hire me), and they said that, well, they had a few more interviews next week, so I should probably hear by the week of the 10th. Two weeks from now. I was crestfallen. Here I was, thinking I'd come out for a pre-offer-of-employment formality, and I come to find out that they've got several more interviews and that I won't get an answer for at least eleven days. I was told that I was at the top of the list. I was told that they knew who they were looking for when they saw him. And I'm only lukewarm on this job! What went wrong?

Flash forward a few hours to the daily ritual of mail-getting at my father's North Haven residence. I'm generally hoping for one of my magazine subscriptions to come in, or maybe a piece of informative literature from a graduate program. Today I find a letter addressed to me from the Yale you know what. I paused upon discovering it--why would they be sending me a letter? I speculated without really speculating (maybe they're extending an offer in writing, how quaint!) as I tore through the envelope. What I found inside was an exceptionally polite letter from the marketing director (the woman who I spent the bulk of my morning at the Press talking to, the one whose daughter was my supervisor a few summers ago) informing me that they'd found someone whose "experience was better suited to their needs." The phrase puzzled me--it had been nearly, what?, a week since last I'd seen those words arranged in that order.

A step back for a moment: In recent weeks, I've been actively trying to take note of my emotional reactions to various situations. I'm drafting an emotional map of myself. What I observed myself feeling after reading this latest rejection letter was anger. Looking back at posts in recent weeks, I find that anger is a common emotional thread, at least in my employment adventures. It was fury I felt upon receiving the demure email from the editor at Time Warner (or was it a wholly-owned subsidiary?). It was rage that washed over me when less than 48 hours after my chat with the literary agent in Manhattan who had sought me out I was informed that someone more qualified and more interesting and more better had been hired. And here again was that old familiar anger. Looking at these responses objectively, I can't say that I think they're very healthy. Isn't it probably true that all that anger is misdirected outwardly? Isn't it easier to get mad at the world than it is to look inward and identify flaws and actually attempt to correct them?

The saddest part of all (when I make the effort to nudge anger out of the way for a moment) is that I've been walking around all week as though I was already employed at the press. Getting the call from them last week was about the biggest victory I've had in this miserable war since it began. Interviewing in New York was exciting, but none of those jobs ever felt truly viable. But a morning worth of interviews at my own university's press, now that felt like it could go somewhere. In fact, it felt like it should go somewhere. They knew my story--the months of fruitless searching, the nearly-trampled spirit. Wasn't it the obligation of the institution that chewed me up and spit me out thirteen unlucky months ago to make good on its promise to open a few doors for me? Here I was with my English degree and my writing samples and my timely submission of my homework. It was in the bag, and I spent the week strutting around like a member of that exclusive club called the publishing industry. Christ, I'd practically picked a futon for my new i'm-so-special-i-work-for-the-YUP apartment.

But like every bubble that I've allowed to inflate beyond any reasonable proportions, this one was vaporized (with a few polite sentences on a piece of cream-colored stationary). The letter was dated on Tuesday, a full two days before what they told me would be the earliest day on which the department would be able to confer about potential candidates. The unkindest cut of of all.

So, that was that. Out of today's news comes my current conundrum: I've obliged to wait out this other job (which I wasn't all that stoked about until it became apparent that it's the best thing within my grasp that's come along since I moronically turned my back on that Edith Wharton job last September) for almost two weeks, and pray that it works out cause if it doesn't it's probably time to load up the shotgun and move out to Ketchum (only kidding).

Speaking of failure, these latest episodes have seriously called into question my desire to pursue a career in writing. Having lived a life of constant rejection lo these many months, I can't imagine willfully prolonging this kind of lifestyle for much longer. Thus far, I haven't been able to land a job anywhere near the field of writing. How much faster will those rejections fly at me when (and if) I actually attempt to get something published? And how much worse will I feel when it's not just my "skills and experience" that don't measure up, but my thoughts and my feelings and the ways that I express them. I don't even want to think about it.

Oh right, there was one more tiny little newsworthy event on this fine penultimate June day. I got my LSAT score. It's a little more than halfway between my version of bad and my version of good. It probably means no Duke, Penn, Georgetown, or, sadly, Michigan. But BC, GW, USC and Cornell might be within reach. Listen to me with this namedropping. Where do I find the gall to be so pompous? Especially in light of my abject inability to--well, do anything, really.

Limbo once again

2006-06-28T23:23:00.000-05:00

Yeah, it's been a while. Again. I'm at a loss for a substantive explanation, other than that I've once again found myself in one of those pre-employment offer limbos.

I had three interviews last week. One at the dental magazine. One at a literary agency in New York. And one at a publishing house on the campus of my alma mater. (I'd rather not put myself in jeopardy by mentioning its name--but it's a university press in New Haven. Needless to say, I'm ecstatic about the possibility of working there.)

The dental magazine, as I might have mentioned, seemed interested in hiring me. I've got a second interview tomorrow (today at this point) during which I hope to get an offer.

The literary agency got back to me within a day with the wholly unsurprising news that they didn't want to hire me.

Then there's the YUP. My interview last Thursday began with a 9:30 a.m. proofreading test at the human resources building on campus (separate from the Press offices). I was done by 10 and headed over to the YUP offices to meet the director of marketing (the position I applied to was called 'marketing assistant'). I did my best imitation of a charming, intelligent, capable would-be YUP employee. At one point we stumbled upon the realization that I had spent a summer working under the supervision of this woman's daughter at another university facility. After 30 or 45 minutes, I left to speak with two other members of the department under whose auspices the new assistant would find him- or herself (does that make sense?). Then I met with a young woman who recently vacated the currently vacant position. At the end of this series of meetings, I was given a take-home assignment (produce a mock newsletter, in accordance with a template that I'd be using if I got the job). And I was asked to provide a few references and writing samples. By noon of the next day, all my homework was submitted. I'm supposed to get their decision by the end of this week.

I'll probably get the dental magazine job tomorrow. I'd really like to get the job at the press. Like, a lot. The work would be good; it's a top-notch operation; it'd be good experience; the money is very good; the work is relevant to my interests (yeah, that's a jab at the dental mag job). I'd put my chances at 50-50. That figure is based on nothing but arbitrary speculation, and the fact that I was told of at least one other scheduled interview.

You know what will probably happen? I probably won't get an offer from either of these places. That outcome is much more in line with my recent job-hunting history. How can we forget the lost month of Febrary 2006, when I loafed around and twiddled my thumbs as my first day of Kaplan training approached, only to find out that the training was being put off for another month? Or all those weeks in November 2005 when I waited to hear back from the editors at Food & Wine?

Perfect world: Get both jobs and turn one down. My world: Get neither, take another month off to hate myself, and start all over in August.

I should probably be writing more. I hope I've just been distracted by this job offer lag time and the impending arrival of my LSAT score.

By writing I don't mean blogging. To be honest, I don't think I'm going to get any better as a writer by relying on this that you're reading to keep my wit sharp and limber. Blogging is much more akin to diary writing than it is to memoir or essay writing--I don't think that David Sedaris sits down and spends all day writing about the lousy things that happened to him the day before. Actually, I think that might be exactly what he does...

Well, one clue that I'm doing something wrong is that I still get caught up on about five words in every New Yorker article I read--words that I recognize but can't quite define and wouldn't have readily available for use in my own writing. For example, today's words included: recalcitrant; assiduously; oblique; and a couple of others that I can't remember. Not difficult words, but words whose meaning I've got only a vague notion of, and that wouldn't roll off my fingertips even in appropriate contexts. I want a concrete notion of words like that, and I want to be able to use them without any special effort. Step one toward that goal is reading more. Step two is writing more.

I'll be sure to update the blog as soon as any new news comes in about either of these prospects. Stuff to look forward to this weekend, other than potentially getting a job (and, hence, a life): two graduation parties (one with open bar), LSAT scores, family reunion/hot dog bonanza.

Back from No Chance Land

2006-06-20T20:23:00.000-05:00

When last we left our hero he was tossing the night away on his damp childhood bed in his dirty laundry-strewn childhood bedroom, hyped-up as he was for his third (charmed?) interview on the island of Manhattan.

A chronology:

7:30 - Alarm, shower (ahem).
8:50 - Train leaves without me.
9:29 - Last best hope. It'll be a squeaker.
11:10 - Metro-North touches down at Grand Central Terminal.
11:11-11:15 - A frenzied rush to a Brooklyn BRIDGE-bound 6 train.
11:20 - Ascent from the sultry depths onto the dingily glistening corner of Park Avenue and 23rd Street.
11:22 - The Flatiron Building whizzes by in a blur.
11:25 - Rubber-soled "dress shoes" don't make much noise on the marble inlaid lobby floor of the building where publishing industry dreams go to die.
11:29 - Shirt tucked in, brow wiped dry (don't touch it again), knock and enter.
11:31 - Interview begins (don't say "entice").
11:55 - Let me introduce you to my assistant. She'll tell you about the specifics of the job.
12:10 - Thanks for coming in*! Thanks for having me! *An old Heraldism come back to haunt me.
12:15 - Trudge back to Park and 23rd.
12:25 - Hello again, GCT. Someone told me that that ball-shaped clock is "priceless," as in infinitely valuable.
12:35 - Lunch in the Terminal bowels.
12:45 - Back on the train.
2:40 - Hello New Haven.

I don't think I'm going to get this job. And I think it's because I'm not a girl. I've been getting an inkling that women in publishing prefer female underlings. Not that I blame them. (Feel free to vehemently disagree with my assessment whether or not you've got any hard evidence to back up your vehemence.)

I suppose I should try harder to convey my many girlish tendencies.

I've still got that mag from yesterday, and it's looking pretty good.

And: There's been one more nibble on the line (a voicemail just after 5 this afternoon). I'm not even going to discuss it, because I don't want to jinx it or even think about it too much (ha). I'll say that it's ideal in every aspect except geographically, and leave it at that. More to come (hopefully soon). Stay tuned.

Jobs, jobs, everywhere (??)

2006-06-19T16:44:00.000-05:00

I drove out to Monroe this morning for my interview at the dental laboratory business-to-business publication that called me back last week. Things were off to a good start when I was greeted by a young, charming and very attractive black lab (i.e., woof woof). We hit it off immediately. Unfortunately, I wasn't interviewing with the pup (whose collar tag said Zoe). Fortunately, I was interviewing with a couple of exceptionally pleasant women who seemed at least moderately interested in bringing me on board as an Assistant Editor.

I might have come across as a little keyed-up during the interview. I think I used variations of the verb "entice" a few too many times. ("I would be enticed to go to law school if I got a good LSAT score," "In my articles at the Blade, I tried to strike a balance between enticing readers with good writing and keeping the focus of the story on the people involved," "I would probably be enticed by a job in book publishing.") One of the women asked me on a few occasions if it was too hot in her office. (One of my nervous interview tics is wiping my brow even if I'm not actually sweating. In this case, I may have been sweating.) I also made the mistake of repeatedly (but jokingly) bringing up the fact that one of the women had been reading off the wrong resume when I first went in. (She thought I was a physics major from Cornell with a high GPA. Ha.)

In spite of all that, I felt quite confident afterwards, and I think I presented myself favorably but honestly.

They asked me to come in a week from Thursday for a second interview with a couple other editors.

I'd like to find out a little more about the specifics of the job before I make any committments, but from what I already know I'd say the outlook is quite promising (both in terms of the experience I'd gain and the degree to which I think I'd enjoy what I think I'd be doing).

Taking a job in Monroe means staying around New Haven for at least another year. I'm a little more OK with that than I'd like to be. I'm listening to "Move Along" as I write (for old times' sake) and I'm reminded that one of the only ways I'm going to develop as an individual is by...moving along. If I do get/take this gig, I'll move out of the house immediately and cut down mom and dad visits to, at most, one day per week. (Eesh. That doesn't sound like much of a change; it sounds kind of like college, but with more parental visits.)

Oh yeah. Then there's the interview at the literary agency, which has been scheduled for tomorrow. Manhattan + Job Interview is usually an equation that equals 40 bucks wasted on train and subway fare. Why should I think this one will be any different? But what if it is? That'll be a big change. It'll be goodbye cozy pathetic suburban nonexistence, hello literary professional cosmopolitian impoverished hyperexistence. Isn't there some step in between? Conversely, am I really someone who should be looking for a slow and steady road to self-actualization?

Gahh. What's my friggin' problem?

Too good to be true

2006-06-15T22:59:00.000-05:00

This will be one of those posts where I don't really say anything, I just copy and paste a piece of noteworthy correspondence and allow it to speak for itself. Without further ado, this email appeared in my inbox approximately an hour ago.

I heard from [so-and-so], with whom I share office
space, that you have recently been looking for a
position as an assistant at a literary agency. As you
may already know, she has filled the position at her
agency, however, I'm looking for a new assistant for a
regular full time position as an assistant at my
literary agency.

Duties for this position include answering the phone,
reading manuscripts, drafting letters to send out
(rejections, updates, submissions, etc.), filing,
preparing checks for clients. I'm looking for someone
who is reliable and eager to learn the agency side of
the business. You can learn more about my agency on my
company’s website...

I’m looking to fill this position very quickly as my
current assistant is leaving soon. If you would like
to come in for an interview, please feel free to
contact me. If you are no longer looking for a
position, please disregard this email.

Cordially,

XXX
XXX Agency

Good God. Is that the sound of a door opening? Is this the first step toward the career that I think I want? And did it just fall into my lap? (Incidentally, I have no recollection of the so-and-so to whom the agent refers. Maybe I've become notorious among NYC publishers and literary agents. Haha. Doubtful.)

As usual, my first instinct is that this is a joke/hoax. No second chances if you're behind this one, Clickito.

Fortunately, I've got a backup plan. I've got an interview lined up for Monday. Yesterday I submitted a cover letter and resume to a "trade magazine" that operates out of the Connecticut town of Monroe (a few towns west of New Haven and a little inland). Within two hours of emailing my materials, I got a call from the HR person asking me to come in for an interview. The trade covered by the mag is, apparently, dental equipment. Sounds mundane, to be sure. But the job description makes it sound like I'd be doing a lot of layout and design and copyediting--legit editorial assistant-type stuff. The kind of stuff that stoked my fire at the Herald.

Both of these operations seem like they're eager to make a hire. Looks like I'm in the right place at the right time twice over. What could go wrong?

I'm trying not to get too cosmic about all of this stuff, but quite honestly it seems miraculous that I've got TWO decent prospects lined up within a week of starting to look again. Good thing I'm a *lapsed* Catholic. Otherwise I'd probably be getting my rosary out.

Needless to say, I've got qualms about both of these gigs. (Surprise, surprise.) Nothing serious. I'd probably classify them as butterflies in the stomach. Perhaps the biggest qualm of all is that just when it looks like I'm on the verge of landing a decent job (knock on wood), I get a tip on a casting call for a reality show about unmotivated schmucks who watch television all day and drink all night. Figures.

I'm writing this instead of applying to jobs

2006-06-13T11:14:00.000-05:00

The LSAT's over, and I'm back to my old tricks (blogging included). It feels much worse the second time around. Sure, the two part-time jobs I used to have sucked. But at least I was making some spending money and at least I had something to do during the day. Now it's no more jobs, no more LSAT studying, just me and my broken dreams again.

I'm not sure what to make of my LSAT performance. I know I did well on the one section that gave me the most trouble in practices (the Analytical Reasoning section; you know how those go--Ursula, Victor, Wilmer, Xenia, Yu and Zacharias are sitting in a row; Ursula is in seat 5, Yu cannot sit next to Wilmer, yada yada yada). Reading Comp was fine too, but the other two sections felt a little shaky. Now I have to stew for three weeks until I get my score by email. It's unsettling to think that my performance on this test may have an enormous effect on the rest of my natural life. Do well and be a lawyer, or do poorly and [dot dot dot question mark].

There's not one single aspect of applying to jobs that I find enjoyable. I don't like searching for them; I don't like tailoring cover letters (I especially don't like tailoring cover letters just because I'm so sick of revising and submitting the same vacuous dreck over and over again); I don't like the idea of competing with hundreds of other people for the jobs I apply to; I don't like following-up; I don't like getting offers for jobs that suck; I don't like getting rejected for jobs that I really want.

It's just now starting to dawn on me how much my LSAT studying was a distraction from my re-unemployment. Now I've got zip. Nothing on the horizon, no prospects, no leads. Jack shit. How long will it take this time? Should I bother setting a time frame? I feel like I should have something by the end of the month, but how reasonable is that? By any normal standards, it's probably perfectly reasonable. By my grandiose expectations, who knows?

*****

I spent the day up in Cambridge on Saturday (sorry I missed you again, Lisa; I'll call you soon). While there, I had an interesting encounter:

I was with my friends Brian and Liz. Liz was looking stunning in a green "party dress" and cowboy boots. We were having coffee and a nice chat in a smallish cafe outside of harvard Square. There were about twelve seats in the place, all of which were full.

At one point during a (nauseatingly boring) discussion of Brian's career ambitions (only kidding, bro), I looked over at the counter and noticed a tall, scruffy-looking guy ordering a drink. I thought to myself, "Ha. Isn't that funny: that guy looks a little like Ben Affleck, and we're in Boston." I paused for a moment, furrowed my brow, and took another look. This Boston Red Sox cap-wearing fellow was, in fact, Mr. Ben Affleck. The co-author of my "favorite" film was ordering coffee five yards from where I was sitting!

At this point I thought, "Gosh, wouldn't it be funny if Jennifer Garner were here too?" At that moment, a slender young woman (her figure mostly hidden under a navy raincoat; it was a wet day in Lamebridge) walked up beside big Ben. Could it be? It was! Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner were perusing the biscotti case within spitting distance from where we were sitting! But hold on: what that a baby stroller she was pushing? It was! Baby Bennifer! Good gracious!

At this point, Brian and party-attired Liz noticed my withdrawal from the conversation. In as hushed a tone as I could manage, I informed them that we were in the presence of two fabulously famous and wealthy actors. They were impressed, but they're no starf***ers.

At that point it would have been impossible to continue our conversation, and I didn't want to make a scene, so we decided to leave. I got a good peek at the infant Garner-Affleck on our way out (in deference to Ben and Jen's privacy, I will decline to provide a description).

As I mentioned, the few seats in the cafe were all occupied when they walked on. I can only hope that they took our departure as an act of courtesy and went and enjoyed their beverages at our recently-vacated table.

Every now and then I fall apart

2006-06-06T11:17:00.000-05:00

Unemployment 2.0, Day 2

All the bright ideas I had for what to do next have fizzled out. A few weeks ago I found an ad for an associate editor job at a textbook publisher in Worcester. I told myself I'd apply this week. Today I discovered that the ad has expired. Last week I saw a posting for a residential counselor job in Amherst for the summer. I thought I'd apply to that one today; it's gone. I spent an hour or so scouring websites for all the local Catholic schools, and there wasn't a hint on any of them that they were looking to hire any teachers. Even if I still wanted to apply to AmeriCorps, by now it's too late to start anything that will end before September 2007 (i.e., when I'm supposedly going back to school).

I also spent a fair chunk of time today gathering data on law school admissions. It's not easy to make sense of all the info that's out there, but it's beginning to look a lot like I won't be able to get into any of the schools that I want to go to, even if I have a really good day on Monday. The school I keep thinking about is Michigan. I can't quite say why--it's big, it's far from home, it's got good sports, it's got a good reputation. It seems like it'd be a fun place to do. But I don't think I'll have the numbers.

It's been a while since I've put much thought into alternative graduate-type programs (like the writing MFA). I've heard that there are graduate programs in publishing, a fact which strikes me as fairly ridiculous. Would it be worth it to drop a few thousand dollars just to get a slight edge in a cut-throat industry?

It's beginning to feel more and more like I'm just taking a very long, roundabout road to a career in teaching. Those who can't wed plan, after all.

I wonder what my summer will be like. I had a good one last year--fun travels, lackadaisical days on the lake, summer movies, beach reading, drinking, romance (just kidding).

Last year. Long time ago. But not really. Where'd I go wrong? Any chance I'll do things right this year? If I was a religious man, I might be appealing to a higher power right now.

Just for fun, here's my rejection letter from the editor I interviewed with. (Do you think it's unreasonable to imagine that at least one main factor in my not getting the job was that I wasn't female? Also, I like the line about my "great career in publishing." I guess that just means that I look good on paper.)

Mike, thank you for your interest in XYZ and for coming in to interview with me. Although your credentials are impressive, we decided that another candidate was a better fit for the position here, and she just notified me on Friday that she's accepting my offer. Our HR department will keep your resume on file in the event that another position at XYZ becomes available in the future. You have a great career in publishing ahead of you and I wish you all the best.

Back with a vengeance

2006-06-05T10:10:00.000-05:00

I feel very bad for those of you who have come to rely on my plaintive diatribes for regular procrastination and entertainment.

Did that sound surly?

Back in college, people used to call me surly. I can't imagine why. Whether I was surly or not before people started calling me that, I was certainly surly once I'd been labeled as surly. There's no way to refute an accusation of surliness without sounding surly. ("Stop calling me surly," I'd say. "Boy, you're surly today," would be the reply.)

In a nod to a convention from the early days of this chronicle, let's see what the dictionary has to say about the word "surly". (I'm obligated to turn to Merriam-Webster. The OED would be my first choice, but use of that resource is a privilege reserved for those currently enrolled in America's finer institutions of higher learning.)

surly: irratably sullen or churlish in mood or manner.

Sounds about right.

By way of comparison, I might describe surliness as anger with the temperature turned to low and left to simmer. I may have been surly back in the day, but a lot of stuff has been happening lately that has (if you'll forgive the extension of the metaphor) been turning up the heat.

In short, I'm angry.

Consider: The Friday before last I took a train into Manhattan for an interview at a publishing company. Even before I found my way to where I was supposed to be, I was a mess. The office was on 6th Avenue at 50th Street; I brilliantly walked all the way to 60th Street on 5th Avenue before realizing my error. I made it on time, but I was hot and probably sweating profusely. The woman I interviewed seemed completely disinterested almost from the get-go. She asked a few standard questions (which I answered with as much gusto as I could muster) and then ended the interview with an abrupt, "Well, that sounds good. We'll let you know." Today I got an email telling my how impressive my qualifications were, but how they'd found someone else who was a better fit. Imagine my surprise. It took considerable effort to keep myself from punching a hole in the wall.

Consider: My job at the biz mag ended on Friday. (I dropped Qpac a couple of weeks ago.) Where does that leave me now? The same place I was a year ago. Un-f***ing-employed. I can't think of anything I would rather do *less* than applying for jobs again.

Consider: I had to pick up my dog's remains from the vet on Friday. You might wonder why this might make me angry. Without getting into too much detail, let's just say that my own emotions have, by necessity, taken a back seat to the emotions of the other parties affected by the loss.

Consider: One year out (plus a couple of weeks) and I'm still in the same place: physically, emotionally, geographically, professionally.

Consider: I'm taking the LSAT a week from today. I had a good run of practice tests for a couple of days, but then I took a nose dive (relatively speaking). I can say with confidence that I'll score within a five-point range. Doesn't sound like much, but the difference between scoring at the top of the range and the bottom is the difference between getting into a law school I'd be excited to go and...well...not.

Consider: I've got two God-awful unfinished short stories decomposing in the Works-in-Progress folder of my Word Documents. (The part that makes me angry is that I wish they were good.)

What's the next step? Keep studying for the LSAT. Apply to a job at the Yale Press. Apply to a couple of Craigslist jobs. Call around to a few area Catholic schools to see if they're looking for an uncertified English teacher.

Finally, what bona fide T(U) post ends without a platitude? How's this one: Stop spouting platitudes and do something with your pathetic life, loser.

Rest in Peace

2006-05-25T10:31:00.000-05:00

Ginger, faithful golden retriever
April 5, 1996-May 24, 2006

She was a good dog.

And even when your hope is gone...

2006-05-18T15:58:00.000-05:00

In spite of egregious grammatical errors in my cover letter, the editor-in-need-of-a-new-assistant wants me to come in for an interview next week.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm disgusted by my own exuberance. (I'm on your side.)

It's that old familiar feeling. (Food & Wine, Part Two?)

I'll have to hit it hard tonight (...while I've still got something to celebrate.)

Incidentally, this is my centennial post. (Here's to 100 more under more favorable circumstances!)

Notice how boring the blog has been lately? ("Lately?" you say. "Try always.")

Tomorrow will be my last day polling for Qpac. (Praise to the Creator.)

Shout out to my compatriots--and loyal blog lurkers--who are coming down to New Haven for the weekend. (Parenthetical comment.)

I'm (so) moving on

2006-05-13T08:17:00.000-05:00

A comment writer posed the question of why most of the AmeriCorps destination I'd listed were outside of the northeast. Here's the response I've been working on for a while (it's a little murky, get over it):

You probably can't take the Southern New England out of the boy, but maybe it's time to take the boy out of Southern New England.

Where I am now is where I've always been. Living at home means complacency and the status quo. It's easy, it's safe, and it's chewing my insides up and spitting them out. It's long been obvious that moving on and moving up means moving out.

I've known a lot of people who have been in the same place for their entire lives. And I've known a lot of people who aren't hindered by geography (or really anything), and whose motivation has propelled them to extraordinary accomplishments. Of the two outcomes, I'll take the second.

For most of my life, I had a single goal. I knew what it was going to take to accomplish that goal; I was driven and focused and, ultimately, I was damn lucky to have achieved that goal.

But all of that has come and gone, and now I'm in a much soggier place. There's no finish line anymore, there's no checklist of things to get done. I'm lost. My shoes are untied.

All of the effort I put in, all of the potential I was supposed to have--irrelevant, missing in action. I've got a $120,000 car in the garage, but I can't afford to put gas in it.

I'm probably capable of taking control of my life in a lot of different ways. Somewhere in me there's got to be an "ambition" switch (I used to know where it was), a "work ethic" button (that one's always been a little more elusive), a "self-pity" lever (that's one I need to turn off, if I can ever find it). There are questions that I'm perfectly capable of answering: Who? What? Why?

But the easiest question to answer--the easiest way to take control of my situation, it would seem--is Where?

The farther away a place is, the more it seems like someplace else, the more I'll feel like I've accomplished something. It's impossible to know for sure how much things will improve with a change of scenery. But it's the best I've got.

I haven't started studying for the LSAT yet.

I haven't applied to any AmeriCorps jobs yet.

I'm probably going to quit Qpac this week.

I haven't written anything creative in a long time.

I've got cash flow, but no mojo.

Last night I was stood up for a dinner date (band prez, SY '04) and fell asleep on the couch in front of "Anchorman" at 10 pm.

Most of the songs I listen to are starting to sound dead.

I bought two new polo shirts from Old Navy. They're pretty nice.

Faking a smile with the coffee to go

2006-05-08T21:39:00.000-05:00

Polls completed this evening: 6
Calls made: ~190
Hours clocked between both jobs today: 8.75

Don't worry. I won't let the blog turn into a catalogue of statistics. Wouldn't want to go all Bridget Jones on you.

Bizarre encounter of the day:

I'm driving home from polling (my favorite time of day) with the stereo blasting (I'll tell you that it wasn't the Beatles or CCR, but in the interest of maintaining a little credibility I won't divulge what embarassing pop trifle I was howling to). Halfway down the mostly dark, mostly deserted road between Qpac and home, I see a youngish, fratish looking guy jogging, with a cell phone clenched uselessly in one hand, down the middle of the road. He's wearing a white t-shirt that says something about booze--"Booze Hound" or "Booze Jockey" or something like that. I slow down as I get closer, and he changes direction toward my car. The following conversation ensues as he approaches:

ME: You're not going to mug me, are you?
DUDE: What? Haha, no. Looks at me quizzically. Squints in the darkness, leaning forward to get a better look.
ME: Is everything OK?
DUDE with sudden recognition: Oh, whoa. I thought you were a friend of mine. Is this the way back to Qpac? gestures in the direction from which I came.
ME: Yeah, it is. Do you need a ride?
DUDE: Nah, nah, man, I'm cool.
ME: You're kind of scaring me.
DUDE: Hahaha. Pats me jovially on the shoulder; I flinch. Thanks a lot, buddy. Have a good one.
ME: No problem. You too.
Exeunt omnes.

I'm coming up against a few deadlines in the weeks ahead. The most sinister is the LSAT, which I've registered to take on June 12. I'm past the point of no return, so I need to start studying. Yikes. 167-170, here I come (I hope).

The other deadline, which is actually more of an ethereal set of deadlines, is AmeriCorps. I cleared a major hurdle today by securing my two references. All that's left to do is actually sift through the listings on the website and apply to the placements I'm interested in. I hope to apply all over the country--I've seen a lot of jobs around Seattle, and around Burlington, VT that I've liked. I'd like to browse the California listings, and maybe Philly and Minneapolis and the Rockies and the Southeast. It's a daunting task, especially since the website isn't the most user-friendly. But I'm determined to nail something fulfilling down ASAP, and by mid-summer at the latest, and AmeriCorps is my best hope.

Speaking of hopes, no word on the editorial assistant gig. Maybe it's because my cover letter was riddled with grammatical errors. Pretty brilliant of me, eh? It's like I'm trying to shoot myself in the foot.

And that's what's what.

PS-Though I've been listening to that lousy Daniel Powter song a lot lately (cf. the title of this post), that wasn't what was playing in the car on the way home.

What I did today

2006-05-05T14:45:00.000-05:00

It took me a lo(ooooo)ng time to get down to the task I had set before myself today. I won't bore you (or gross you out) with all of my procrastination tactics. What's relevant was that I found myself almost completely incapable of doing what I'd spent so much time doing for all those many, many miserable months of summer and fall '05 and winter '06: applying to a job.

Yesterday, I got a tip from a friend who (among other things) used to work at an NYC literary agency. Here are a few excerpts (sterilized for bloggability):

I'm in the market for a new assistant...

Responsibilities include:

Reading and reporting on manuscripts
Writing flap, catalog and promotional copy and preparing fact sheets
Preparing contract requests and processing payments
Communicating with authors and agents about queries, payments, etc.
Trafficking manuscripts through Production, Copyediting, and Marketing, and securing appropriate approvals
Preparing cost specifications for titles
Coordinating meetings and events, including Sales Conference
Performing administrative duties, including: photocopying, sorting mail; preparing packages for shipment; filing, directing/responding to phone calls, etc.
Coordinate special projects as assigned

REQUIREMENTS: Excellent organizational, oral and written communication and administrative skills; Bachelor’s degree in English preferred; Minimum of 1 year of publishing experience preferred (internships accepted); an ability to attend to details and juggle multiple priorities in a fast-paced environment; solid computer skills, including MS Word and Excel.

In the interest of your valuable time, I'll cut straight to my cover letter (again, devoid of anything potentially incriminating):

Dear Editor-

I am writing to you in order to express my interest in the editorial assistant position that has become available at ______. I was informed of this opening by ____ at the ____ Agency.

As I apply to this position, I am keenly aware of how fierce the competition can be for jobs in the publishing industry. However, I am confident that I am exceptionally qualified for this position, and I know that I would make a valuable addition to the staff of ____.

Through a combination of academic, extracurricular and professional pursuits, I have gained extensive experience as a writer and editor, as well as with administrative and organizational tasks. But if I had to list a single reason why I am an excellent candidate for this position, it would simply be my eagerness to work in publishing. To have the opportunity to work in book production would be the fulfillment of a longtime ambition, and my commitment to excelling in all aspects of this position would be unmatched.

My skills and experience are squarely in line with the requirements that you have described. My academic background includes of four years of undergraduate study in the English department at [you know where]. I am confident that my knowledge and appreciation of English language and literature is as strong as any applicant you will encounter, and that my written and oral communication skills are of the highest caliber. Additionally, I am an avid reader, and I consider myself to be highly-attuned to popular culture. I would find it a pleasure to work with authors and manuscripts spanning such a diverse array of topics as your list includes.

Beyond my academic background and interests, I have a significant amount of experience working in an administrative capacity. I have worked as [&c, &c, &c]. In each of these positions, I was responsible for numerous administrative tasks--from copying and filing to answering phones and completing tasks in Word and Excel--and I was often required to manage multiple assignments at once. I was enormously successful in each of these positions and earned high praise from my employers for my ability to manage time and complete assignments with precision.

I have often been told that one of my greatest strengths is my ability to learn new skills and adapt to new situations quickly and efficiently. I am highly motivated, and I am a very fast learner. I'm confident that I will be able to respond successfully to all of the demands and challenges that I may face as an editorial assistant at ___ and that I will rapidly become an indispensable member of your staff.

You will find my résumé attached to this email, formatted as a Word document. Please let me know if I can provide you with any additional information about my experience and qualifications.

Thank you for your consideration, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely,

ME

I'm probably more ambivalent to this gig than I've been to anything else I've applied to. Not because I don't think I'd like it--more because I know how these things go (i.e., I won't get it). Feel free to diagnose my defense mechanism. Oops, beat you to it.

Stuck in Lodi again

2006-05-02T22:01:00.000-05:00

Hey kids.

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. I'm sorry^8(on its side). I've been checking the blog every day from my desk at work, wondering, "When is this jackass going to post something new for God's sake? Oh right, this jackass is me."

I could say that I was waiting for a couple of comments before writing another post, but that would be a lie. (Seriously, though. Write comments. Even to mock me.) (Actually, don't mock me.)

[This is the part where I say that things have been very boring lately and that I don't have anything interesting to say.]

[And this is the part where I commence a long post on a plethora of disparate topics which one might construe as indicating that I do, in fact, have a lot to say.]

Listen, it's only been a week and already the Qpac polling gig is wearing me down. It only took a week.

The problem lies in the very nature of the work. Essentially, I sit in front of a computer screen for hours on end facing an interminable series of rejections. There are plenty of variations--different flavors of rejection, if you will--but the end result is always the same sharp icy blade in my heart. A few examples:

-Ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...
-Ring...ring...ring...ring...ring..."Hello, you have reached...please leave a message."
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is Mike and I'm calling from the Q-- U-- Poll, located in..." CLICK.
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is Mike and I'm calling from the Q-- U-- Poll, located in H--, CT. We're interested in your opinions about some issues in the news...spiel...speil...would you like to begin the poll?" CLICK.
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is Mike and I'm calling from the Q-- U-- Poll..." "HOW DID YOU GET THIS NUMBER!? PLEASE TAKE ME OFF YOUR LIST!!"
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is..." "NOT INTERESTED!"
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is..." "DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS!? I'VE GOT YOUNG CHILDREN [hysterical sobbing in the background] WHO ARE NOW WIDE AWAKE THANKS TO YOU! DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TAKES ME TO GET THEM DOWN AT NIGHT!?" "Thank you for your time ma'am." "WHY DON'T YOU GO SHOVE..." CLICK (this time on my end).

And that's only a sampling.

I'm left to wonder whether it's something that I'm doing to make so many people so vehemently disinclined to participate in the poll. Is there something about my voice that's unappealing? (Remember when I thought so fondly of my own voice? Those hours spent listening to my voicemail message at my other job?) Don't I sound legitimate? Do I sound like a huckster?

I glance around at the end of every shift to see how many polls other people have been able to complete. The sweet little old lady sitting behind me did 14 tonight; I only got through 7.

I suppose it's in my nature to view my stats as a personal failure. But it's insanely demoralizing. With each passing ring I feel the dread rising thickly from the pit of my stomach into the back of my throat--it's a wonder I can manage to croak out the first few lines of the script when someone actually picks up the phone.

And then there are the real heartbreakers: when I get part-way into the administration of a poll and the person decides to stop, or starts being a jackass.

A vignette from today's shift:

ME: And do you have any children under the age of 18?
GUY ON OTHER END: Huh huh, yeah, three.
ME: And do you have any children who attend public school?
GUY ON OTHER END: Yeah, five.
ME: And do you own or rent your apartment or house?
GUY ON OTHER END: I live in a garbage can.
ME: Thank you for your time, sir.

Fortunately most of my shifts have gone by pretty quickly. Obviously the more polls I complete, the faster it goes. It's really not that bad. It's cash, and it's something, and it's very very temporary.

Speaking of temporary, I've got to keep reminding myself that these are only hold-over positions that I've taken. I can feel myself sinking into a routine, and it scares me. How many weeks have gone by since I started at BNH? Almost four, I think. The weeks have flown by (even though, paradoxically, my shifts at the magazine seem to stretch on into eternity).

It's far too easy to get comfortable with the daily grind, I can tell. Wake up; shower; go to work; get home; read something; watch some television; go out for a drink; go to bed; start over. Living such a compartmentalized existence will make your life disappear.

The worst part, for me, is that this new routine of mine seems to have snuffed out all of my creativity. It's hard to schedule something like writing, or even something like creative thought, into a day packed with so many mundane activities. And it horrifies me. I can see the death of my creativity--of writing, of reading, of appreciating the intricacy and subtlety of things--staring me in the face. I don't want to let it happen, but it's hard to avoid. When I had plenty of time on my hands, it was easy to spend two hours writing a blog post, or piecing together the plot of a short story. Now I find that after working a nine-hour day (poor me), all I want to fill my free time is a beer and maybe an hour of mindless television. This must be how artists die.

These past few weeks have provided proof of a fact that I've always known to be true: I'm not going to find what I want in the workaday world. Even though I don't really know what I want, I know that it's not behind a desk or on the other end of a phone line or glaring at me from a computer screen.

One of my favorite times of day lately has been the fifteen-minute ride home from Qpac. After four hours of soul-deadening rejection, I roll down all the windows in my '98 Maxima (beige, leather interior), crank up the Beatles or CCR, and race the wind down the serpentine wooded roads between the campus and my (dad's) house. I almost forget that I'm driving through nondescript suburban southern Connecticut and not somewhere special like the Green Mountains or an Appalacian hollow.

At this point in my life, at this moment right now, I think the one thing I'd like more than any other is a long empty road to drive on--cool air streaming through open windows, stereo cranked up high--with no particular destination in mind and no reason to stop for anything. And maybe somebody interesting (and halfway-decent looking) riding shotgun.

But that's just me.

Unemployment recap

2006-04-28T08:34:00.000-05:00

Official number of days of my unemployment: 222 (1 September 2005 - 9 April 2006)

The Prologue (Summer '05):

-Late May 2005-Mid-July 2005: Post-graduation malaise/mortification; pre-Europe planning/packing.

-July 11-August 5, 2005: Self-reliance and self-discovery (ha) in Paris, Bruges, Amsterdam, Munich, Vienna, Turin, Genoa and London. (Most significant accomplishment: riding on the London Underground.)

-August 6-August 31, 2005: Post-Europe decompression; time spent on various lakes (Candlewood, George, Wobegone); First job interview at Norwalk architecture firm (offered and declined because, hey, if it was that easy, why not wait a little while for something better to come along?)

The 222-Day Crucible:

-September 2005: Slow but steady progress on application submission. Interviewed at The Mount in Lenox, MA; offered "literary arts program coordinator" job; declined because, hey, if it was that easy, why not wait a little while for something even BETTER to come along? (And committing to two years working in the rural Berkshires felt like social suicide.) Also, the blackjack winning streak begins.

-October 2005: Feverish submission of job applications; editorial assistant gig at small local publisher is sole glimmer of hope, but is snuffed out because it's part-time and they're not convinced that I won't quit as soon as I find a full-time job. Also: the dawn of the (Temporarily) Unemployed Ivy League Graduate. (There was much rejoicing.) Also, more blackjack.

-Early November 2005: The Food & Wine debacle. (Let 'em find this on Google. It'll serve 'em right.)

-Mid-November 2005-Early-January 2006: Winter Break. (The Game, b-day festivities, blackjack, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, blackjack, Christmas, New Years, blackjack, Starbucks) Lots of distraction; little progress on the job front.

-Mid-January 2006: Submitted to a dizzying array of jobs (Newsweek, rural upstate New York newspaper, personal assistant to unnamed author in Manhattan). Dead ends, all.

-February 2006: The Kaplan debacle. The Yaccarino garage debacle.

-March 2006: The apex (or would it be the nadir?) of my self-loathing. Lowlights include: a day at my uncle's perfume pump company; aborted attempts at fiction writing; more dead-end job applications. Highlights include: slam poetry and the Oscars.

-Early-April 2006: One finally sticks. And then another does, too. But why does it still feel like I'm unemployed? (Oh, right: as the anonymous comment writer said, unemployment--as it has come to be defined by this chronicle, anyway--is more than just the absence of a steady income.)

-April 10, 2006: The blog gets boring.

So, you see? It was an eventful 222 days. Right? I mean, yeah, you were probably out there contributing to society, learning new things, making mad scrill (sp?), blazing trails, rescuing cats from trees, discovering cures for cancer and hangovers. But I was doing my best too, man. It took a while. (Strike that: it's taking a while.) But I'm getting there. I think. I hope.

First day on the (second) job

2006-04-24T22:18:00.000-05:00

To my dismay, my writings on the C-------- of P----------- still seem to be drumming up a fair amount of readership. It's a situation that I wish didn't exist, and as a result I've felt a little less inclined to be as confessional as I've been in the past.

I'm starting to wonder what direction this blog is going to take. You're probably getting bored of hearing me say that.

I'm working two jobs now. Tonight was my first night as a Qpac pollster. I worked my usual five hours at BNH (the word "worked," in this case, is used in the loosest sense. There's so little for me to do there, and so much time for me to do it, that I spend a lot of time looking busy by repeating things that I've already done. I've written and erased and rewritten the same form email dozens of times just to fill the minutes). After that, I had a couple of hours to myself--which I could have used for something productive like physical activity or writing or looking for full time jobs, but didn't--and then at 5:30 I sat down to my polling station for the first time. I must say that I enjoyed it. It's gloriously mindless work: I sit in front of a computer that generates random phone numbers and calls them upon my command; if someone answers, I read directly from a series of scripted instructions and questions; if no one answers, I make note of it, hang up and command the computer to dial another number. Tonight was the final night of the current poll, so I spent most of the evening calling numbers that had been called before but were put on the "Call Back" list because the initial call(s) went unanswered (we only stop calling a number once a flesh and blood person on the other end declines to take the survey).

I completed a total of 3 surveys--each of which took about ten minutes. The rest of the night I spent listening to the sound of successive phone rings (count eight of them and hang up is the rule) and trying not to look up rabidly any time someone walked into the room. I made nearly 200 phone calls over the course of three and a half hours. But I didn't hate it. In fact, I'll be looking forward to going in tomorrow for the start of a new poll. I'll probably get more hang-ups, but I'm sure to get a greater number of willing participants as well.

I think the main appeal of this job is the opportunity it affords me to ask people very personal questions. I'm supposed to be completely neutral in my administration of the poll, which I think I am--I didn't have a problem keeping an even tone and casual demeanor on any of the questions. But I have to say that in my mind I was always rooting for people to answer a question the way I would answer it. I've got my own opinions on stem cell research and Dick Cheney and needle exchange programs and it was always a pleasure to hear that the anonymous New Jerseyan on the other end of the line felt the same way I did.

I think I'm going to like this job, and I'll probably stick with it longer than my 10 to 3.

In other news, I think I've settled on a short-term plan: Americorps. I considered Americorps at the end of my senior year and over last summer, but by the time I really got serious about it it was September and too late to apply to anything. But I've been doing a little research lately and it would seem that I haven't missed any deadlines and that Americorps would be a productive and engaging way to spend a year. I'd probably start in mid-July (which seems to be when the bulk of the projects start) and then I'd be done in July 2007 with several weeks to myself to kill before starting ________ in the fall of 2007. (Law school? Creative writing classes? Joining the circus?) April 30 is the earliest deadline for most of those jobs, so I'll be cramming in some resume-writing over the next couple of days. It remains to be seen how easy it will be for me to land one of the jobs. I'd like to think it won't be so hard, but, well, all I've got are my previous experiences and we know how that goes.

Finally, one more thing on my to-do list is making phone calls to people I've been avoiding most of this year. There are a handful of people who I tried not to talk to while I was unemployed--for instance my college roommate, who's Teaching for American in inner city Chicago. I owe him, and a few others who I felt especially insecure talking to, a call or an email now that I'm finally doing a little money-making. I'm not out saving the world (yet) but at least I can finally refer to my unemployment in the past tense.

Works-in-progress

2006-04-23T02:27:00.000-05:00

[Here's what I meant to post last night before Truth broke in with all her matter-of-fact about putting my foot in my mouth]

I gave up on that stupid b-llsh-t Welcome Center story...for now.

But here's a stanza that I've been working on. It's one of four, but you'll have to ask real nice to get the other three.

I light a match to watch it burn
It's out before it hits the floor
It knows that it will not return
To write a song or fight a war

Is "lighting a match to watch it burn" a worn out idea? I have a feeling that it's close to a song lyric (or a million song lyrics). And what about attributing consciousness to the match? Have I stumbled into hokey-ness? And am I leaning too hard on the rhyme by pairing "floor" with "war"? Rhetorical questions, all.

I trained for the Qpac pollster job yesterday evening. My first day (night) is Monday. I think the current poll is a Jersey poll, so watch out Garden Staters. Your caller IDs can't save you from the inquiring minds at Hamden CT's premiere public opinion analysts.

I tell you, though, the desperation in that polling room in the middle of a shift is intense. I walked in at 6:30 for the training (an hour after the shift began) and I felt like an anthropologist discovering a remote African village. Everyone--literally everyone--looked up from their stations in wonder. Who is this stranger from the outside world? Donzens of pairs of eyes sparkled with hope and curiosity. Has he come to deliver us from our pitiful lives of servitude? Remember the orphanage scenes from "The Cider House Rules," when the rich couple drives up in a fancy car and all the little orphan children accost them and affect their most adorable behavior? It was much more depressing than that. But I've got the desperation act down to a science (I'm coming up on 11 months of practice) so I should fit right in.

Speaking of desperation, I've been conscripted to join my mother on a Sunday trip to Nassau County, Long Island to "celebrate" Orthodox Easter with the husband's family. My Big Fat Greek Nightmare.

Kiss those journalism aspirations goodbye

2006-04-22T01:46:00.000-05:00

It looks like the big break I've been waiting for has finally arrived! My blog has been discovered...

...by a former employee of one of the publications to which I submitted an application back in the fall--a publication whose name was plastered all over this electronic chronicle for several weeks, and which may or may not have been portrayed in a decidedly unflattering manner.

I was browsing the hit counter (as I'm prone to do) and I happened to notice that one particular post seemed to be getting a lot of views in recent days. I went back to the post only to discover a long comment from an individual claiming to have worked at the publication I was blogging about. I couldn't bring myself to read the entirety of the (long) comment, but the gist of it appeared to be that I lacked modesty (for presuming that I would have a fair shot at being considered for a job at this publication) and that, moreover, to excoriate a potential employer in a publicly accessible forum constituted ill-advised bridge-burning.

I agree with the comment writer whole-heartedly on the second point--and in doing so I don't mean to be an apologist. In the early days of keeping this record of my job-search experiences, it never occurred to me that anyone at all would be reading--let alone representatives of the companies to which I was applying. But in the face of discovery by an individual who might have taken direct offense at the things that I've written, I see no choice but to stand by my words. The frustration conveyed in these posts, particularly the early ones, is very real. And I don't think it's an unfounded frustration. It takes a while to grow accustomed to the silent rejection that is so commonplace in the writing field. I don't think I was ever asking to be coddled--I just hoped to receive fair and decent treatment from potential employers. Eventually it became apparent that my standards for the treatment of job applications by major publications were idealistically high.

For my own part, it probably would have been prudent to have been a little more discrete in my cathartic outbursts. But the damage has been done, and now I'll have to live with the consequences of offending the very people I've been trying to impress. (Circumstantial evidence on the hit counter suggests that several individuals have spent time reading the relevant posts in recent days. Just my luck--it looks like my vitriol is making the rounds of the inboxes of employees of this (T)UILG-maligned publication.)

I spent about an hour purging the posts from the first half of this blog of all proper company names. I grew weary very quickly, but pressed on until about December. I'll finish up with the second half sometime soon (before anyone from a certain SAT prep company catches wise, let's hope).

The way I see it, there are two potential outcomes to this turn of events. I'll either be that much more resolute in my quest to land a cushy writing job as I'm faced with the prospect of muscling my way off the blacklist; or my decision to go to law school or not just got a hell of a lot easier.

Posting from work!

2006-04-19T09:51:00.000-05:00

Eek! I hope no one sees me!

I'm working on temp agencies today. How ironic.

I wonder what would happen if someone in the office found this blog. If they were to read the last post, it would take them about ten seconds to figure out who had written it. (And probably about ten more seconds to fire me.)

Fie on me for being so descriptive. The narrative, boy! Pay attention to the narrative!

Yesterday on Wikipedia I spent several hours reading about infamous aviation disasters (TWA 800, PanAm/Lockerbie, the Challenger). Horribly morbid stuff. I'd been brought to the subject by a conversation at dinner about "The Aviator," which my mom and her husband had seen just recently. We wound up on the subject of plane disasters, and my mother's husband claimed to have seen a surface-to-air missile being launched into the sky on the day TWA 800 crashed. That was probably the biggest lie I've heard all year. The odds of that actually being true are vanishingly small, as far as I can tell. What a putz.

Spending time on Wikipeda also always makes me realize how much great literature there is out there that I haven't read (How I got from the Challenger to Brecht and Beckett I can't say). I'm thinking of picking up a couple Nathaniel West novels on my way home from work today. Just in case you care.

P.S. - Happy Birthday to little Suri Holmes-Cruise!

Job minutiae

2006-04-17T19:22:00.000-05:00

Like Jenny's (DC '07) dad (LAW '7?), I have a weird habit of listening to one song on repeat, many many times in a row. In the car, it's been The Beatles' "Across the Universe" for the past few days. On my iTunes, it's still stupid "Move Along." I have to take a few days off every now and then when it starts to get really old. But then I come back and it's as foot-stomping head-nodding good as it was the first time I heard it. My ears are still ringing from this most recent listening bloc. (I can't write with music on.)

My job is so boring I can barely bring myself to write about it. It's been improving steadily, though--or maybe it's just that I'm getting used to it. Whichever it is, my distaste is gradually declining, which means that I'll probably be able to tough it out for the month-long duration of the project.

In case it's not clear what my job is, here's a synopsis: This bi-weekly business publication in the New Haven area puts together a business reference guide once a year. The guide consists of ranked lists of various types of businesses (i.e., hotels, body shops, sports equipment stores, etc.). I've been assigned to compile information for twelve of the lists that will be included in the guide. (In case you're wondering, my lists are: auto dealerships, charter bus companies, executive placement firms, engineering firms, health and fitness centers, health and beauty spas, limousine companies, printers-quick/instant, residential real estate agents, telephone equipment companies, temp agencies, and web design companies.) The information I'm seeking varies from list to list, but it usually has to do with the size of each operation (i.e., "how many limos are owned by the limo companies," and "how many technicians are employed by the telephone equipment companies"). Step one in obtaining the information is sending a survey via fax. If a week goes by with no fax response, then I have got to call the companies. The calling is the nasty part. Most of the time the people I'm talking to have no idea what I'm talking about, or they think I'm trying to sell them something. And then once I've finally broken through, I have to go and ask them fairly intrusive questions about their businesses (I dread the lists where I'm going to have to ask for the annual revenue of a company).

I get the sense that it's not too cool to use the computers at work for casual internet surfing. (And I've been paranoid since a friend of mine told me about his job as an IT guy, in which he has the power to print out reports of what people have viewed in their web browsers.) I've tried to sneak peeks into cubicles to see if I can catch a little recreational internet use, but haven't really noticed any. Another problem is that while my desk is pretty well separated from the rest of the workers in the office, it's right along the path to the bathroom. It wouldn't take much for someone to glance over and catch me--oh, I don't know--scouring message boards for the latest buzz on Snakes on a Plane. (There, I've done it. I mean, every relevant blog needs its one obligatory SoaP reference, right?)

Another odd feature of having a desk on the Toilet Trail is that I get to see everyone in the office at least once a day, but in a context that's hardly conducive to striking up conversation. Think about it: who wants to chat it up with the new guy (or really anyone) on the way in or out of the bathroom? I've tried to catch a few people by prepping conversation starters in advance, but without much success. (I'll say something like, "Boy, I wish this computer would stop crashing on me," as the ad sales guy brushes by purposefully, and I'll only catch a few mumbled syllables as he disappears into the restroom vestibule. On his way out, he'll avoid eye contact as he shakes his hands dry.) So, I've gotten to know a lot of people by their bathroom habits--the research director hits up the john once after lunch, the publisher's secretary goes in for twenty minutes at a time, ad sales guy is in there at least five times a day but I think it's mainly to straighten out his tie--but that's just about all I know about any of my new co-workers.

How's that for a few work-related anecdotes? That may have to last for a couple days (but watch out for a surreptitious from-work post sometime soon).

Best sentence ever

2006-04-15T12:10:00.000-05:00

"During the ordeal, the media hubbub grew apace, and cat agnostics grumbled about folderol."

-From the New York Times article about the rescue of a cat that had been trapped in the wall of Greenwich village building for two weeks.

I've been scrounging around for something interesting to say over the past couple of days, and have (til now) been coming up empty. I'm still trying to grow accustomed to working (at a job that, it turns out, I don't like very much). I had an interview at Quinnipiac last night and they offered me a job as a phone interviewer. I'll probably do the training at the end of next week. I'll work both jobs until the magazine job ends (mid-to-late May), and then I'll probably try to start up another part time gig. I'd like to move out of the house before my brother gets home for the summer (early June-ish)--not because I don't want to live with him, just because the idea of the three of us kicking around the house all summer is a little bit more than I can handle. If anyone reading this is looking for a roommate or knows someone who is, let me know.

I'm going up to the Bay State for the evening(/night?) for a house party in Somerville. I haven't been to a party in a while. Well, there was Cromicon II a few weeks ago. And Dave's sister's kegger with all those high school kids a month before that. What I mean to say is that it's been a while since I've been to a party where I've known almost no one. I hope there won't be any awkward corners to stand in--the temptation might be difficult to resist.

Eh, who am I kidding? I'll probably down three beers in the first half hour and be complaining about the direction of my life to total strangers all night.

Animal encounters

2006-04-12T08:39:00.000-05:00

I think I mentioned that I've been spending a little time in the backyard on the hammock lately. Late Sunday afternoon, I was reclining comfortably, catching up on my New Yorker reading. I think I was in the middle of an article about racial politics in the Netherlands when I looked up and noticed a bird in a high branch directly above me (the tree I was under was very tall--I'm bad at estimating--1.5 times as tall as my two-story house, I'd say). I thought to myself, "If this bird decides to relieve itself, I'll be cast in the role of birdie toilet." But what was the likelihood of that? It was a million to one, I figured.

I was wrong. About five minutes after I noticed the bird and contemplated getting shat on, I got shat on. Just a tiny spec--maybe the size of a dime--on the left shoulder of my t-shirt. Still, I was pissed, mostly because it meant I had to get up off the hammock, go inside, and change my shirt. I wasn't going to loaf around with bird crap on my shoulder (as tempting as that prospect was).

Later that evening, I was invited to Carina's house for some Palm Sunday coffee and dessert. I related my in-the-line-of-fire story to her and her family, and she gasped and said, "That's good luck! It's really rare to get crapped on by a bird!" This superstition was vaguely familiar, but it hadn't occurred to me until then. So since Sunday I've been walking around waiting for something good to happen.

Unfortunately, I had a second animal encounter late last night that maybe have negated my bird crap bonanza. I was walking to my car from Corinne's apartment in downtown (well, the grad ghetto) New Haven, when a black cat "crossed my path." Or I crossed it's path. Actually, we were travelling in opposite directions and just kind of passed each other. I tried to remember if I'd ever seen a stray black cat before--I don't think I ever have. As we went by each other, the cat gave me a look as if to say, "What, you're not sprinting to the other side of the street? Don't you know I'm supposed to be bad luck?" I suppose I might have gone out of my way to avoid that cat if I didn't think that at the very least the bird defecation incident would cancel out any potential misfortune.

Maybe this afternoon I'll stand under that tree for a while in hopes of regaining some of that bird crap karma.

First day on the job

2006-04-11T00:44:00.000-05:00

Not too much to say at this point. My first five hours of work weren't all that stimulating. I filled out a W4; waited around for 45 minutes while a few people figured out how to start the computer that I was to be working on; made a few phone calls to disinterested bus charter companies; and furtively checked my email.

(Sidebar: I only had two new emails today--one moronic forward from my father [I don't have the heart to tell him to stop forwarding stupid office humor to me]; and one rather distressed email from my aunt. She was pissed about an incident that took place over the weekend. On Saturday, I went out for hibachi with her and my two young female cousins (12 and 16). At the end of the meal, after she had looked at the check, my aunt turned and said to me, "You can pay me back for this meal once you get your first paycheck." Some combination of stupidity and Sapporo caused me to say in instantaneous reply, "And you can give me gas money for all the times I pick the girls up from school." My aunt's face contorted into a mask of shock and revulsion. I think I quickly followed-up with an, "I'm just kidding," but it was like throwing a glass of water at a forest fire. I felt pretty lousy for having said what I said, because I didn't really mean it. A few minutes later, she pressed the issue, saying, "Well, I don't think you've spent $100 on gas picking the girls up from school." Again, stupidity and Sapporo said, "And I don't think I ate $100 worth of food." I looked away so as to avoid seeing her reaction. I asked myself when I had turned into such an asshole. Flash forward to today: I was half-expecting some sort of communication from her regarding the incident, but when I read it at work today it hit me pretty hard. It read, in paraphrase, "Good luck on your first day of work! Why are you an asshole...[500 words]...no really, aren't you ever appreciative of anything? Hope your first day goes well!" I spent at least an hour of my first working day arranging the pens on my desk while mentally drafting my effusively apologetic response.)

Ooh, ooh. One fun thing was setting up my voicemail. It was the kind of system where you record your name and your greeting separately for twice the fun. I used to hate the sound of my voice, but I've either gotten used to it or it has legitimately started to sound halfway decent (satisfyingly deep when I'm thinking about it, somewhat gravelly, slighly breathy, a hint of an implacable accent.) I recorded my name a half a dozen times, and the greeting more than a dozen times. It took a lot of practice runs to get it to sound unrehearsed. The fun really started when I discovered the feature that lets you listen to what you've recorded. I gave myself a good chuckle listening to a few botched versions ("Hi, you've reached Michuhlapresti, I'm regretfully blabedy blah blah"). And I definitely listened to the finished version a bunch of times. I knew it was right when I found myself thinking, "Yeah, now that's a guy that I would hang out with. He sounds tough, but kind of urbane too." Good times.

Looks like there was plenty to say after all. Funny how that happens.

Coming soon:
-An official tally of my jobless days
-A thorough analysis of the months between June 2005 and March 2006
-Workplace strife (knock on wood)
-Qpac Polling update: I may be working 40 (total) hours by next week
-Something pertaining to the world at large (Ha!)

(Temporarily) employed

2006-04-07T22:06:00.000-05:00

So, I got the job that I interviewed for on Thursday. (They called me two hours after the interview was over. I was in the middle of writing the previous post when they called, as a matter of fact. I didn't have the heart to scrap it.)

I'm starting work on Monday at 10 a.m.

Job title: Researcher at Business N** H**** Magazine (I'm trying to ward off Google hits by my future employers.)

I'll be working 20-25 hours a week, at least through the end of May.

Also on Monday I plan to head over to the Q-pac Polling Institute to fill out an application for the pollster job. Like I said last time, if I can nab 20 or so hours over there, I'll be working full-time and I can start thinking about getting out of the house.

In a way, accepting this offer feels slightly anti-climactic. It's no dream job, but it has been clear for a while that a dream job isn't within my reach at this point (not to mention the fact that I don't have a very clear notion of what that dream job would be). I'd say this job falls about halfway between awesome and embarassing.

Irrespective of how I feel about this particular gig, however, it is an indescribable relief to finally be moving on. I've gained some traction. The ball is rolling. Pick a metaphor. Perhaps this is a slow start, but at least it's a start. The hard part is over (I think, I hope).

One question that lingers in the wake of today's news is the future of this chronicle. Where does it go from here? I don't have any interest whatsoever in scribing a humdrum "Offices are Funny" blog, or worse yet, an "I'm Studying for the LSAT" blog. I suppose I could shuck theme altogether--J.C. and Co. over at EatFirst#1 write a good theme-less blog.

One thing's for sure: I'll have to reconsider the title. I've had a few in mind ("Upper-Level Think Piece," "The Exception Proves the Rule," "What the Sh*t" and "I Think I'm Pretentious But I'm Really Just Dumb").

I've got at least a couple of posts left before any major overhaul takes place (most notably: a meticulously reconstructed chronology of the past 10 months of my life).

I can only think of one way to end this post:

[Sigh of m-----f---ing relief]

Breathlessly close (?)

2006-04-06T11:52:00.000-05:00

I had a job interview this morning. I was ten minutes late because they were doing some road work on southbound 91.

The position I interviewed for was that of a "researcher" at a business publication in New Haven (for those of you who know the Elm City, the office is across the street from Tandor, above the martial arts studio). The two women who interviewed me did most of the talking. They explained the duties of the position (compiling information for an annual publication that features lists ranking various types of businesses against one another). They described some of the challenges I might face (businesses being reluctant to provide particular pieces of information; not having phone calls returned). I got the obligatory "What are you doing now?" question and I fumbled through my "Well, I've been taking some time off to travel and write..." answer. (For the first time, I heard myself say "I graduated from college about a year ago." It was a mortifying experience.) At one point, one of the women used the word "over-qualified" to describe me, and it was all I could do to keep from forming my hand into the shape of a pistol and pointing it at my temple. I assured them that I was eager to accept the position, and I promised to commit myself for the duration of the project (April and May). I asked when I might hear back from them and if they would tell me either way, and they said I would hear yes-or-no by Friday or Monday. I regaled them with my Food & Wine horror story, and we all shared a hearty chortle. (Did you know that Lewis Carroll coined the term "chortle," and that it is defined as a combination of a chuckle and a snort?) At the end of the interview there was a flurry of handshakes, I had a few copies of past publications thrust into my arms, and I walked out of the office with a spring in my step.

I'd like to think that I'll be offered this job, and that I'll take it. I felt comfortable and confident, I made a strong case for myself, and I think the ladies took a shine to me. On the drive home, I was all smiles. Being in the magazine's office reminded me that my most fulfilling experiences in the past have been with publications (a fact that had all-but-faded from my mind in recent months). Yeah, this job would be part-time (24 hours or so a week), and temporary, and it's not Newsweek or Entertainment Weekly (ha), but I can honestly say I'm excited about it. If nothing else, it's a ground-floor position in print journalism that could be the resume item I need to weasel into something a little more flashy in the (near?) future. And if this works out, I might also continue to pursue the night-and-weekend job at Quinnipiac, in which case I could be working full-time hours and finally be able to turn tail on dad's house in North Haven.

Have you noticed how rosy everything always seems to me after a job interview? Twenty mintues of perfunctory interview banter and I'm suddenly the golden boy on the path to greatness. Watch it all come crashing down tomorrow with an email that says "We're sorry, but we've found someone who is better suited to our needs at this point in time. Best of luck!" Just watch.

P.S. - In yesterday's post I mentioned a tip that I received from a Herald buddy. Late last night, I was struck by a bolt of paranoia--"Is somebody punking me again?" was the question that flashed into my head. It seemed slightly unusual to be getting a job tip in the comments section of a blog post, and it was especially odd to be getting it from this particular person. I wasn't aware that he was a blog reader, and it seemed strange that he had been able to find the link to this webpage but hadn't been able to find my email address. I had already sent him a desperately eager email, so when I woke up this morning I sent a second disclaimer email saying, "So, some people who read my blog have a tendency of jerking me around, and if you had no idea what I was talking about in my email yesterday, I'd like to apologize."

It turns out that it wasn't a hoax. After my second email, my friend writes back saying "Uhhh, that was me. Stop being so paranoid."

Just another day in the life.

Status report

2006-04-05T12:01:00.000-05:00

Looking back at the posts of the past couple of weeks, it feels like I've lately neglected to report on the basic nuts-and-bolts of my day-to-day activities. You've probably been sitting there thinking "Gosh, all Mike does these days is recline on the sofa watching reruns of The Sopranos, trolling IMDb for future Surreal Life cast members, and writing bad sad-sack haikus." Wrong you are, my friends. I've been as busy as someone in my situation could hope to be. Here's a bullet point update to bring you up to speed:

-Jobs opportunities currently on the docket include:
--Literary Assistant in North Branford (it's been more than a month, and I've basically given up, but it still counts until I get the "the position has been filled" email)
--Researcher for business-to-business publication in New Haven (a few days have gone by with no word)
--Copy Assistant at Random House (Ha. Ha ha.)
--PR Assistant in West Cornwall, CT (it irks me that I haven't heard anything back from this one; how many people could possibly have applied to this obscure job out in the middle of nowhere?)
--Telephone Interviewer for the Quinnipiac University Polling Institute (sent in a resume yesterday; if it works out, this one could be really interesting [Quinnipiac conducts a lot of political polls, and you'll often see them cited on national news reports])

-I got an email from Kaplan the other day, reinviting me to participate in SAT tutor training. I decided to decline, because at this point it doesn't feel worthwhile, and I'm still kind of pissed that I wasted the entire month of February thinking that I'd be starting at Kaplan in March. It might be a bad decision not to go through with it--yesterday in Newsweek, I read an article about a 27-year-old who just published his first novel, which is a fictionalized account of his three-year stint as an SAT tutor in Manhattan. Whatever. I can't really justify not doing it, so I'll just move on.

-Maybe you caught this interesting development in the comments section of the "What's an Ojibwe?" post: a former Herald colleague of mine sent me a tip about a couple of job openings with Steven Brill, a guy who, among other things, created CourtTV (I think). I'm prepared to dive headlong into these opportunities (one is a writer-researcher job this guy's latest entrepreneurial venture; the other is as a coordinator for journalism career information at Yale). I feel like the writer-researcher gig would be the more favorable of the two. Mostly, it'd get me out of New/North Haven and into New York City, which, the more I think about it, is where I'd like to be right now. I have no idea what my chances of landing either of these jobs will be. I'll keep you posted.

-I met with my uncle and one of his associates yesterday to go over the work I've been doing for them. (In case you missed it, I'm gathering information on companies that have moved out of the Northeast and into the American South or to South America to lower their operating costs.) There wasn't much to report, to their dismay. I feel like I'm in over my head with this project. I have zero working knowledge of business or economics (my Game Theory course in college was torturous). And, quite frankly, I don't ever want to have anything to do with business. From my brief exposure, I can confirm that it's the cold, soulless world we all think it is. Cubicles and expense reports and "maximizing profits." Shudder. (Sidebar: The secretary at the company, the one I wrote about several weeks ago, gave me a very chilly reception this time. She appeared not to recognize me ["Have you ever been here before?"] and she pointedly demanded my paper visitor's badge back when I left. Clearly there was no way she could have found the blog post I wrote about her. I hope.)

-A friend of mine has asked if I would write a recommendation on her behalf for a summer internship she's applying to. This assignment is sure to be the highlight of my month. I'm very excited to be doing it, and I'm very grateful to her for asking me.

-Yesterday, I went with a few people (Corinne!) to the Bushnell Theater in Hartford for a reading by David Sedaris. It was hilarious. And sometimes quite moving. And if I could have anyone's career in the entire world it would probably be his. I may have said that about someone else already (Susan Orlean?), but I'll rescind that and say Sedaris instead. What impressed me most about the reading was the way he was able to control the mood and emotions of an audience of thousands of people. One moment, the theater would be filled with laughter, and the next it was reverently silent. It's an awesome power, and (sadly for me) it's certainly an inherent ability and not something you can achieve by earning a Master's degree.

-This past Monday I took a road trip with my friend Kate to Rhode Island (a Rhode trip?). She had to sign a lease on an apartment she'll be living in this summer. We had a pleasant day: I got a walking tour of the campus, met he old advisor, had a few beers at happy hour, and ate a nice burrito dinner. Nothing beats Li'l Rhody.

-I've got the house all to myself this weekend (Friday-Sunday). Dad's taking a trip to B-more with his lady friend. If you'd like to do anything devious and/or nefarious, you know how to reach me.

-I need to get a gym membership. Like, now.

-Work on my creative writing has totally stalled. It's been days since I've written anything. I've got less than a week to get ten more pages together if I want to apply to the Iowa program. It's doable, but it'll be a challenge. But I really want to go through with it.

I think that about does it. (That was long. I'm sure I'll have lots of spelling and grammar to correct.)

See? And you thought I was just sitting around with my thumb up my...

What's an Ojibwe?

2006-04-03T12:11:00.000-05:00

Over the past few months, I've been prone to finding inspiration is sources ranging from the sublime (Thomas Pynchon) to the absurd (The All-American Rejects). Most recently, The Sopranos has been providing a few pearls that I've caught myself latching onto. I'm slightly hesitant to take anything on The Sopranos seriously, since it usually seems like most of the ideas portrayed in the show are cynical. But I'm a sucker. But you already knew that.

I've been thinking a lot about the Ojibwe saying that has been given a lot of screen time in the last couple of episodes. If you watch The Sopranos, you'll probably think it's dumb of me to be reproducing the saying here. I think it's pretty dumb too. But here it is.

"Sometimes I go about in pity for myself, and all the while, a great wind carries me across the sky."

I've put off posting for a couple of days because I was reluctant to have the "04.06" link pop up. It's April. It's spring. The weather was spectacular yesterday. I sat outside on the hammock and read all afternoon.

Who am I? Where am I going?

My very own Surreal Life

2006-03-31T15:37:00.000-05:00

This afternoon I'm taking a break from the usual self-involved bitch fest, per the request of a very regular reader. Today's proposed topic: who would comprise my ideal Surreal Life cast?

At first I was tempted to pick my seven favorite totally awesome celebrities. I was thinking Jack Nicholson, Morgan Freeman, Bill Clinton, Jodie Foster, Edie Falco, Gwyneth Paltrow and Frances McDormand. But it occurred to me that casting stars of that magnitude wouldn't really be true to the Surreal Life format. What makes the Surreal Life compelling is that its participants are sub-celebrities--desperate enough to be on the show in the first place, and to participate in a host of degrading activities (flipping burgers, cross-dressing, stripping) just for a little basic cable face time.

I IMDb-ed the show, and it quickly became apparent to me that the show has a very specific-- verging on rigid--casting formula. These are the seven distinct "types" that round out every cast, almost without exception:

-The Washed-Up Child/Sitcom Star (e.g., Christopher Knight, Bronson Pinchot, Dave Coulier)
-The Washed-Up Rapper (e.g., M.C. Hammer, Vanilla Ice, Flavor Flav, Da Brat, Pepa)
-The Washed-Up Model (e.g., Traci Bingham, Brigitte Nielsen, Caprice, Marcus Shenkenberg)
-The Washed-Up Reality Star (e.g., Jerri Manthey, Adrianne Curry, Omarosa)
-The Washed-Up Rocker (e.g., Vince Neil, Jordan Knight, Jane Wiedlin)
-The Train Wreck (e.g., Tammy Faye Bakker, Joanie Laurer, Janice Dickinson)
-The Freak/Curiosity (e.g., Emmanuel Lewis, Verne Troyer, Ron Jeremy)

Keeping this schematic in mind, I present the Surreal Life cast of my wildest dreams:

-Bea Arthur (Sitcom Star)
Cause old ladies are funny. (I hope she's still alive.)
-Will Smith (Rapper)
I guess he's still got a viable movie career, but his rapping career has definitely ground to a halt. So he gets the nod.
-Elizabeth Hurley (Model)
She's hot. And English.
-Jon "The Blazer" Benarroch (Reality Star)
He was on a VH1 show called "Kept." He graduated from North Haven High School in 2000. When asked how many halves are in a whole, he's been known to respond, "Depends on what kind of hole you're taking about."
-Ozzie Osbourne (Rocker)
Remember when "The Osbournes" was awesome? A stint on the Surreal Life would be a fitting epilogue to an incomprehensible television career.
-Paris Hilton (Train Wreck)
If she was spoiled and stuck-up, she wouldn't be doing this.
-Rebecca Sealfon (Freak/Curiosity)
Just watch the video. (Is "freak" a euonym for this girl?)

And there you have it. Too bad there's not a "disaffected college graduate" slot to fill. I'd be in there in a hot second.

The law school option

2006-03-30T14:04:00.000-05:00

One of the recurring themes of this chronicle has been my decision to apply (or not to apply) to law school. There was a period back in the winter when I pored over paperback law school guides and toiled for hours inputting statistics into spreadsheets so I could get some idea of where I might get in (Results: Harvard/Yale=impossible; Michigan/Georgetown=longshots; BC/BU=likely; UConn=safety). But then over the holiday season--with all its idealism and optimism--the idea of law school grew stale and started to fade and the desire to pursue my creative passions (ha) grew more urgent. I started working on some creative pieces. And kept working on them. And kept working on them. And now, a couple of months later, I still don't have one solid piece of short fiction that I'd feel comfortable submitting to any kind of writing program. Every morning, I go back and read what I've written the day before, and I cringe and I'm embarassed.

The June LSAT is a little more than two months away. In some ways, law school would be a get-out-of-jail-free pass. It's not free, either in terms of money or effort, but it would certainly tie up a lot of the loose ends of my life (one more year to kick around, hopefully doing something fulfilling; three years of school; thirty years of a potentially-lucrative career; ten [knock wood] years of retirement). But at the same time, I can't help but think that going to law school is a little defeatist. I know that a lot of people who read this are in law school, or will be soon, and my intent is not to denegrate anyone else's decision. It's just that in my case, enrolling in law school will mean acknowledging that I'm not cut out for all of those things that I wish I was cut out for.

The most compelling aspect of law school is that it would be a second chance to have a fully-realized adult (not in the pornographic sense...or at least not entirely in the pornographic sense) social life in an academic environment. It's not that I didn't love my years as an undergraduate, nor am I looking for Bright College Years 2.0, but there's something almost irresistable about that ready-made assortment of interesting people that one finds in any academic program. But is it worth three years of hard work and tens of thousands of dollars? Decisions, decisions.

Status report:
-I'm finishing up the project I've been working on for my uncle (the plastic perfume pump tycoon). Should be getting paid for twenty hours of work pretty soon.
-Half a dozen jobs I've applied to in the past couple of weeks have all been dead ends. Surprise, surprise.
-I'm contemplating applying to work at Foxwoods Resort and Casino. Maybe as a cashier or something totally mindless. The pay is decent, the environment is at least mildly amusing, and I probably wouldn't feel guilty if I decided to quit after a month.
-If I can cobble together twenty double-spaced pages of creative writing by April 14 (I've got ten right now), I'll probably submit to the University of Iowa Writer's Workshop summer program. The program runs from the beginning of June to the end of July. Hopes are as low as they can possibly be.

Identity II

2006-03-28T12:54:00.000-05:00

IV.
Weary and trembling
Imagine a warm corner
To fend off the cold

V.
When we are broken
We cleave with desperation
To nothing at all

VI.
Unable to move
Look back and see no footsteps
When nothing is right

[This will probably be the last of these. Next post should be a return to the narrative form.]

Identity

2006-03-27T09:04:00.000-05:00

I. Looking, hopelessly
Confident pictures
I can see you know yourself
I wish you knew me

II. Cut down to size
"I guess I just thought
About how it affects me."
"Well, that's how you are."

III. Decline of a dog
Tremor down her back
Her legs give out beneath her
No pain in her face

Today/tonight

2006-03-26T02:04:00.000-05:00

Brunch in Westville with Phoebe, who doesn't read this.

Came up with a name for my buddy at the Vermont Welcome Center: Vin (as in Vincent). Not Mike (as in Michael).

Bought Dave some beer at the packie. He doesn't read this either.

Party in Cromwell. It may or may not have been called Cromicon II.

UCLA sux.

Made friends with four perfectly pleasant high school senior girls. Kids these days.

Got a call from one of my favorite south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-liners.

Came home and listened to "Move Along" about ten more times.

Wrote this. Duh.

Bball and The History Channel

2006-03-24T11:21:00.000-05:00

I can tell already that this is going to be a boring one. Sorry kids. You can't expect gut-wrenching self-pity every day.

Boring: My NCAA bracket is totally shot. I had Gonzaga in the Final Four and Duke in the championship game, and both of them lost last night. That Gonzaga/UCLA game was a heartbreaker. With a minute left, I was all set to send out a couple of consolatory/taunting emails to people who had picked the Bruins.

I can't quite put my finger on the reason for my Gonzaga affinity. There's just a freshness about them. They've got polish without the pedigree. And maybe it's also their unfortunate habit of late-season disappointment. Even when they're dominating, they still feel like an underdog.

Slightly less boring: A copy of my resume is currently in the hands of an employee of The History Channel. He's the boyfriend of the daughter of one of my father's coworkers (got that?). It'd probably be a cool gig, if I can land it. I'd get to move to NYC, which is the most appealing aspect of this opportunity. (I stopped looking at New York-based job ads a couple of months ago.) I've got to say, though, I'm not too keen on all of this someone-who-knows-someone business. I'd rather make my own way in life (even now; especially now), and I try to avoid getting things via backdoor channels. But my father has been hounding me (in his unflinchingly passive-agressive way) to allow him to help me in my job search. He wants to "take a more active role" in my life, and says that I should "use him as a resource." It's a last-ditch parenting blitz, and I'm trying hard to grin and bear it. Just between you and me, I can't !#%@* stand it.

But I said he could give my resume to his coworker, who in turn would give it to his daughter, who in turn would give it to her boyfriend. (I can just imagine my resume fluttering around the offices of The History Channel. It's probably being shuffled from pile bottom to pile bottom. If I'm lucky, maybe somebody is using it as a lunch napkin.) I'm supposedly going to have a phone interview early next week. I'll let you know how it goes.

These are the jobs that I'm currently waiting to hear on:
-Part-time literary assistant in North Branford (no response after several weeks, even after repeated follow-up emails).
-Temporary office worker in New Haven real estate office (no response after one follow-up email).
-Assistant for small public relations firm in (get this) West Cornwall, CT. Here's where it is in relation to New Haven. Yikes.

$$$

2006-03-22T11:52:00.000-05:00

One more item for the day:

I was talking to a friend on AIM last night and she said something to the effect of "Yeah, I wish my parents would give me money so I could live at home and not have to work."

Her intent wasn't to be mean-spirited, but still I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. I realized that her's is probably the obvious assumption to make.

In the interest of full disclosure, and in an attempt to restore a little of my integrity, I would like to let the record show that I DO NOT TAKE MONEY FROM MY PARENTS. I live rent-free and I eat approximately one meal's worth of food per day that my parents have purchased, but other than those things I take care of my own expenses. Between a solid (but soon-to-be-depleted) savings account and the occasional influx of blackjack winnings, I provide myself with gas for the car, cell phone service, most of my food, all of my beer and movies and entertainment expenses, and all other incidentals. Obviously, my intention is to move out of the house the second I'm earning a paycheck of any kind.

It's demoralizing enough that everyone knows that I live at home, but it was far worse to realize that people might think that I get an allowance. No sir, no ma'am. Like I said in the slam poem, "No job, but not broke/I'm no rich kid, I just got some cash saved up." Word.

Fiction is stranger than truth

2006-03-22T10:22:00.000-05:00

So, in what may prove to be a momentary lapse in judgment, I've decided to post a few hundred words from a creative piece that I've been working on. Similarly impulsive moves haven't really been working out for me lately, but screw it. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't know that the vast majority of people who'll read this are folks that I know (and trust...for the most part).

There's no title to the piece at the moment, and the main character doesn't have a name. This selection is the beginning, and it's very rough (hedge hedge hedge).

So, yeah. Here it is. My one request would be that if you have something particularly vicious to say about it, send it to me in an email rather than posting it in the comments section.

Driving northbound on Interstate 91, a few miles past the Massachusetts state line, [name] pulled the car off the highway and into the parking lot of the Vermont Welcome Center. Characteristically lead-footed, he was making great time and could afford a rest stop.

A shock of frigid northern New England air assaulted him when he opened the driver’s side door. Thanks to the miracle of climate control, he had spent the past two hours driving in a comfortable cocoon of recirculated 70 degree air. He was surprised by the sharp drop in temperature between this spot and his starting point in New Haven, only a hundred and something miles away.

The cold air made him jealous. Connecticut had been experiencing an unseasonably warm winter. He’d had virtually no occasion to don a pair of gloves or his favorite knit scarf this season, and it was already early February. A sub-tropical climate seemed to be overtaking the southwesternmost New England state, working its way from the wealthy outer suburbs of New York City and creeping steadily up the Long Island Sound shoreline, its progress encouraged by the fuel tanks of SUVs that were standard issue in those parts. He was sure that it wouldn’t be more than a few decades before his home state was stripped of its New England bona fides altogether, left to graft itself begrudgingly onto the Mid-Atlantic likes of New Jersey and Delaware.

On the short walk from the car to the entrance of the Welcome Center, he pulled on a tight-fitting grey wool hat, thrust his hands into the pockets of his synthetic fleece jacket and shrugged his shoulders up towards his ears in defense against the cold.

He had visited this rest stop once before. He had been traveling with his mother to Hanover, New Hampshire, where he’d scheduled an admissions interview and campus tour at Dartmouth. He thought of the Dartmouth campus, recalling its uniform architectural style of white brick and deep green shutters. He wondered what it was like to be a Dartmouth man. It must be nice to go to school out in the woods, he thought, far from the pressures and judgments of city life.

The edifice that rose above him now was rustic, and was built to resemble an old barn. The dark stained wood planks that covered the exterior seemed authentic enough, but the date on the cement cornerstone—1999—betrayed the building’s youth.

Each of the double doors to the main building was affixed with a long wooden handle, carved to depict a woodsy tableau. The plank on the left showed a pudgy beaver hunched over a stream, a buck-toothed grin etched onto its face and its flat tail raised in a kind of wave. In the background stood a pile of logs stacked so neatly they might have served as the foundation of President Lincoln’s childhood home. On the opposite side of the stream stood a lone living tree, a portion of its trunk gnawed down to the size of a baseball bat—presumably by the giddy beaver.

The handle on the right was dominated by head, upper torso and front legs of a large moose, which gazed thoughtfully off into the distance. Behind it stretched a placid tree-lined lake, the sky above it dotted with what appeared to be a formation of loons or some other migratory bird. As [name] opened the door, he allowed his hand to graze the moose’s bas relief antlers.

I can't believe I'm about to post this. Eesh.

Note to The Sopranos

2006-03-20T09:02:00.000-05:00

I'm sorry for doubting you. Can you ever forgive me?

Two words to describe last night's episode: Devastatingly brilliant.

Odds and ends

2006-03-19T14:02:00.000-05:00

-I've probably watched over a dozen hours of basketball since Thursday afternoon. (My bracket is doing pretty well in the pool that I entered. I picked a good upset in Wichita State over Tennessee, but I've already lost one of my Elite Eight teams [Kansas]. My Final Four are UConn, Duke, BC and Gonzaga. I'm really only worried about the Zags, but they looked good last night even without a stellar performance from Morrison the Mustache.)

-On a related note, the game that I'm currently watching is Bradley vs. Pittsburgh. On the score graphic, the schools are abbreviated "Brad" and "Pitt." Seriously.

-I've been listening to the song "Move Along" by The All-American Rejects non-stop since I saw the music video for it at Kate's house last night. No song should be that good.

-I'm going to be pissed if tonight's Sopranos episode is a flashback. The blurb for the episode mentions something about Tony going on a business trip, which doesn't sound like something that someone who's just been shot would do. The show has earned a lot of acclaim largely because it is unapologetically realistic (within the context of a mob story, anyway) and because it unfolds at the pace of real life. For the show to lapse into worn-out tactics like cliffhangers and convoluted timelines would constitute a major retreat from its usual sophistication. I could handle a flash-forward, but the idea that last week's episode was in fact the chronological end of the series feels cheap and disappointing.

All right, that's it. Over and out.

Correspondence course

2006-03-18T16:22:00.000-05:00

People must wonder why I've been so ineffectual at securing a job (of any kind). I wish I had a definitive answer (I probably wouldn't be writing this if I did). Are there higher forces at work here, conspiring against me, forcing me to pay some karmic debt? Maybe. Take a look at this recent job-related correspondence, and judge for yourself.
------------------
From: [Me]
To: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
Date: Mar 15, 2006 3:37 PM
Subject: Legal Assistant position

To whom it may concern:

I am writing to you in response to your posting on Craigslist advertising an opening for a part-time legal assistant at your law office.

I am a recent college graduate, with a bachelor's degree in English. I am seriously considering applying to law school and am interested in gaining some work experience in the field.

I've held numerous office jobs in the past, and I like to think that I pick up new skills fairly quickly, so I'm sure that I would be able to efficiently complete any task that might be set before me at your law office. I am a good independent worker, I'm very easy-going, and I think I would be a good fit for the position as you've outlined it.

I have attached my resume to his email, formatted as a Microsoft Word document. Please let me know if you are unable to access this file, or if I can provide you with any additional information about my background and qualifications.

Thank you for your consideration, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely,

[Me]
-----------------
From: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
To: [Me]
Date: Mar 15, 2006 4:30 PM
Subject: Re: Legal Assistant position

Dear [Me]:
Stamford is a bit of a hike for a p-t job, but if you're still interested, can we meet Tuesday, march 22 in the AM?
[unnamed lawyer]
----------------
From: [Me]
To: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
Date: Mar 16, 2006 9:56 AM
Subject: Re: Re: Legal Assistant position

Ms. [Lawyer]-

Thank you for getting back to me. I would very much like to come in to meet with you, and any time during the morning of Tuesday the 22nd would be fine with me.

I did consider the distance between New Haven and Stamford, but my primary concern at this particular moment is finding a job that's a good fit. Plus, I've got a very sturdy vehicle.

Is there a particular time that works best for you on Tuesday?

[Me]
----------------
From: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
To: [Me]
Date: Mar 16, 2006 10:22 AM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Legal Assistant position

[Me],
10 AM is good for me.
Take exit XX off the Merritt and I'm about X miles up on the right hand side.
[lawyer]
-------------------
From: [Me]
To: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
Date: Mar 16, 2006 12:26 PM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Legal Assistant position

I look forward to meeting you at 10 a.m. on Tuesday morning.

Thanks,

[Me]
-------------------
From: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
To: [Me]
Date: Mar 16, 2006 1:05 PM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Legal Assistant position

[Me]:
If you have any last minute complications, just let me know. Likewise, I'll do the same.
--------------------
From: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
To: [Me]
Date: Mar 16, 2006 3:52 PM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Legal Assistant position

Dear [Me]:
Since I was planning to close down the office in the next few months, I have decided to do so at the end of this month, so I regret that I will not be hiring anyone.
I am moving to New Haven in the near future and will start the transition process at the end of the month.
Sorry about the timing, but best of luck in your search for something appropriate to your very excellent credentials.

---------------------
From: [Me]
To: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
Date: Mar 17, 2006 9:27 AM
SubjectL Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Legal Assistant position

[Lawyer]-

Thanks for letting me know. Best of luck in your transition to New Haven.

[Me]
-----------------------

I guess I'm posting this sequence because I think it's emblematic of the overwhelming absurdity of my job search. Expectations are raised and hopes are dashed. The tide comes in and the tide goes out. So I beat on, a boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Mystery solved

2006-03-16T12:50:00.000-05:00

Note to the prankster: It's all good, man. I ain't mad at ya. You're a little zany, but I won't hold it against you.

Note to the young female legal assistant: You owe my boy a drink. Big time.

Note to everyone else: Don't miss the Groundhog Day post (one down). It's a real beaut.

Groundhog Day

2006-03-16T12:24:00.000-05:00

I'm sure you remember "Groundhog Day," the quintessential '90s Bill Murray movie. I caught myself thinking about this movie as I drifted off to sleep last night. After a series of fitful dreams populated by imaginary versions of real people, I awoke in much the same way that Murray's character awakes countless times in the film--not to the last few bars of "I've Got You Babe," but to the familiar but still devasatating realization that I'm where I was yesterday.

It's going to take more than getting a job for my personal Groundhog Day to end, I can see that. A job for me is not far off. I've got an interview on Tuesday (for a part-time legal assistant position in Stamford) and I'd like to think that this is the real deal. Even if it doesn't work out, it's not like I'm going to be unemployed forever. But whenever I start working there's still going to be work to do; in fact, it will be at that point that the real work can finally begin. My joblessness isn't the cause of the mental/emotional rut that I've been in, it's a symptom. And earning a paycheck certainly isn't going to be a miracle cure.

It takes more than hooking up with Andie MacDowell for Bill Murray's character to wake up a day later. He wastes a lot of time trying to manipulate the world around him. He engages in a lot of destructive acts, like robbing banks and insulting people, which obviously aren't going to improve his situation. But when he gets around to doing nominally good deeds--saving lives, fixing flat tires--he's still no better off. It takes a wholesale reinvention, taking himself apart and putting himself back together piece by piece, for his living nightmare to end.

Throughout most of the film, everything the character does is intended to force himself out of the present and into the future. But the next day only comes when he finally lets go, accepts the present, and allows the future to come to him.

Another mystery

2006-03-15T02:16:00.000-05:00

Just when you (and I) thought this blog couldn't get any more "exciting", a new mystery begins to unfold! The seeds were planted about a month ago, when I began getting emails from someone I knew from college. He asked how I was doing, and told me a little about his job. In a second email, he congratulated me on being offered a job with Kaplan (suggesting that he had been reading this blog). Attached to this second email was "something to celebrate [my] newfound employment." It was a .pdf file, and it had been designed to resemble a New York City Transit Service Notice (look above).

I was impressed and very grateful to this guy for taking the time to make what I thought was a clever memento of my unemployment (at the time, it looked like Kaplan was a done deal). ["J. Lo," by the way, refers to me. It was a dumb nickname I had for about 5 seconds in college.]

Clearly, my friend had been reading the blog pretty thoroughly. The text of the poster makes direct reference to several post topics, and contains a direct quote.

Now to the mystery: I've been talking to this same friend via another medium, and when I recently thanked him for the sign that he made for me, he had no idea what I was talking about.

I was stunned. The email I got was clearly made out to look like it was from him. Not only was his (distinctive) name in the "To:" field, but the email also accurately described this guy's work situation and other things about him. I told the real guy about the emails that I had received and about the poster, and he was understandably freaked out.

Now, I'm not sure whether I'm the butt of this joke or if he is. Aside from one or two off-kilter moments in the emails, I felt like they were genuinely supportive. They certainly didn't feel malicious. Even looking at the poster after the fact, I still think it's funny and not at all condescending or cruel (unless you really take it literally). Aside from the falsified identity, there's nothing that would suggest that these notes are anything but benign.

But if someone wanted to send me an encouraging email, why would they co-opt someone else's identity? And why would he pick this particular guy to imitate? Now that the deception has been revealed, the real guy is worried that this identity theft (if that's what you'd call it) stretches beyond the couple of emails that I've received.

There's a very short list of people who could be behind this. It's got to be someone that both of us know and are friendly with--and there are really only half a dozen people that fit into that category. The real guy and I have narrowed it down to one prime suspect, but he denies any involvement. Nevertheless, I'm confident with the conclusion that we've reached.

On Tuesday morning, when I first realized that I'd been played for an idiot, I was furious. I was ready to cut off all ties with whoever was behind this stunt. I felt manipulated, and I was embarrassed that I'd been forwarding my own effusive responses to the real guy (who had never actually contacted me to begin with).

But I've cooled off now, and I can sort of see the humor in this gag (even if it is totally bizarre). I think it would be very decent of the perpetrator to step forward and fess up (especially if he's reading this). He need not fear reprisal.

My day at the office (Part 1)

2006-03-13T22:15:00.000-05:00

I'm going to be doing a little contract work for my uncle. He's the president of a small-ish perfume pump company (yes you heard right) in Stratford, CT. His parent company is mulling over whether to move the Stratford facility down to the southeastern U.S. or into Mexico where labor is cheaper, and my uncle is looking for some research on the pros and cons of such a move. (I think he doesn't want to move out of Connecticut and is looking for some evidence that proves that companies go south...when they go south.) He asked me if I'd be willing to do this research for him, and I told him I would.

I drove down to his office this afternoon to go over some of the specifics of the project. I had no idea what a vibrant experience I was in for. Or, perhaps more accurately, what a vibrantly un-vibrant experience.

Let me start out by saying that the word that kept flashing in my head throughout this entire experience was "soulless." I'm sure there are a host of more descriptive, less cliche words that I could use to describe what my day in a real live office was like, but "soulless" was the one that grabbed hold and wouldn't let go.

The name of the company that my uncle presides over is [deleted]. Somehow the name manages to be disingenuously futuristic and repulsively clinical at the same time. The plant, or factory, or whatever-you'd-call-it facility is located at the end of a very long industrial road. The road is called Lordship, as I recall. The street name made me think of England, or one of the Commonwealth countries. I imagined it as a grand boulevard lined with tall, majestic trees and ornate old buildings. In fact, it's a strip of crumbling grey pavement running through the tall yellow grasses of a tidal marsh, lined with low brown warehouses and fast food restaurants.

When I got to [deleted] HQ, I drove around to the front (which was actually located in what I would consider the back) and parked in a visitor space, honking as I did to shoo away a couple of seagulls who were gnawing on a hamburger wrapper. I followed the signs to the main entrance (red octagons on short posts spaced every twenty yards from the visitor parking area to the main door that proclaimed "STOP! All visitors must sign in at Main Entrance").

Just inside the entrance, in a small glassed-in alcove, was a grey felt sign with removeable white letters that read "[deleted] Group Incorporated WELCOMES Y-O-U".

I walked through the alcove and into the main reception area, where a woman--who, with stark blonde hair and a short lime green skirt, looked like she was trying very hard not to look 40ish--greeted me and told me to sign in and write my name on a visitor badge. My uncle was still at lunch, she said, and I should have a seat in the waiting area. My seating options were a black leather couch and a black leather chair. I opted for the chair, next to a tall leafy plant (I picked a leaf and ascertained that it was real).

I took a moment to assess my surroundings. Directly across from me, along one entire wall of the waiting room, was a large glass case filled with cosmetics bottles. Perfumes, lotions, ointments, creams, colognes, aftershaves, breath sprays--any product you can imagine that might require a pump was represented in this case. It was a colorful assortment: reds, pinks, oranges, yellows, and on through the spectrum. But the color of each bottle was slightly off, tampered with in some way. Some sparkled (as did several containers of liquid soap marketed toward children); some were excessively glossy and metallic (as were a collection of aerosol perfume sprays); and some were bright pastels or neons (a suntan lotion line, among others).

After a moment it dawned on me that this was the company trophy case. A shrine to all of the products whose functional, stylish plastic pumps were a testament to the [deleted] Group's dedication to sophisticated craftmanship.

Above the leather sofa was a series of photo prints. The photos might have been family portraits, but in the place of smiling children were the shiny metallic cylinders that topped fancy glass bottles of perfume. The [deleted] Group's proud offspring.

I took all of this in as best I could, trying not to dwell on the surreality of it all. So, I thought to myself, this is an inside look at the world of plastics manufacturing, nothing more. It's not the downfall of civilization; there's no need to comdemn a society that would exalt pieces of molded plastic as works of art. Just close your eyes and wait for your uncle to get back from lunch.

I was doing so well, until the receptionist answered an incoming call.

"[deleted] Group Incorporated, how may I direct your call? Oh, hi Dottie! Oh, yes, fine I had a wonderful weekend, thank you, the weather was so lovely and Christiana was in town and we went into New York for the day and, can you believe it, it was 70 degrees, and when I got here this morning everyone was asking me, 'How did you know that the weather would be so good to take the day off'...uh huh, we really lucked out, I couldn't believe it, the luck we had, and yes, the train down was lovely, except we were waiting at Cos Cob for fifteen minutes while they wheeled an old woman in a wheelchair onto the train, yes I know, me too, God forbid someday one of us should be confined to a wheelchair, but God willing we'll have the decency to not take the train during peak hours and make everybody wait while they roll out that big metal ramp and keep everybody waiting..."

To be continued...

[Note: I've taken the company name out of this post because I realized that it's conceivable that a Google search for the company name could lead to this site, and I wouldn't want to get myself or anyone else in any trouble.]

SLAM!

2006-03-11T02:48:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine is playing a "show" this evening at, of all places, Starbucks. Just him and his guitar, a couple of covers and a couple of original pieces that he still has to finish writing. To ease his nerves, I told him I'd be his opening act and do a little slam poetry before he went on. (What a funny guy I am.) I don't really know the first thing about slam poetry. Any attempt I might make to perform a work(?) of slam poetry would probably fairly be categorized as offensive and mocking. I won't actually do it. But let's see what I can come up with.

[Postscript: it just took me about an hour to complete this novel little experiment, but I've kept the revisions to an absolute minimum. Brace yourselves. You're in for a treat, if I do say so myself.]

SLAM!
Crash! Crash!
Brokeback Mountain
Drinking fountain
Sinking, counting
The days til I'm starting
I'm off to a good start
If only I could start,
I might get going
Going, going places
I've got friends in high places
Future lawyers and doctors
I'm living at home, with no job and no prospects
No job, but not broke. I'm no rich kid
I just got some cash I saved up
Trying to get my mind made up
Playing some blackjack
Give my mom a heart attack
Spending the money I stole from the red man
Is 'red man' offensive?
Now don't get defensive.
Say what you will, just sit there attentive.
I spend all day writing
I'm a writer, a blogger
I'd probably be better off if I were a jogger (OUCH!)
You look in my eyes and you see what I'm missing
You hear in my voice a meek hesitation
I'm sitting, I'm thinking
I'd rather be doing
Instead of my thoughts and emotions construing
But I've got what I've got
I'm still stuck with my lot
Until I roll those dice and go home with the pot
Pot of gold
Into the fold
Get me out there, outside, out into the cold
I'll take it, I'll shiver
I'll freeze and I'll quiver
It's got to be better than this
At least for my liver (OH!)
Drunk on a Monday
Sounds like a fun day
Come home and someday I'll tell the whole story
It's gory
For sure-y
Get ready,
It's heady
Stop whining
Start shining
I write emails and don't send them
I get flesh wounds, try to mend them
I meet people and forget them
Or they forget me
Which is sadder?
It doesn't matter
Enough of this chatter
I imagine a life that I'll have in the future
All that I want is to try to suit your
Expectations. Whose are they
Though really?
They're mine
But listen, I whine
Where the hell is my spine?
Someone give me a sign
It's high time
That this rhyme
Was finished
Diminished
Shelved for the ages
Leaf through the pages
Five years, ten years from now
If God will allow
I'll be taking my bow
And looking back at how
This soft little kid
How he hid
What he did
What he didn't do
What he could have done
How he could have won
Could have been a son
To be proud of
How'd it have
Looked to myself
Ten years old, twelve
How will it look
To myself
Thirty years, older,
Getting colder, hopefully bolder
Not fitting the mold, or
The plan, or the norm
Weather this storm
Time to get born
Enough with forlorn
Fears, tears, doubts
All. Now. Shorn.

Caution: Pretentious terrain ahead

2006-03-09T01:05:00.000-05:00

For whatever reason, I woke up this morning thinking about a couple of passages from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Most mornings I wake up with a cloyingly infectious pop song in my head (like most normal people), but today it was cloyingly esoteric modern poetry.

It'd be nice if I could carry around my own little T. S. Eliot in my pocket (I mean a miniature version of the poet, not his works). I could take him out whenever I wanted, whisper a few thoughts or feelings in his ear, and let him do the talking.

Here's what he'd say today:

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

["If I thought my answer were to one who would ever return to the world, this flame should stay without another movement; but since none ever returned alive from this depth, if what I hear is true, I answer thee without fear of infamy."]

And then:

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous
Almost, at times, the Fool.

The thing I liked most about majoring in English and reading all of these great, sensitive (sometimes tormented) authors was that I always had someone to commiserate with.

Confirmation

2006-03-07T10:22:00.000-05:00

Got an email yesterday. It was in regards to the literary assistant job I applied to in North Branford:

Thank you for your interest in XYZ Company - we have recieved your email and your resume and we are in the process of reviewing them. We will notify you soon about further details pertaining the job opening(s) and to set up an interview session.

A pleasant change of pace, to be sure. There's none of the elation that used to come along with getting closer to employment. I've built the walls up pretty high where all that's concerned. I'm just content to be acknowledged. It'll surely be nice to get an interview, and it would be even nicer to get an offer. I swear to God, this is the one I'll finally take. I know I've said that before, but this time I mean it. If the job is scrubbing toilets with a toothbrush, I'll do it. Or I'll eat my hat. Seriously. No, seriously.

In other news, while my dad's cleaning lady was over yesterday, I drove out to Target, parked the car in the outskirts of the lot and wrote intently for two solid hours (i.e., until my laptop battery ran out). I've got two main things going, plus a couple of incidental pieces. One of the stories is a strict autobiographical episode (something fairly recent, but nothing job search-related). The other is still coming together, but I would classify it as (I know this will sound silly) part road-trip, part bildungsroman, part elegy. So far, it's set at the Vermont Welcome Center along I-91. Sounds heady, eh? One of the other random things I've been working on is my Oscar acceptance speech. Heehee.

Other than that, I'm trying to spend less time stalking people on Myspace and taking digital pictures of myself in the bathroom mirror. Ah, the life I lead.

Oscar night

2006-03-06T03:38:00.000-05:00

So, how about those Academy Awards? With one gigantic exception, it was a night of few surprises. All four acting awards were easily predictable. No surprises in writing or directing, either. But then there's "Crash," the freshly minted best picture of 2005.

So what gives? Haven't we been living in "Brokeback Mountain's"world for the past few months? Has any other best picture front-runner in recent memory been such a ubiquitous zeitgeist fixation? And hadn't our favorite repressed ranch hands cornered the market on progressive values? So how was it so easy for the seeming-juggernaut that was "Brokeback Moutain" to plummet from dominance to irrelevance with a flick of Jack Nicholson's wrist?

I browsed a few relevant online news sources in search of an expert opinion, hopeful but not really expecting anything substantive quite so soon after the announcement. I was pleasantly surprised when I stumbled upon the following bit of insta-analysis from Kenneth Turan of the Los Angeles Times ("Crash" home turf, mind you):

Sometimes you win by losing, and nothing has proved what a powerful, taboo-breaking, necessary film "Brokeback Mountain" was more than its loss Sunday night to "Crash" in the Oscar best picture category.

Despite all the magazine covers it graced, despite all the red-state theaters it made good money in, despite (or maybe because of) all the jokes late-night talk show hosts made about it, you could not take the pulse of the industry without realizing that this film made a number of people distinctly uncomfortable.

More than any other of the nominated films, "Brokeback Mountain" was the one people told me they really didn't feel like seeing, didn't really get, didn't understand the fuss over. Did I really like it, they wanted to know. Yes, I really did.

In the privacy of the voting booth, as many political candidates who've led in polls only to lose elections have found out, people are free to act out the unspoken fears and unconscious prejudices that they would never breathe to another soul, or, likely, acknowledge to themselves. And at least this year, that acting out doomed "Brokeback Mountain."

For Hollywood, as a whole laundry list of people announced from the podium Sunday night and a lengthy montage of clips tried to emphasize, is a liberal place, a place that prides itself on its progressive agenda. If this were a year when voters had no other palatable options, they might have taken a deep breath and voted for "Brokeback." This year, however, "Crash" was poised to be the spoiler.

I do not for one minute question the sincerity and integrity of the people who made "Crash," and I do not question their commitment to wanting a more equal society. But I do question the film they've made. It may be true, as producer Cathy Schulman said in accepting the Oscar for best picture, that this was "one of the most breathtaking and stunning maverick years in American history," but "Crash" is not an example of that.

I don't care how much trouble "Crash" had getting financing or getting people on board, the reality of this film, the reason it won the best picture Oscar, is that it is, at its core, a standard Hollywood movie, as manipulative and unrealistic as the day is long. And something more.

For "Crash's" biggest asset is its ability to give people a carload of those standard Hollywood satisfactions but make them think they are seeing something groundbreaking and daring. It is, in some ways, a feel-good film about racism, a film you could see and feel like a better person, a film that could make you believe that you had done your moral duty and examined your soul when in fact you were just getting your buttons pushed and your preconceptions reconfirmed.

So for people who were discomfited by "Brokeback Mountain" but wanted to be able to look themselves in the mirror and feel like they were good, productive liberals, "Crash" provided the perfect safe harbor. They could vote for it in good conscience, vote for it and feel they had made a progressive move, vote for it and not feel that there was any stain on their liberal credentials for shunning what "Brokeback" had to offer. And that's exactly what they did.

"Brokeback," it is worth noting, was in some ways the tamest of the discomforting films available to Oscar voters in various categories. Steven Spielberg's "Munich"; the Palestinian Territories' "Paradise Now," one of the best foreign language nominees; and the documentary nominee "Darwin's Nightmare" offered scenarios that truly shook up people's normal ways of seeing the world. None of them won a thing.

Hollywood, of course, is under no obligation to be a progressive force in the world. It is in the business of entertainment, in the business of making the most dollars it can. Yes, on Oscar night, it likes to pat itself on the back for the good it does in the world, but as Sunday night's ceremony proved, it is easier to congratulate yourself for a job well done in the past than actually do that job in the present.

Turan offers some powerful insights. (This is the kind of analytical ability I wish I had.) If there's any logic to something as frivolous as a movie award show, this guy has found it.

Moving on, with a glance over the shoulder

2006-03-03T13:42:00.000-05:00

All right, it's time to start pushing the previous post toward the back of the line.

It's been an eventful week. Although most of the "events" in question have actually been non-events. Oddly, the Kaplan misfire (which seems like it was ages ago) was relatively low on the turmoil scale. I probably could have benefited from the mileage I would have gotten out of fixating on it. Nothing's a better motivator than failure, or so one would think. (Remember when I said I'd have a job by the end of this week? Ha!) But alas, employment has been taking a back seat of late.

The outlook for the weekend is hopeful. As soon as I'm done writing this, I'm going to submit a resume in response to this ad from Craigslist:

Award winning writers working on a literary masterpiece about today's world and its issues to be a conversational piece for mature audiences. We are located in North Branford, CT and are currently seeking a Part-Time Literary Assistant to assist with our latest project. Hours are flexible. Work atmosphere is very comfortable and casual. You will gain hands-on experience in the professional writing/publishing/production world. The ideal candidate would be an English/Literature Major, who can show excellent drafting, dictation and communication skills, must be organized and capable of taking notes of conversation which will later be used in writing. They MUST have a good personality, have a good sense of humor, and be a team player who's fun to work with. They must be able to take initiative and not be afraid to voice their opinions. Typing skills are a plus. This is a great way to gain experience to put on your resume. Internship positions are also available.

I don't have any expectations one way or another. Seems like it should be easy enough, but so do a lot of things. Though I'm curious about what is meant by "a conversational piece for mature audiences." If I find out, I'll let you know.

Aside from that, I've got a lot programmed over the next couple days. A small reunion with the old high school crew up at UConn on Saturday; lunch in New Haven and the big Oscar party on Sunday. I guess that doesn't sound like a lot.

In my spare time I'll be waiting for that missing piece to fall into place.

One more thing:

We got a lot of good snow in these parts late yesterday. It wasn't the usual wet Connecticut snow that comes down in clumps and quickly turns to heavy slush. It was Utah snow--or what I imagine Utah snow to be (I've never been). This snow came down in tiny shimmering grains, like dust. On driveways and on cars it piled up like a layer of fine light sand, with a coating of crusty ice underneath where it melted and refroze to warmer surfaces. Along the road, the wind would sometimes kick up frosty white waves of powder, and thin white strands danced in the wake of passing cars. Colors were muted, or obscured totally. Dark lines and hard edges became fuzzy and soft, and then disappeared. It was an easy world to look at.

Regret

2006-03-01T12:08:00.000-05:00

I find that I've been saying "I can't believe I said that" and "I can't believe I did that" a lot lately. I've engaged in a lot of back-pedaling, a lot of second guessing, a lot of wishing for second chances.

I used to think of myself as someone who didn't have any regrets, or didn't believe in regret. I tried to subscribe to the notion that even bad events are ultimately good for us because every experience is a learning experience and blah blah blah (motivational speaker pop-psychology makes me gag). And it's not that I've been terribly successful at adopting that outlook, but even if I could what good would it do me?

I am where I am right now because of decisions that I've made, just as I always have been. There have been times when I've been quite content with my lot in life. Looking back from those moments, it would appear that the right choices had outweighed the wrong ones, and that I'd scraped up just enough luck to be able to find myself in a happy place. It was easy to dismiss regret in those moments because things had worked out right. And anyway what use do we have for regret when we like where we're at and we've got what we want?

But how can we (I) not be haunted by our (my) decisions, naive and well-intentioned as they may have been, when we've (I've) derailed? How easy is it to go back and pinpoint specific moments where a single decision--one action, one sentence, one word--made differently, might have meant the difference between success and rock bottom? Those moments burn so brightly in my mind that it's often hard to think of anything else.

I'm not even convinced of my ability to learn from mistakes--or to translate lessons learned into actions taken. Last Friday night, I found myself in a crowded, smoky two-car garage. I was charged with but a single task--a task which I failed to execute. If I found myself in that same smoky garage this Friday, would things transpire any differently? It kills me, but I think not.

I was sharing some of these feelings with a friend late last night, and I was issued the following words of wisdom:

you just need to learn to relax, take some deep breaths, recognize the fact that youre a cool, fun, smart awesome person to be around and take it from there, just be confident, cause youre a wonderful person

I end this post with these words for two reasons. The first is that they were very sincere and very heart-felt and I wanted to preserve them because I'm very grateful to this friend for having said them. The second reason is so that anyone reading this who might feel inclined to issue a similar decree can be spared from doing so since, well, I've already heard it.

Just when I thought I'd finally pushed that rock up the hill...

2006-02-28T10:31:00.001-05:00

Kaplan cancelled its March training session. The next one they'll offer will begin early in April.

I didn't even bother taking the retest. I was still shaky on the math and I didn't want to waste my one opportunity to retest if the training doesn't start for a month.

This is one of the more devastating stumbles I've faced so far. I've been counting on this job for a month. (I applied on the first day of February, and my interview was the next week.) I haven't done much in the way of other applying since it looked like this was going to go through. Now I've literally got nothing to fall back on. This was the m*****f***ing fallback.

Something drastic really needs to happen soon. In an attempt to nip any potential parental hand-wringing in the bud, I told my mother and father that I'd have something else by the end of the week. I don't really know how realistic that time frame is, but that's what I told them. I'm obviously not going to find a job that I want in four days. But apparently I'm not going to find a job that I want in six months either. I've been revisiting the idea of just getting into my car and driving away, but I feel like there's something keeping me around here for just a little while longer. Summer and beyond may be another story, but for now...

When I called to tell her the bad news, my mom had a few suggestions for where I should look next. She'd seen an ad on ESPN.com for an editor "with three years of national magazine experience." I told her that it sounded like I might be a little underqualified and her response was, "Well, doesn't the Yale Herald send subscriptions out all over the country?" Fundamental disconnect, anyone?

The idea of getting a burger-flipping job or something along those lines is frustrating, but more than that it seems like career suicide at this stage of the game. How is it going to look that I've held out for six months only to wind up doing something menial that I could have been doing all along? I worry that I'm doing serious, irreprable damage to my future career prospects. Even if I apply to law school, I'll have to account for this time. Will admissions officers see an unmotivated slouch and move on? Have these six months effectively nullified all the ladder-climbing I've done over the past 23 years?

I've been pumping a lot of motivational music through my speakers since yesterday afternoon. There have been a lot of commercials for the DVD of Rent, which led me to a few songs from that show: "Will I lose my dignity/Will someone care/Will I wake tomorrow/From this nightmare." I know, that riff is about having AIDS, but, hey, at least I can empathize. Sort of. Then there's The Killer's "All These Things..." which is probably the song I would write if I were able to write a song: "I wanna shine on in the hearts of man.../I'm so much older than I can take.../I need direction to perfection.../You know you gotta help me out..."

What a ridiculously lousy situation. I cannot wait until the day when I can look back and laugh at all of this goddam bullshit.

A nonfiction post

2006-02-26T22:44:00.000-05:00

I've been distractedly distracted by some distracting distractions lately. I could start another whole blog. Or, as my pal Dan might chide, a whole 'nother blog.

Sorry to be withholding ("Look at me getting off." --Lucille Bluth). If you were trolling between the hours of 1 and 8 a.m. on Saturday morning, you may have been lucky enough to catch a mildly revealing, since-deleted drunk post. Hmm, drunk posting. Another potentially destructive practice to add to my post-drinking routine of drunk dialing, drunk texting and drunk emailing.

I've been taking the time to transform some of my recent experiences into fiction. Or creative nonfiction. Or whatever. Fiction doesn't really exist. I read a John Updike piece labeled as "Fiction" in this week's New Yorker. The piece was a about writer in his early 70s reflecting on the death of his father, his two marriages, his time as a Harvard student and his childhood in Pennsylvania. The man's name was Jim, and I'd be willing to wager that that is one of very few non-autobiographical details in the "story." The New Yorker must be trying to avoid getting taken down by Oprah (because you know she can take down whomever she damn well pleases). I have no idea what has been motivating the recent crusade to draw a sharp distinction between fiction and memoir. A lot of people are missing the point. Labels and genres are marketing tools. There's only one reason to write, and that reason is therapy. Barnes and Noble should be just one big self help section.

I'm taking my SAT retest tomorrow. I'm worried that my math skills may not pass muster. If I can't score as well or better than the smartest 10 percent of 17-year-olds, I can kiss Kaplan goodbye.

Wednesday is March 1. Another month is coming to an end. And you know what that means...

It's time to pay my credit card bill.

Uncanny prescience

2006-02-23T14:53:00.000-05:00

And now a word from my just-turned-17-year-old self.

5 December 1999

Seeing as the millennium is fast approaching, I thought it would be good, for posterity's sake, to predict my own future. In the year 2025, a quarter century from now, I will be 42, and hopefully comfortably settled into some sort of stable lifestyle. I should be relatively healthy, if a bit overweight. I will have gone to Yale, and afterwards gotten some kind of advanced degree elsewhere. My first job will most likely have been some kind of internship or had some sort of family connection. But I will then have gone on to become a teacher, in spite of the fact that I currently believe that I will become a lawyer.

I found this gem in an old journal. And it's me, all right. Note the characteristic verbosity, and the overabundance of commas and adverbs. And the almost crippling lack of surety ("some sort of...some kind of...some kind of").

As a matter of context, I should note that getting into Yale was a major preoccupation of mine throughout high school.

I'm not surprised that I thought I would end up as a teacher. It's the path of least resistance that I've been trying to swerve off of for a while now.

I am surprised that practicing law was on my mind so early. Did I sincerely want to be a lawyer, or was I already so disillusioned that a more creative occupation seemed hopelessly out of reach?

Over six years have passed since I wrote the prediction. Half has come true. I would make a few revisions to the second half, but I'd be afraid they might come true.

Busy weekend

2006-02-22T11:07:00.000-05:00

I was in rare form this weekend. That is, I didn't spend 72 hours on my couch watching Arrested Development DVDs and trying to think up interesting blog topics.

Friday night was a relatively run-of-the-mill bar night, with the notable exception of the presence of a couple of Corinne's college roommates. Saturday night I drove down to Ridgefield to have dinner with a couple college buddies. On Sunday, I went to my first live rock show in a very long while. The band was Live. (Note the capitalization.) They played at the Webster Theater in Hartford, which is a relatively small venue that looks like it was once a community theater or movie house. There isn't any seating in the hall, which wasn't as big a deal as I thought it would be. The show was very good. But I'm an easy sell.

Monday morning, bright and early, I set out for Ludlow, Vermont. My aunt and uncle and two cousins ski at Okemo and they'd invited me to stay with them for a couple days. Before this weekend, I'd been skiing for about 11 days (sprinkled over the past three years). Now I've got days 12 and 13 under my belt.

I've come to enjoy skiing, but I also find it slightly horrifying. The whole idea is kind of absurd: strapping waxy fiberglass planks to your feet and shooting yourself down a steep snowy hill. And the number of extra hazards along ski trails never ceases to astound me: jagged exposed rocks, broken tree stumps, metal snow-making pipes jutting out of the ground. One Okemo trail traversed two narrow concrete-walled tunnels. When I pictured skiing in my mind, I imagined big soft snow banks lining the sides of the trail waiting to cushion the fall of a novice skier. But when I gazed down from the top of my first bunny hill and there were no nets or padding or protection of any kind, I wondered what I had gotten myself into. It didn't take long to learn what should be the first principle of skiing: personal responsibility. The only person looking out for your safety on the ski slope is you.

Sorry. That was my best attempt at a post. I'll think of something good for tomorrow

There's not much on my to-do list. Aside from studying for the SAT.

Some news...

2006-02-16T17:01:00.000-05:00

There are no exclamation marks in the title of this post. And for good reason. The news in question is of minor significance. It should not be construed as a major milestone, some grand tectonic turn of events in my post-baccalaureate life. It's a nibble on the line.

I've been invited to enter the Kaplan teacher training program. But first I have to take a diagnostic exam and score at or above the 90th percentile. If I succeed, I go through five weeks of training (4 hours of class and 2-3 hours of preparation per week). Upon completing training, I get to teach a Kaplan SAT prep course, either as a private tutor or as a classroom teacher.

By playing this news down I'm not trying to be coy. There was no ecstatic jumping up and down when I got the email with the news. It certainly wasn't altogether unexpected. If anything, I was a little bummed to think of all the time I wasted when I could have been doing this kind of thing for months already.

Once the (paid) training begins I'll no longer unemployed, technically. I'll be making money and clocking hours and all the rest. But there won't be much of an internal change.

This Kaplan gig isn't the ineffable thing that I've been waiting for. It's a BandAid to staunch the bleeding of a five-and-a-half-month-old wound.

At this point I don't anticipate much of a change in the tone or content of the writing on this site. I think it'll still be a while before I emerge from this tangle of thorns.

Miltonsprogeny returns!

2006-02-15T01:33:00.000-05:00

A moment ago I was browsing through some of the statistics on my hit counter. (Forgive me for delving into the staid and self-aggrandizing topic of my hit counter, but I assure you that I do it only because there is mystery and intrigue afoot.) One of the features of the counter is that I can view the "Referring URL" that directs someone to the blog (e.g., if someone clicks the link on my Facebook profile, a link to my Facebook profile shows up on the counter). So I was perusing these links when I came across one that left me completely aghast:

http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=miltonsprogeny

Someone did a Google search on "Miltonsprogeny"! And this website is the only link that comes up for that search! And the Googler followed the link to this page!

(If "Miltonsprogeny" isn't ringing any bells, go back and read Private Call.)

Now, I've misinterpreted hit counter information before. But in my mind, this bit of evidence-- this electronic footprint, if you will--can mean only one thing: the elusive Miltonsprogeny himself executed a Google search of his own email address and discovered this blog (and presumably read the pertinent entries).

I had almost forgotten about the Miltonsprogeny ordeal. I stopped sending belligerent emails to that address a week or so ago, once it became clear that I was never going to receive the (dis)closure that I felt I was entitled to.

But I'm glad to have the opportunity to revisit the situation, because my wounds are still sore. I hope that the owner of the Miltonsprogeny email address will return to this space at some point in the near future. Perhaps he will read these very words. If so, I would like to address the following remarks directly to him:

Dear Sir-

Thank you for considering me for the editorial/personal assistant position you posted on Craigslist New York. I appreciate your interest in my application, and was glad to be able to speak with you (or someone who may have been your associate) on the phone.

However, I find it rather unseemly that the caller failed to identify himself to me and abruptly ended our conversation--after less than one minute--without providing me with any information as to whether I was still in consideration for the position in question.

It is one thing to decline to pursue a job applicant upon evaluating his submitted application materials. But it is quite another to solicit further information from an applicant via a spontaneous telephone call without providing so much as an introduction or the most basic concluding courtesies.

I have applied to many similar positions, and in my experience this kind of conduct is wholly unprecedented.

A job applicant must operate on the assumption that a job listing is reputable and trustworthy, and that any personal information which he submits to a potential employer will be used appropriately. By even the most meager standards it would be hard to classify the use of my personal information, including my private cell phone number, as anything but abuse in this instance.

If you have read this, I would sincerely appreciate any response that you would care to provide.

Do I think Miltonsprogeny is going to read that statement? Nope. But I liked writing it.

Honestly, I have no idea who, other than the pseudonymous (that's probably not a word) author himself, would be Googling Miltonsprogeny. If you did and you're reading this (and you're not the owner of that address...or even if you are), seriously, leave a comment or send me an email. This is really going to nag at me...for a while at least.

(See, I told you I'd try to post more often.)

Down and out

2006-02-14T16:33:00.000-05:00

I still haven't heard from Kaplan. I'm about ready to dig a hole and bury myself in it.

The Kaplan people were supposed to get back to me in "3 to 5 business days." I auditioned last Tuesday. Friday was the third business day; today is the fifth. I've been trying to run scenarios in my head, but I can't think of a single rational reason why I wouldn't have heard a word with little over an hour left of the fifth business day. Are they pulling a Food & Wine on me (i.e., inviting me to interview and then neglecting to inform me that they've decided not to hire me)?

This was supposed to be my fallback. This was supposed to be my safety school, my shoo-in, my last resort. I was supposed to avoid teaching of any kind because I didn't want to wake up in 10 years to find myself standing in front of a room full of bored 10th graders, giving a warmed-over lecture on "A Separate Peace." Applying to Kaplan was an act of desperation, an act of hopelessness that may have been even more hopeless than I imagined.

For the first time in a while, I had trouble getting to sleep last night. I kept myself up thinking about all the applications I've submitted over the past several months. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume, and by my utter failure to secure anything that I've really wanted. I've been submitting fewer applications recently. Disregard and rejection have come to look like foregone conclusions.

How did I get to this point? One year ago, things were going well enough. I may have burned out a bit toward the end of college, but didn't everyone? Putting off making plans was liberating. Once June began I'd have no obligations for the first time in forever. My options were more open than they'd ever be again. It felt like it would be a time to savor. If I had been able to see where I'd be today, would I have done anything differently? How much more pathetic would my current life look to my hopeful, ambitious, pre-graduation self?

I've been writing for an hour, and still nothing from Kaplan.

If I get the Kaplan job I'm taking it, and I'll keep applying to anything I come across that seems promising. I don't even want to consider not getting it.

Art (poorly) imitating (an uninteresting) life

2006-02-13T14:38:00.000-05:00

I'm uninspired today. I'm still sort of recovering from this weekend's blizzard party (Three friends and I camped out at my place for the duration of this weekend's snow storm. Somehow we managed to misplace 7/8ths of the vodka from a bottle of Grey Goose. I'm still looking for it).

As I was rewatching my tape of the last four Arrested Development episodes this morning, I noticed an ad for a new show on Fox. It's called Free Ride. Here's the synopsis from the show's website:

Free Ride is a partially improvised comedy that follows recent UC Santa Barbara graduate Nate Stahlings as he boomerangs home to move back in with his parents in his small Midwestern town, Johnson City, MO, with no life plans past doing his laundry. Upon his return he discovers his mom Margo and dad Bob are knee-deep in marriage therapy and his bedroom has been turned into a gym. The good news is that Nate reconnects with cute former-classmate-turned-bank-teller Amber Danwood; the bad news is she's newly engaged. Nate also hooks up with Mark Dove, a guy who peaked in high school and has been cruising downhill in his monster truck ever since. The assistant manager in the auto section at the local Kash Kutters, Dove takes Nate under his "wing" to show him the local party scene, which turns out to be way more mild than wild.

Unsure of where his life is headed anyway, and hopeful that Amber can overcome that nasty little "fiance" business of hers, Nate decides to stay home just a little while longer as he transitions into the next stage of development: Real Life.

Well I'm speechless. Has Fox been following me with hidden cameras? They've made a few clever adjustments--for one, they've changed my cruising-downhill-in-a-monster-truck friend Carina (the assistant front desk manager at the local haircutters) into a dude--but the resemblance is undeniable. Changing my last name to "Stahlings" is kind of a knock over the head, though.

Ultimately, the joke's on Fox. Nobody's going to want to watch the show. Trust me. I've been watching it for a while now. It sucks.

Close call

2006-02-09T20:29:00.000-05:00

I almost didn't want to write this post because, as you'll see in a moment, I'm still trying to decide whether the following situation is worth giving a second thought. But maybe writing about it will help me figure that out.

I have a standing Thursday dinner date at my grandparents. As I was pulling out of my driveway to head to their place, which is just across town, my phone rang. I picked it up and struck up a conversation with my friend Dave, who was on the other end. I hadn't had a chance to fasten my seatbelt, but didn't give it much thought because of the short drive (dark clouds on the horizon). It's actually unusual for me to drive without a seatbelt; I find that I feel vulnerable, almost naked, without it.

A half mile from my grandparents' house, I pulled up to a four way stop, still seatbeltless and still talking to Dave on my cell phone (we were discussing what we liked about Capote and Good Night, and Good Luck). As I began to turn left, a car suddenly flew across my field of vision, a few feet beyond my front bumper. Seemingly out of sequence, a split second later I heard the squeal of tires and the sound of my own horn. The other car came to rest on the shoulder on the opposite side of the intersection, while I stopped, stunned, in the middle of the intersection, exchanging a frightened glance with a woman in a car across the way.

The guy got out of his car and walked halfway toward me with his arms in the air, as if I were the one in the wrong. I rolled my window down and said, "There's a stop sign there. It's a four way stop." He arms fell to his sides, his posture became sheepish.

Obviously, I was shaken up by this little incident. I've been trying to put it out of my mind, but it's been difficult. I don't want to think of it as anything more than a close call, but I've been tempted to look for meaning. I'm being ridiculous, I know. But I can't help being freaked out.

Thankfully I've got an outlet for my crazy mental machinations. I think this post and a few glasses of sangria later on tonight will be all the therapy I need.

Kaplan recap

2006-02-08T14:57:00.000-05:00

Sincerest apologies to my 9-to-5 professional and 7am-to-3am academic regulars who have been deprived of fresh procrastination lately. There's no excuse, really.

Yesterday I had my Kaplan Test Prep audition. Brace yourself for the meticulous recapitulation.

My assignment was to prepare a 5-minute lesson on a topic of my choosing and present it to a roomful of other Kaplan hopefuls, the aim being to demonstrate my classroom demeanor and potential teaching ability. I had planned to do a lesson on how to write a sonnet. I know it sounds kind of flaky, but I gave a similar presentation to my AP English class in high school and it went pretty well. And I might as well get some mileage out of my English degree.

I had plenty of time to prepare this presentation. My interview was scheduled a week ago, and in theory I could have been tweaking the lecture since then. But by 5:00 p.m. yesterday afternoon (a mere hour before I had to be in New Haven for the audition), I was only beginning to run through the presentation for the first time. I came to the disquieting realization that I had reverted to my work habits of old. On second thought, maybe my frantic last-minute prep session wasn't so much a reversion as it was a reaffirmation of poor work habits that I've never actually lost. If I haven't found myself procrastinating and cramming lately, it's only because I've had no work to put off (aside from the work of finding work, of course).

With 45 minutes until I had to leave my house, it became obvious that my sonnet lesson was going to be much longer than 5 minutes. Since time management (i.e., keeping one's presentation to the time limit) was one of the primary evaluation criteria, I was in dire need of a retooling. I couldn't completely reinvent my topic, so I decided to take the first segment of my sonnet talk--an explanation of iambic pentameter--and make that the whole lesson. I rehearsed a few visual aids on my old erasable white board from college (board usage was another key evaluative element), stuttered through some spontaneous dialogue, and left the house with a slightly elevated heart rate. I was tempted to distract myself by listening to All Things Considered on the drive into New Haven, but I forced myself to recite the presentation a few times in the car (my broad hand gestures--blame my Italian genetic history--probably looked odd to passing motorists).

I got to the Kaplan office right on time, but I was the last to arrive. The audition was being conducted by an acquaintance of mine (a fact which I knew in advance) and I tried not to make it too obvious that I knew him because there were six other candidates auditioning.

The first guy to present was a vaguely familiar classmate of mine from college. He gave an eloquent, slightly droll talk about how to prepare the perfect rack of lamb (imported Australian meat is best, and a soft cheese with a hint of garlic flavor makes for an exquisite spread). A girl went next. Before she began her presentation, she wrote the sonnet rhyme scheme (abab cdcd efef gg) on the board. For a moment I was stunned. Was she going to lecture on how to write a sonnet? Could she pull of the topic that I failed to execute? Would she talk about iambic pentameter, and would she give a better explanation than mine? It turned out that her topic was much more general, "how to write a love poem," and she didn't get into any technical elements of poetic form or meter. (Phew.) She was followed by a slightly jockish guy in his mid-20s who spoke about how to plan "a ridiculous ski trip." He didn't utilize the board much, and he went long, so I'm doubtful about his chances to move on.

I was fourth, and I began by warning the group that another poetry lesson was forthcoming. I talked about how the terminology of poetry can be daunting, but that it's really not as incomprehensible as it seems. I used the board to write the definition of meter ("the pattern of rhythm and accent in a line of poetry") and foot ("a unit of measure of poetic meter composed of a combination of 2, 3 or more stressed and unstressed syllables"). I gave an example of an iamb, and a trochee, and ended by demonstrating iambic pentameter at work in a line of poetry ("My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun"). I was pleased, but the topic might have been slightly academic, and it didn't seem like the others were particularly enthralled.

The other presentations were about how to do a crossword puzzle; something about golf; and finally an extremely creepy tutorial on how to clip a bird's wings (Have a pair of needle-nosed pliers handy; if you clip a feather too high and it starts to bleed, you'll need to yank the whole thing out lest the bird bleed to death. [shudder]). As if the presentation could get any more bizarre, the presenter (a thin, bespectacled Southeast Asian-looking guy), had brought a visual aid: several tube socks tied together to resemble a bird, complete with eyes drawn in black Sharpie and a paper beak.

I expect to hear one way or the other by Friday. If I passed, I'll go in for training. If I failed, well, what else is new?

I haven't submitted any new applications in about a week. Have I mentioned that I'm sick of being ignored and rejected?

So, what happens when/if I get this Kaplan job? It'll only be a few hours a week, and I won't be making enough money to move out. Should I get something (anything) else to fill time and provide me with a regular paycheck? Do I keep applying to out-of-my-league writing industry jobs? Do I start studying for the LSATs? Or filling out applications for summer writing programs? Should I revisit the wwoofing option?

If nothing else, I'll try to get back to a more frequent posting schedule. As I've often said, regular writing has been my only worthwhile endeavor these many months. Plus, I don't want to leave too many long gaps in the historical record. I have my future biographer(s) to think of.

Latest job shenanigans

2006-02-03T01:16:00.000-05:00

It's been a while since I've given a bona fide job update. In no particular order, here are the latest developments:

-I never heard back from Newsweek. Big surprise. Big waste of time and energy. But I'm not saying "I told you so." I'm greatful to all those who encouraged me to go through with it.

-The whole Miltonsprogeny "personal assistant" affair has been incredibly infuriating. It looks like last week's enigmatic phone call is the last I'll ever hear about it. I guess my public secondary school education and mid-3's GPA weren't up to snuff for the illustrious anonymous professor/writer. What's sad is that the whole thing is really just par for the course. I have still never heard back from the Food & Wine editor I interviewed with, even after scads of emails (in case you missed it, in November I went into New York to interview for an editorial assistant position and never heard back from them one way or the other). And then there are all of those applications that have never even been acknowledged. Not to sound shrill, but the intensity of the disregard that I've been shown over these past few months is often overwhelming. Nothing in my life has prepared me for this. It flat out sucks.

-I applied to a "copyediting assistant" position with Time Warner Books in Boston. I'd obviously love to land this job, and I took a lot of time crafting a cover letter. But I'm sure it'll be just another exercise in futility.

-My father is trying desperately to "be helpful" to me in my job search. He's enlisted his girlfriend to ferret out job opportunities at her company (Otis Elevator). If only there were some tactful way to say "leave me alone."

-Other than the Time Warner and Kaplan jobs, this week has been a total wash in terms of applications. I dawdled on Monday, on Tuesday a lunch date turned into a whole-day affair, Wednesday was tire day, and Thursday was dedicated to getting my college boxes sorted and laundering two months worth of clothing that had accumulated on my bedroom floor. I've got five jobs on the docket but I've already got plans to see a movie on Friday afternoon. My hopes are high but my expectations are low.

-I'm considering applying to summer programs in creative writing. The University of Iowa has one, and I'm sure I can sleuth out a couple more. Then in autumn I think I'll probably apply to a mix of writing programs and (gulp) law schools. Mom thought that was a good idea. "See where the chips fall," she said.

That's enough for one update, methinks. It's bedtime now, and I might have a busy day tomorrow.

The day's accomplishments

2006-02-01T13:38:00.000-05:00

Today I changed a flat tire. And scheduled an audition for a job with Kaplan Test Prep. Of the two accomplishments, I'd say changing the tire was much more fulfilling.

As I was pulling out of my mother's driveway last night, I noticed something strange about the way the car was driving. At first I thought the roads were icy, because it felt like I was driving on something gravelly, like hailstones or small rocks. After about 100 yards, it occurred to me that I might have a flat, so I let go of the wheel for a moment and the car immediately began to drift to the left. I pulled over, got out, and discovered the flat in front on the driver's side. I drove the car back to my mother's and borrowed her car for the evening.

My father told me I should just call AAA in the morning, rather than attempt to change it myself. Ever the rebel, I decided to go against father's wishes and do it myself. I Googled "how to change a tire" and found that the first link was a very helpful website with lots of detailed info. I took a few notes, and drove over to mom's. Once there, I was thrilled to discover that all of the tools I would need were nestled snugly under the mat in the trunk: doughnut (i.e., non-full sized spare), jack, lug wrench. The "jack location" was clearly marked under the car, and the lug wrench doubled as a handle for the jack--it was an incredibly efficient and simple procedure. All I had to do was loosen a few nuts, turn a crank, switch tires, tighten some nuts, and turn the crank again. Even an unemployed English major could (and did) do it. I drove to the tire store with my caution lights blinking, half as a safety precaution and half to draw attention to my successfully installed doughnut.

As for scheduling an audition with Kaplan, it constitutes a bit of a surrender. While it would be something to occupy my time and good money, it contradicts a lot the principles I've tried to adhere to. But look where those principles have gotten me up to this point.

I feel confident that I'll be able to land the Kaplan job. The main requirements are (1) that you're an engaging teacher and (2) that you've scored at or above the 90th percentile on the SATs (or whatever other test you'd be teaching). I think I'd make a fine and entertaining teacher. People seemed to like my Mellon Forum presentation, anyway. As for my percentiles, I went back and checked and while my Verbal score is fine (smugly: of course) my Math score was only in the 89th percentile! Eek! Either I'll have to retest (1600s no longer exist, otherwise I'd be all over it) or maybe they'll be nice and waive that last percentile point.

Working for Kaplan would give me something to do and an income while I continue to pursue the brass ring (or better yet: the Golden Snitch. Hey! I just got that!).

One final tidbit: my mother's husband's cousin sent me a few tips on job applications and interviews. One tip was that unaccounted-for time on a resume is a major red flag and should be avoided. I realized that June 2005-January 2006 (and beyond) is a big chunk of unaccounted-for time. How could I possibly justify all of this time on a resume? Then, in the shower, it hit me:

"June 2005-January 2006: Travelled extensively and devoted significant time to writing creatively, supported by grant money from Davenport College of Yale University."

Bingo! I mean, how good does that sound? And in saying that, I'll only be taking the tiniest liberties (nothing James Frey-ish). The money I got from Dport was more of a prize than a grant (I won an award for being a Davenport senior majoring in English with a demonstrated interest in music. I was one of two people who fit requirements, and we both won the award.) Also, the clause "writing creatively" refers primarily to this blog, and I could see how one could contest the assertion that this endeavor constitutes creative writing. But I do spend a lot of time doing it, so that must count for something. (Sidebar: Apparently blogging existed before the internet. Bloggers of old were called "diarists," and they wrote on paper with quills or Bic pens. You'd think that webloggers without the web would be "loggers", but that was something else e.g. Paul Bunyan).

Recap: Today I engaged in my first manual labor since I shoveled the driveway on Thanksgiving, took the first step toward selling out, and figured out a way to make 6+ months of indecision and laziness look admirable. All in a day's work.

Gym remedy?

2006-01-30T13:07:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I decided to buy a gym membership. I didn't buy the membership yesterday, I just decided that sometime in the near future I was going to buy one. I initially planned on fitting it into today's schedule. I was going to pick up my cousin from the high school at 10 (it's exam week), then I had plans to eat lunch at the coffeeshop where my friend works. From there, I would go to the North Haven Health and Racquet and purchase the cheapest and shortest-term membership that they offered. But that plan of action hasn't quite panned out. After lunch, instead of going to the H&R, I drove directly home (passing the gym along the way). I sat down, turned on my computer, and began to write about the fact that I had decided to get a gym membership.

There are a lot of things (other than getting a really good job) that I'd like to do. New Years resolution-type things. I'd like to establish an exercise routine. I'd like to finish unpacking my stuff from college. I'd like to stop biting my fingernails. I'd like to read more, and eat less. I'd like to subscribe to Netflix, and get a DVR. For the most part, I've been putting these things off because I've refused to view my current situation as permanent. Back in September, I was convinced that I would be living on my own (and working) by Thanksgiving. Why bother unpacking, or changing my routine, when I was just a few weeks away from a totally new life? Exercise, clean laundry, neat bookshelves and Netflix were all components of a satisfying adult life. Inactivity and a messy room were holdovers from adolescence. But I was never going to home for more than a couple of months so if I slipped into a few old habits it wouldn't be so bad. But so far that adult life has eluded me. And my bad habits are becoming a problem.

Stagnation is the name of my enemy. I should never have given my self a month to do nothing in August. I felt so fulfilled during the time I spent in Europe, and I understand now that it was because I was taking responsibility for myself. I kept a budget and managed money, I made itineraries and sought to occupy my time with meaningful activities. I was the model of self-reliance. Afterwards, I felt justified in slipping back into laziness and complaceny "for a while", and it's been a big mistake.

It's a little after 1 right now. There's still plenty of time to get to the gym. Could be a step in the right direction. To be continued...

Oscar nomination predictions

2006-01-28T17:06:00.000-05:00

I kind of like movies. And I have a slight habit of attempting to predict the nominees (and eventual winners) of the Academy Awards each year.

The 2006 Oscar nominations will be announced this Tuesday, January 31 at 8 a.m. EST (any major network, news network or entertainment channel will most likely broadcast the announcement).

Here are my best guesses as to which actors, directors and pictures will receive one (or more) of the coveted nominations:

Best Picture
Brokeback Mountain
Capote
Crash
Good Night, and Good Luck
Walk the Line

Best Actor
Philip Seymour Hoffman, Capote
Terrence Howard, Hustle and Flow
Heath Ledger, Brokeback Mountain
Joaquin Phoenix, Walk the Line
David Strathairn, Good Night, and Good Luck

Best Actress
Judi Dench, Mrs. Henderson Presents
Felicity Huffman, Transamerica
Charlize Theron, North Country
Reese Witherspoon, Walk the Line
Ziyi Zhang, Memoirs of a Geisha

Best Supporting Actor
George Clooney, Syriana
Matt Dillon, Crash
Paul Giamatti, Cinderalla Man
Jake Gyllenhaal, Brokeback Mountain
Donald Sutherland, Pride and Prejudice

Best Supporting Actress
Amy Adams, Junebug
Catherine Keener, Capote
Frances McDormand, North Country
Rachel Weisz, The Constant Gardener
Michelle Williams, Brokeback Mountain

Best Director
George Clooney, Good Night, and Good Luck
David Cronenberg, A History of Violence
Paul Haggis, Crash
Ang Lee, Brokeback Mountain
Steven Spielberg, Munich

There are usually a few suprises in the line-up, but I'm genuinely confident with 80% of these predictions. Munich could squeak in for Best Picture (ousting Capote); Jeff Daniels (The Squid and the Whale) could bump Terrence Howard; and the supporting categories are usually good for a surprise or two. But after hours and hours of careful consideration, research, and prayer, these are my picks.

Private Call

2006-01-25T13:54:00.000-05:00

I've had some bizarre job hunt-related experiences over the past few months, but the one I'm about to relate may very well top them all.

First, a little background: One of the more interesting gigs I've applied to in recent days has been a job I found on Craigslist New York labeled "Editorial/personal assistant." Here's the text of the ad:

Full-time or Part-time Editorial/personal assistant and amanuensis for professor and author of fiction/nonfiction books. Former staff writer on The New Yorker. Much detailed work on all stages of manuscript preparation with MS Word. Requires excellent grammar, proofreading. English degree preferred. Work mostly from home. Please send resume in body of email to Miltonsprogeny@aol.com

The description reminded me a little of one of Elaine's jobs on the show "Seinfeld." She worked for a fellow named Mr. Pitt, who was a big shot publisher. Her duties included purchasing tube socks for him and taking salt off of his pretzels. Menial, sure, but at least it was something.

I sent in my resume and a cover letter at the end of last week, and I sent a follow-up email yesterday afternoon.

Flash forward to a few minutes ago. I was playing Minesweeper and listening to the "Pippin" soundtrack on my computer when my phone started to buzz in my pocket. I took it out and saw that I was receiving a "Private Call." I don't know that I've ever received a call from a blocked number, and at first I thought the display said "Phoebe Cell" (Phoebe is a friend of mine). I hesitated for just a moment--long enough to register that the call was probably job-related but not long enough to consider what job it might be related to or what the purpose of the call might be--and then answered the phone.

On the other end was the slightly distorted voice of a man with an indistinguishable foreign accent. After stuttering for a moment, he asked me if I had sent my resume to Miltonsprogeny. I said yes and he said he wanted me to tell him a little bit about myself. I was rather affronted, because he hadn't yet given any indication of who he was or why he wanted to know more about me. But in one of those split-second decisions, I decided to go along with it. If this was the potential employer, I wanted to play by his rules so as not to put a dent in my chances of getting the job. I figured there'd be time for full disclosure in the near future.

So I told him a little bit about myself. I pulled out the big guns right away. "Well, I'm a recent graduate of Yale University, with a bachelor's degree in English literature." Pow! Zing!

"Did you do well as a student?" he asked without missing a beat.

With only the tiniest quiver in my voice, I replied, "Yes, I did quite well. I had a GPA of 3.? in the English major." I realized too late that giving an exact GPA was probably not the best idea because (1) I told him my actual GPA and (2) it's not actually that great.

He said something I couldn't understand about my academic performance and then asked me where I had gone to high school. I replied "North Haven High School in North Haven, Connecticut. It's a public school."

"And you live in New Haven now?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm currently living in the New Haven area, but I'm actively seeking employment and look forward to moving to a new location soon."

"Thank you," he said.

"And thank you, sir. May I ask..." The line was dead.

According to the received call log in my cell phone, the call lasted 59 seconds.

I'm not sure what to make of this bizarre conversation. My gut instinct is this: The "professor and author" instructed an employee or assistant to screen job applicants before moving on with interviews. That might explain the lack of a personal introduction and the structure of the questioning. I can picture the caller looking at my resume and verifying the information as I repeated it back to him.

Does this strange call mean I'll get any farther with this job? Again, my gut says probably not. The most glaring question was the one about where I went to high school. The query dripped with such detestable elitism, it almost makes me sick to think about it now. Who is this guy? Is he so high on himself that he needs a pedigreed cosmopolitan just to do his typing? Would the call have lasted longer if I had said I went to Andover? Better question: would I have gotten a call at all if I hadn't gone to Yale? It burns me up. (Of course, I'm sure the fire would easily be doused by another call or an offer for an interview.)

Worst of all is that I'll probably never really know what the call was all about. I can't call back, and I doubt I'd get a reply to any emails. I think I need a primal scream.

Sisyphus goes to Granville

2006-01-24T16:35:00.000-05:00

When I got home from my job interview this past Friday, I stopped home for a few minutes to check email and get changed before going back out. While online, I noticed a comment on the blog from my old pal Liz. It said, "Not trying to burst your bubble, but Granville is one of the most depressing places in the universe--Don't Move There."

Having just returned from Granville, I was in a position to either object or concur with Liz's analysis. I wholeheartedly concur.

Granville, New York, and its environs, the home of the Whitehall Times and the Granville Daily Sentinel, is the last stop on a long trip to nowhere. I'd heard about towns like this one: one main street lined with boarded up shops and seedy bars, a flashing yellow light marking the sole intersection. I used to think that places like this only existed in South Dakota or Oklahoma, but since Friday my Yankee snobbishness has been deflated a bit.

It took about three and a half hours to traverse the 180 miles between New Haven and Granville. My route took me along I-91 north to I-90, and then westward toward Lee, Massachusetts. From there I followed US-7 (passing The Mount along the way) through Pittsfield and Williamstown, Mass. and Bennington, Vermont. In the outlet store mecca of Manchester, Vt., I turned onto US-30 which led me to the New York border near the southern tip of Lake Champlain and Granville. I think it was somewhere along that last stretch of Route 30 that I realized the hopelessness and pointlessness of coming all this way for an interview. As pleasant as it was to be snaking through a Green Mounain valley in the grey afternoon light, passing silos and clusters of cows and three-wheeled pickup trucks, I knew that this wasn't where it was going to happen. I tried to console myself, saying inwardly, "Well, at least you'll be getting another interview under your belt," but I wasn't really encouraged. Any last vestige of optimism vanished when I crossed the New York border into Granville and passed the first of many sagging clapboard houses with porches littered with old mattresses, plastic tricycles and perhaps a toothless grandparent in a lawn chair.

The cruel irony of the situation is that the actual interview went very well and I could probably have the job if I wanted it. At one point, the editor of the papers asked me what I had been doing since I graduated, and I was obliged to tell him that I've been looking for a job and not doing much else. To that he said, "Well, looking at your resume and reading your writing samples, I'm surprised you haven't found anything yet." It's the story of my life. There's no overlap between the jobs that I can get and the jobs that I want. It's not a Ven diagram, it's two totally separate circles.

After the 30-minute interview, I left Granville. It was 4:21, already getting on toward dusk. It was a long ride home, and a dark one.

Please forgive me for the title of this post. But by this point it should be obvious that I'm compelled to resort to awkwardly pretentious allusion whenever I don't have anything creative to say.

Deadlines/milestones

2006-01-19T21:30:00.000-05:00

I have a bizarre habit of subdividing my existence. By that I mean that I tend to look at the future not as one vast unbroken line, but rather as a series of much smaller chunks linked together. If there's some event that I'm looking forward to (say, a vacation), I set up a mental countdown to the start of the event, and any unpleasant obligation that falls before it (a dentist appointment, for example) is an obstacle to overcome en route to the prize at the finish line. I suppose it makes life more manageable, and goals more achieveable. I have been noticing this mental tic over the past few months, and perhaps as a result it has been particularly pronounced.

I first became aware of this tendency on the first day of my trip in Europe. I remember standing in line at the Eiffel Tower, mere hours after landing in France, in a state of total desperation. Paris was making me extremely uncomfortable--it was hot, people spoke a strange language, my hotel room was tiny. And here I was with a month of travelling ahead of me. I was mortified. So as I waited in line for the Eiffel Tower elevator, I mentally distilled my travel itinerary into a set of manageable pieces. 7 days in Paris, 3 days in Belgium, 4 days in Amsterdam, 1 day in Munich, 1 day in Vienna, 2 days in Turin, 2 days in Genoa, 2 days in London, then home. The sequence became a mantra in my head, and I repeatedly counted out the days on my fingers (I must have looked to the tourists around me like a pianoless pianist limbering up before an imaginary concert). However it looked, the technique did the trick. I found it soothing to think of my trip as a series of sprints rather than as one long marathon. Gradually--by the time I got to Amsterdam, I'd say--I became much less neurotic. I grew accustomed to being unable to communicate, and the exhausting lifestyle of a shoestring backpacker became my reality. But every so often a particularly raw moment would come along and out would come my ten trusty digits to count out the days left until I'd be back in my own bed.

My current predicament is much different than my European adventure. Most obviously, there's no particular end in sight--no plane ticket hibernating in my billfold with a date of return stamped on it in bold black ink. Plus, it's harder to divide up my time now because my life is utterly without structure. For whatever reason, weeks are too short to be productive units. And it's hard to plan out an entire month.

Basically, my tactic has been to measure my progress against the progress of others who have tread similar paths. For instance, a friend of mine who graduated college a year before I did moved to Washington, D.C. during the October following her graduation, but was unemployed in D.C. until February. Back in September, I figured I'd try to adhere to her schedule and move out in October. The deadline came and went. So I revised my plan to nail down a job by February. That milestone is now frighteningly close, and I shudder to think about what the next two weeks will be like.

But stop the presses! In the 11th hour, here came a sign that I might not be the only person on Earth to be jobless for so much time after graduation. I was speaking to a friend the other day, and he told me that a sibling of his was living at home without a job until the April after graduation day. That gives me at least two more months! Phew. (The day after talking to him, I read in article in Newsweek that stated that Howard Dean had taken 10 months off after graduating from Yale to ski and party in Aspen. I'm only in month 8.)

I've got an interview tomorrow. It's at a small newspaper in Granville, NY, which is about 4 hours away. I'm trying to go in with an open mind. At this point, there's nothing else on the horizon.

You know what, scratch that last line. If this interview tomorrow doesn't work out, next week will be go time. Bright and early Monday I'll hit the electronic pavement, and maybe even the actual pavement. If I need to set the sights a little lower, so be it. I'm going to make that goddam January 31 deadline if it...well, you know.

A day in the city

2006-01-18T20:40:00.000-05:00

I'm going to try to jot this one off quickly because, once again, it's been several days since I've written, and, once again, I'm leaving shortly for a night at the bar to piss away another fraction of my modest savings.

Today I spent the day in New York City. I wasn't there for an interview. I was there with my aunt to have lunch and see a play (rather, a musical--"Hairspray") under the auspices of celebrating my 23rd birthday.

While I was in New York, I saw no fewer than two people from my college graduating class on the street and in the train station. These sightings didn't come as a surprise, but rather as confirmation of an entirely expected eventuality. I knew that I was likely to be in the presence of thousands of people today, and I don't know the first thing about statistics but I know that it'd be unusual if I didn't see someone I recognized. I was not a friend of either of these two (both male) former classmates, but knew their faces from classes or activities or facebook stalking.

Both were impeccably dressed--and moreover, they could have been wearing clothes from the same closet. They wore long wool coats, one black and one tan. The coats covered dark two-piece suits, which in turn covered crisp shirts in pink or purple or dark blue. They wore neckties that were probably paired with their shirts in the Brooks Brothers window. These guys weren't skimping on the accessories, either. One carried a black leather satchel, one a black umbrella with a curved wooden handle. Both had iPod earphones nestled in their ears. Two graduates of the Yale College Class of 2005, up-and-coming financiers or consultants, proudly displaying the plumage of yuppiedom.

As I said, I'm trying to jot this one off quickly (I'm already late). I don't know how the above paragraph is going to read, but I don't intend for it to convey cynicism. If there's one thing I got out of my day in New York (other than a stomachache from the pizza at lunch and an earful of campy showtunes) it was another healthy dose of bright green envy of my classmates who are already making their way in the world.

As I walked around midtown Manhattan, I imagined that I was there not as a tourist but as a professional. I hustled across the street before the white man even lit up; I silently disdained anyone who had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to gawk up at the neon lights; I slid my Metrocard through the slot like I was shaking hands with an old buddy. Names flashed through my head: Newsweek, Doubleday, The New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, Random House, The New Yorker. Even in my fleece jacket and jeans, I slipped effortlessly into my fantasy existence.

We took the 5:16 train back to New Haven. It was after 7 when we got into our car in the Union Station parking lot. For a second, I thought "so this is what it's like to get home after a long day at work in the big city." Then I realized that I sounded like a 12-year-old. Full of hope, but hopelessly naive.

Boy, am I late.

One step forward, two steps back

2006-01-15T12:40:00.000-05:00

Submitting my application to Newsweek was pretty much the last substantive thing I've done on the job front in days. What's happening to January? I had such high hopes. I made a promise to myself.

I had two interviews lined up for next week. Notice the past tense--one has been canceled. The job was a tutoring gig for an east coast-based company, and I was supposed to drive out to White Plains on Tuesday to give a mock lesson. But I got an email on Friday telling me that the company decided not to expand into the New Haven area. My invitation to interview was rescinded. So much for my back-up plan.

The other interview (which has yet to be canceled) is in upstate New York, at a small newspaper. I don't know what to make of it. [In truth, I'm trying really hard not to admit the fact that it really isn't what I'm looking for.]

Maybe I should just start the damn novel. I haven't even attempted to write fiction in more than two years. (The last occasion was during my sophomore year creative writing course, which turned out to be a pretty soul-sucking experience. My designated tutor was an incredibly aloof thirty-something guy who commuted from New York City. Through a combination of disinterested comments and restless body language he almost succeeded in destroying every ounce of confidence and creativity in my body.) I've got a truckload of ideas floating around in my head and scribbled into pocket-sized notebooks. Stagnation is the only thing keeping me from getting to work on my first grand creative work, and that's hardly an excuse.

I'm tempted now to go down the familiar road of "what have these past months been about" with perhaps a detour into the land of "facing reality and navigating the intersection of one's potential and one's desires." But I'll put off that trip until another day. It's late, and I'm in no shape for philosophizing.

Dunzo

2006-01-10T11:08:00.000-05:00

I submitted my Newsweek application. Whatever. My feelings about this situation are pretty clear at this point. Below you'll find the text of my cover letter. I haven't altered it, so if there are any grammatical or syntactical errors it's just that much less likely that I'll get an interview for this job. (Stay tuned after the letter or scroll down below for a sad/funny appendix to this post.)

It is a great privilege for me to have the opportunity to apply to work as an editorial assistant at Newsweek Magazine. Newsweek has played a formative role in my life: plainly, it has taught me what news is and ignited in me a passion for the pursuit of information that I am sure will never burn out. I grew up in a household that subscribed to the magazine, and my earliest memories of major events and news stories come from the covers and pages of Newsweek. It would be the fulfillment of an almost lifelong ambition to be chosen to join the ranks of Newsweek’s dedicated staff.

I was 15 years old in January of 1998, and by that time I was reading Newsweek from cover to cover on a weekly basis. But when Monica Lewinsky’s beaming headshot appeared on the cover of the magazine, I felt the thrill of being aware of and able to analyze major historical events as they happened for the first time in my life. Newsweek was my guide through this complicated, and often treacherous, chain of events. I wished that the Clinton impeachment scandal would never end because I couldn’t imagine that anything so captivating would happen again. Of course, there have many indelible historical occasions since then: the presidential election of 2000; the terrorist attacks of 9/11; war in Afghanistan and Iraq; Hurricane Katrina; and so much in between. I have come to rely on an array of diverse news sources since 1998, but Newsweek Magazine continues to be the first place I turn to for thorough and intelligent reporting. I can only hope to be given the opportunity to make my own small contribution to this great publication, and thereby pay it back for its service to me over the years.

I am fully confident that I would make an excellent addition to the staff of Newsweek Magazine. As an English major at Yale University, I developed an appreciation for good writing, and I strive to write well at all times. As an editorial assistant, I will handle each story list, piece of correspondence and any other written task with great care and great efficiency. In addition to my writing abilities, I would bring to this position a significant amount of practical experience in journalism. I served for four years as a member of the editorial board of the weekly newspaper at Yale University. At various points during that period I was responsible for nearly every aspect of newspaper production—from conducting story meetings to copyediting, and everything in between. I have also gained experience working in a major daily newsroom, as an intern on the City Desk of the Toledo Blade, the daily newspaper in Toledo, Ohio. It was at The Blade that I gained real world experience juggling multiple assignments and deadlines without ever sacrificing quality. In sum, I have managed every aspect of the production of a small-scale publication, witnessed the publication process in action from the inside of a mid-sized publication, and am now ready to take the final step to a publication with a global readership.

I can say without hesitation that my enthusiasm for this editorial assistant position is unmatched. I hope that I have adequately conveyed to you my eagerness to join the staff of Newsweek, and convinced you of my ability to meet the demands of this position. If I am hired, I can assure you that my commitment to excellence will be evident from the moment I set foot on the newsroom floor, and will remain undiminished for as long as I am employed by the magazine.

In regards to my salary requirements, I believe this position warrants between $25,000 and $30,000 annually, but I would certainly be flexible on this point as I wouldn’t want a number alone to exclude me from further consideration.

Thank you for your consideration, and I look forward to hearing from you soon to schedule an interview.

It's a little heavy on the Newsweek nostalgia, I know. But I couldn't for the life of me think of a decent hook (I didn't want this to be just another cut-and-pasted form letter), and I think the letter reads well enough. So that's that.

About 10 seconds after I electronically submitted my application, I received the following response:

From: Newsweek Resume

We have received your resume regarding employment opportunities at Newsweek. We will review your information and will contact you directly if further information or interviews are needed.

Thank you for your interest in Newsweek.

The Human Resources Department

I'm always harping about how all I really want is an acknowledgement that someone has received my application. But now I find that this email has sentenced my righteousness to death. Those smug bastards have the upper hand and there's nothing I can do about it! Any attempt at a follow-up on my part would constitute a direct violation of Newsweek's code of conduct.

So I'm left to assume that this will be the last I'll hear about this job. If it's not...well, I'll eat my hat.

Manic Monday

2006-01-09T16:27:00.000-05:00

I finally got around to downloading iTunes the other day (2 years ago called, I know). My first order of business was to fulfill my longtime desire to create a Days of the Week mix. One song about every day, and a few other thematically appropriate tunes (Smashing Pumpkins' "Today," The Beatles' "8 Days a Week," etc.).

There is one unfortunate obstacle to fully realizing the mix: Thursday. I've known for a while that Thursday was going to be a problem. Almost every other day was a cinch. I didn't even need to research Monday, Tuesday, Friday, Saturday or Sunday. Wednesday took a little effort, but I was eventually able to dig up a cutesy Lisa Loeb ditty that did the trick. I was depending on iTunes to solve the Thursday problem, but my hopes were dashed after nearly an hour of furtive but ultimately futile searching. I found nothing usable, mostly because the few Thursday-titled songs weren't thematically about Thursday and they often didn't even include the word in their lyrics. It's sad, because the rest of the mix works so well (I think):

The Bangles, "Manic Monday"
The Rolling Stones, "Ruby Tuesday"
Lisa Loeb, "Waiting for Wednesday"
-----------------------
The Cure, "It's Friday I'm in Love"
Elton John, "Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting"
U2, "Sunday Bloody Sunday"

My mixological ambitions thwarted, I took to listening to the six other songs repeatedly as consolation. I think Friday is my favorite. But "Manic Monday" got me thinking: I'm probably one of few people in the country right now who actually looks forward to Monday. For most, Monday means getting up early, missing the bus, getting yelled at by a cruel boss or teacher--back to the grind. For me, every Monday is a rebirth. The previous week's failings and inactions have faded over the course of the weekend, and on Monday morning five whole days worth of possibilities stretch out in front of me. This, I find my self thinking, will be the week that it will happen (whatever "it" is). I always get up early on Mondays just to get a head start.

Is it obvious that I'm getting bored with myself? How could it not be?

Back to music, I bought two albums today: Fiona Apple, "Extraordinary Machine" and Bloc Party, "Silent Alarm." Both purchased after a combination of iTunes research and consultation from a few music aficionado friends.

It's January 9. January 31 is...[calculating]...about three weeks away. Can I do it? I want to do it. I want this phase of my life to be over so badly. So badly. So. Badly.

Lethargy as usual

2006-01-06T10:28:00.000-05:00

For whatever reason, and in spite of the fact that the days of January are already starting to streak by, I don't have much to say about getting a job today. I'd much rather be talking about which movies/actors I think will get Oscar nominations.

It's that old familiar ennui creeping back again. It's like pulling on a favorite wool sweater once the cool fall weather sets in.

I've lined up two interviews since I've been up this morning (all of 15 minutes). One is with the Manchester Newspaper Group in upstate New York (near the Vermont border). The other is with a tutoring company with operations throughout the entire Northeast. It's been a veritable deluge of job activity, relatively speaking.

On deck, I have a couple of applications in to literary agencies for editorial assistant-type jobs. I'd say that those would be my most-preferred options at this point. I was almost going to decline the interview in upstate New York because...well, I can't really say. It's that same old story about how I don't really want to be writing about city council meetings and cats being rescued from trees for the next however long. That's not the track that'll get me to where I want to be, I think. Publishing, to me, has come to seem like a better springboard into writing/editing. But getting in on the ground floor is more of a challenge. Still, I've got high hopes for the two places I applied to. Fingers crossed.

After many words of encouragement, I've decided to submit an application to the Newsweek job. That'll be today's major task (after lunch). I really could stand to be spared another puncture wound to my pride and my soul, but other than that there's really nothing to lose. I definitely won't get the job if I don't apply, and even if my chances of getting it are microscopic, at least I can say I didn't wimp out. And when I make it really big I can publicly scoff at Newsweek for not even bothering to interview me back in the day.

I guess I did have a lot to say today, though it's not as taut as I might have liked. Here's one last anecdote: my friend Dave, who works in his dad's collectibles shop in town, said that the mother and father of an old friend of ours came in to buy a few things the other day. They told Dave that their son, our old friend, has a job working as an IT guy for some company in the area, and that he's the proud owner of a brand new BMW. They asked after several people that they hadn't seen in a while, and Dave provided updates where he could. When they got around to asking about me, the father said, "So, is Mike still waiting around for the perfect job to come along?"

In answer to your question, sir, I'd say yes, I am.

What's the point?

2006-01-04T12:14:00.000-05:00

I've recently been faced with a decision that basically epitomizes the anguish I've been going through for the past four months.

Yesterday on Craigslist New York (in the writing/editing section), I came across the following posting:

Newsweek Magazine seeks an Editorial Assistant. As the Editorial Assistant, you will attend story meetings; write and edit story lists; field story list questions. You will also work with editors to obtain information; send out story lists on time; process guest agreements and contact guest writers. Other responsibilities as assigned.

The ideal candidate will have excellent writing skills preferably with an interest in journalism, international affairs or literature. Excellent editing skills and the ability to meet deadlines is a must. Proficiency in MS Word and Excel is required. College degree preferred.

Please email a resume and cover letter including salary requirements to resumes@newsweek.com. Please put "Editorial Assistant" in the subject line of your email.

Only those candidates to be interviewed will be contacted. Equal Opportunity Employer M/F/D/V.

I can't conceive of a more plum opportunity. This is exactly what I want to do: learn the ropes of writing and editing by being a fly on the wall of a major publication. I've got the skill set: Menial administrative stuff, get coffee for editors, juggle twenty different things at once, type-- no problems there! As for the requirements--interest in journalism and literature: check; editing and writing skills: check; ability to meet deadlines: check; profiency in Word and Excel: check; college degree: check plus.

And yet, I know without a doubt that there's a snowball's chance in Hell that I'll even be considered for this job. No way. Not a chance. Every job application-related experience that I've had since September is evidence in support of this belief. I've been ignored by far lesser operations than Newsweek Magazine. Plus, this job was posted on Craigslist! Every Tom, Dick and Jayson Blair will be applying. Spending the time to put together a cover letter and resume is an exercise in futility if ever there was one.

What I want to know is what it takes to get noticed by a place like Newsweek (or Entertainment Weekly, or The Chronicle of Philanthropy, or even goddam Points North Magazine in Atlanta, Georgia). Is it in the cover letter? Do I have to write a Greek tragedy about how failing to hire me will lead to the complete unravelling of the publication? Do I have to exploit everything I've ever done and insist that there has never been, and never will be again, a candidate as extraordinary as myself? Perhaps a Shakespearean sonnet would do. Or, is it in the resume? All this time, I've assumed that my six favorite letters--YALE B.A.--would unlock any doorknob I tried to turn. Talk about a fallacy. What does a winning resume look like? Does Newsweek only hire editorial assistants who have already worked as editorial assistants at Time and U.S. News & World Report?

As if I needed any extra incentive to not apply to this job, they've included my favorite line of all: "Only those candidates to be interviewed will be contacted." To me, that phrase translates into: "Don't even bother, we're not going to call you."

I'd be more than willing to sell out to get a job like this. I'll work for peanuts, I'll tell you exactly what you want to hear, I'll work 60 hours a week in a broom closet. If I can't hack it, if I'm not cut out for it, if I just plain suck, fine! I just wish that somebody somewhere would give me a chance to give it a shot. Then at least I'd be able to bring this farce to an end and put on my McDonald's visor with a sliver of my self-respect still intact.

Holiday redux

2005-12-28T19:32:00.000-05:00

By my watch (the watch of a dutiful and observant Roman Catholic for all but the last, oh, four years) we're only halfway through the holiday season--that blissfully limbo-esque week between Christmas and New Years. Nevertheless, I feel a holiday update is in order, since much has (and has not) happened.

I'm still unemployed. Surprise! But I did apply to a job today. I had planned to put in for a bunch (this one, this one, this one, this one and maybe even this one) but I only got around to the anonymous literary agency because, well, I had lots of Seinfeld DVDs to watch. There's always an extra mystique when the name of a company is absent from the job listing. Ever the idealist, I usually imagine some major name hiding behind the veil of anonymity. I probably should have learned my lesson with the last unnamed company I applied to: The infamous "writing job" for a "Pre-Law Yalie or Recent Grad." I never really found out what the job was. I think it had something to do with SAT prep, based on the domain name (800score.com) of the sender of the only email I received from them. I sent two emails a day for a week until I finally got a response telling me that "We have already a very high qualified person for the position." Maybe they were hiring for that guy's job. Hopefully over the next two days I'll cowboy up and send a few more apps out. I still stand by my January 31 deadline. (Eek.)

The "Kong" war of words is finally over. That situation had actually been weighing kind of heavily on me for a few days. It wasn't that I minded that someone vehemently disagreed with my opinion of Peter Jackson. I've fought that fight before. What got to me was that someone seemed to have spent at least a little time reading and thinking about things that I'd written and had some very critical (and, in my mind, cruel) things to say in response. I'm thin-skinned to begin with (a fact which unemployment has only compounded), and I've been away from the searing intellectual frying pan of college for six months. So it was a major trauma when I was suddenly forced to confront that fact that all this stuff that I write (which is one of very few things that I've found fulfilling lately) is vulerable to attack. I have a better understanding of dm's rules of engagement now, and I appreciate his point of view. I might have tempered the vitriol a bit, but that's just me. It was a reality check--an important one--to be put on the defense for a while.

In other news, it turns out that NPR hasn't yet started interviewing candidates for the editorial assistant position at Weekend All Things Considered. So there's still a possibility that I'll be...considered. I hope my belligerent emails aren't going to count against me. I swear, someday email will be my downfall.

Let me close with an indelible holiday memory:

It's December of 2003. The high school gang is at Corinne's for Hannukah Party version 7.0. Latkes are sizzling in pans of oil on the stove as apron-clad Dr. M lovingly tends to them. Most of the guests are clustered in the dining room taking stock of the various latke condiments: apple sauce, sour cream, cranberry chutney. Drinks are offered. Some ask for lemonade, which pours thickly (?) from a paper carton. Mike takes a skeptical sip, only half-knowing that something is amiss. Kate's eyebrows are furrowed as she looks down into her cup. Carina is polite and takes several long swigs of the unusual lemonade, which she assumes is a customary Jewish drink. After a few moments, Corinne comes to a startling realization: she gasps and says "Oh my God! That's the cooking oil!"

Ah, the miracle of Hannukah.

"Kong" considered

2005-12-25T21:05:00.000-05:00

While browsing the blog this evening, I noticed a pretty scathing comment on my "King Kong" post of a couple weeks ago. You can see the post and the comment here. (It's the one below Josh's, duh.)

I wasn't going to bother writing a rebuttal to the comment, since I'd generally prefer to ignore antagonistic feedback. But I don't believe that my philosophy of how a film should be judged is all that unreasonable, so I can't in good conscience let the commenter's accusation (that my characterization of myself as a film buff is "absurd") go unanswered.

First of all, the initial "Kong" post was not a review of the movie, which hadn't even been released when the post was written. The point was to contrast what I expected out of the film with what I was reading about it. I freely admit that my prerogative was negatively biased, but I'm well within my rights as a filmgoer to dislike Jackson as a director (more on that later). And maybe the last paragraph of the post was excessively sardonic, but again, I wasn't making any specific criticisms of "Kong." Yet.

I have seen "Kong" since writing that post, and my review of it would be mixed. I was impressed with the way Jackson was able to carry off the relationship (if that's what you'd call it) between Anne Darrow and the gorilla. This was the part I was most skeptical about prior to seeing the film. To my surprise, I never once doubted the motivations of either player. It made perfect sense that a giant gorilla would be protective of a pretty young thing that danced and did tricks; and it also made sense that a pretty young thing whose life had been saved many times over by a giant gorilla would have reasonable objections to raise when that gorilla was captured, exploited, and shot at. Also, I thought that the scene atop the Empire State Building was magnificent--one of the most beautiful and engaging scenes on film this year.

Now to the negative: If we needed any more proof that Peter Jackson has no concept of what constitutes cinematic excess, "Kong" would be it. Every scene in the film could have been shortened by half. Every chase, every fight sequence, every long gaze, every establishing shot. The commenter mentions "Kong"'s "shit screenplay," which is an assessment I'm inclined to agree with. But this movie was never about the screenplay, and it didn't need to be. Better films have been made from worse screenplays ("The Matrix" comes first to mind). It's the "awkward pacing" of "Kong" that threatens to be its fatal flaw. As an English major in college, I was often told that "economy of language" is a mark of good writing. That is to say: write sparingly, not excessively. It's a concept Jackson would do well to consider. His films are bloated. Seriously, who ever heard of a remake being twice as long as the original? At the risk of sounding snarky, I'd advise Jackson to take a cue from his recent physical transformation. Trimmer is better, at least as far as movies are concerned.

The commenter says that Jackson "employs cg better than anyone else in Hollywood." I'm not sure how well-equipped I am to take that one up, but I think A.O. Scott got it right with his point that "the blending of computer-generated imagery and live action is pushed to a point where the seams begin to show." But that's Scott's (and my) opinion.

The main point of the comment seems to be that "King Kong" is the most entertaining movie of the year in spite of any flaws it may have. Whether one bases his assessment of entertainment value on the use of computer-generated imagery--or more minor considerations such as screenplay, pacing, etc.--is, of course, one's own business.

I don't think it's fair to say that it's absurd for me to call myself a film buff because I'm not "into" Peter Jackson. I'm not even really sure what that means, and maybe I've spent too much time defending myself against a vague accusation. My guess is that the commenter means to say that I'm ignorant and pretentious because I don't respect Peter Jackson for his technical accomplishments. Of course, my rewording of the accusation relies heavily on the belief that my dislike of Jackson's movies is indicative of disrespect. I'm fine with acknowledging that Jackson has pushed his kind of filmmaking to impressive new levels. But I don't have to like the movies he makes. I doubt that anyone who invests a lot of emotion in films can say that they appreciate every filmmaker who's supposedly at the forefront of his genre. I'm sure lots of film buffs feel fine about disliking Wes Craven's horror movies, Merchant Ivory's period pieces or Nora Ephron's romantic comedies.

I guess this comment struck a nerve with me. I love watching movies, I love talking about movies, and I love writing about movies. And I've long understood that my taste in movies is a lot different than most everyone else's. But I've obviously got a right to my own opinion, especially when (as I hope I've done here) I can back it up in a thoughtful and reasonable manner.

Hey, Maureen Dowd, Read This.

2005-12-24T01:05:00.000-05:00

Gah! It drives me crazy that I can't read Maureen Dowd on NYTimes.com anymore! That new Times Select silliness has had virtually no effect on my Times reading habits except that I can no longer read Dowd's column. I've always found Friedman's columns pretty boring (heresy!) and I get enough of Brooks on Meet the Press and The Chris Matthews Show and NPR and The News Hour (I like the guy fine, but seriously, enough already). But I miss my biweekly Dowd injection like a monkey misses bananas. Do you Yale kids get a free subscription? I'll be really jealous if you do. It's bad enough that I have to condescend to Merriam-Webster for my online dictionary needs since I'm no longer deemed worthy enough to access my beloved OED.

Eh, who am I to complain. I read 99% of what I want to read of the Times for free every day. What a spoiled brat I am.

Happy holidays again!

Two quotes

2005-12-23T18:09:00.000-05:00

In case any of you regulars are checking in while you're home for the holidays, here are two little nuggets I came across recently.

"Jesus drank. It came straight from the Bible that he had a glass of wine. Actually, I don't know if it says he actually drank it, but whatever."
-Kelly Clarkson

"The New Yorker's review of "The City of Falling Angels" by John Berendt (Penguin Press), in the issue of October 3, 2005, incorrectly referred to the 'seduction and swindling of Olga Rudge, Ezra Pound's mistress, by the director of the Peggy Guggenheim Collection.' This statement was inaccurate, and The New Yorker regrets the error."
-The New Yorker, Dec. 26, 2005/Jan. 2, 2006

Happy holidays.

A deadline, or Three new jobs (2)

2005-12-21T12:48:00.000-05:00

I've tentatively decided that I'm going to be working by the end of January. I think this is the first arbitrary deadline that I've set for myself, so I'm hoping to make good on it. My resume "is being considered" for a part-time job at a newspaper publisher in New Haven. I haven't heard anything back from the two I sent several weeks ago (Atlanta and Virginia), so I'm ruling them out (pardon my repetitiveness, but it never ceases to gall me that 95% of the places I apply to never get back to me--and I sent my materials by mail to those two!). Here are three leads I dug up this morning. They were all clustered together in the Newspaper/Wire Services section on JournalismJobs.com.

Position: Opportunity to Learn the News Biz!
Company: The F*
Location: Colorado

Description:
The F*, an award-winning weekly newspaper in Colorado (50 minutes SW of Denver) seeks an individual with good writing and reporting skills to cover county government, breaking news, features and other assignments throughout Park County. This is a great opportunity for someone to get inside the newspaper business and cover a variety of news stories, as well as learn pagination and layout programs. Journalism degree and experience preferred but we will work with the right individual. The successful applicant must be well-organized and be able to turn around multiple news stories under deadline.

See how it says "Park County"? Well that's South Park, like the cartoon. That reason alone is almost enough to warrant applying. Another interesting note: I was going through some recent issues on the paper's website, and it seems as if there's been a dust-up about the paper's decision to publish the name of a juvenile sexual assault victim. I remembered seeing another ad from this paper seeking an Editor-in-Chief--maybe they're doing a little house-cleaning after the scandal. Could be an interesting place to go in and make a mark. Next:

Position: Reporter/copy editor
Company: S* R* & L*
Location: North Carolina

Description:
The S* R* & L*, a 15,000-circulation daily near Charlotte, N.C., has an immediate opening for a reporter/copy editor. December grads are encouraged to apply. This position involves general assignment reporting three days per week and working on the copydesk two days. Send a cover letter explaining why you are an ideal candidate for this job along with your resume and work samples.

I like this one mainly because it's two jobs in one. I really liked doing layout and page design in college, and I'd actually be excited to get some professional experience in that niche of the business. And it'd take some of the pressure of turning out daily stories off.

The part about "December grads" got me thinking: am I now going to be up against a fresh influx of job-seekers? I've never had the slightest clue of how many people are applying to the same jobs as I am. The fact that I got an interview at "Food & Wine" suggests that it's not hundreds, but who knows? Not that I'd notice if it suddenly got much harder to get writing jobs, since I haven't been in serious contention for any of them to this point anyway. Third, and finally:

Position: Reporter/Writer
Company: M* N*
Location: New York

Description:
REPORTER - Award-winning weekly newspaper group in upstate New York offers excellent opportunity for ambitious journalist. Report and write community news, features and sports. Great situation for recent college grad to launch career.

Probably the most appealing of the three. It's in the Northeast. And Google Maps suggests that it's quite close to a little Vermont town called Poultney, which I happen to have heard some wonderful things about. Once again, the word "ambitious" is something of a turn-off in this context (which is odd because my life has been propelled by one ambition or another for as long as I can remember). But where writing is concerned, my ambition isn't to break big stories and muscle my way into scoops. To analogize: I don't write to exorcise the demons of others, I write to exorcise my own.

However, it's long been obvious that I'm going to have to start somewhere. Will any of these be the place? Will I find something by the end of January? (I hope I hope I hope)

Vonnegut

2005-12-20T12:13:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine lent me the latest Kurt Vonnegut book, "A Man Without a Country." It's not a novel, and it's not quite essays, and it's not quite memoir. It's selected reflections on life and the world. It's a blog in book form.

I found this passage to be particularly inspirational:

If you really want to hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.

The friend who gave me this book made a good point about Vonnegut. She said that Vonnegut is a writer who doesn't use a lot of hard words; instead, he puts easy words together in a really smart and interesting way.

I'm trying really hard to suppress my compulsion to go and dig up a lot of biographical details about Vonnegut. I know he went to Cornell, and I know that he fought in World War II and was a prisoner of war in Dresden when the British fire-bombed the city. I'm starting to wonder whether it takes a significant trauma to successfully wrench one's authorial voice out of oneself. My most significant trauma to date has been, well, being indecisive about my future.

Delusions of Grandeur

2005-12-18T17:00:00.000-05:00

Boy was it icy out last Thursday night. Here in the Northeast, we had an ice storm. In fact, "The Ice Storm" was going to be the title of this post, and I was going to write about how it took me an hour and a half, and a deus ex machina (deus=my father, machina=his four-wheel-drive Ford Explorer), to get across town. But that'd be pretty boring, and besides, I've just said all there is to say about it.

The real excitement came when we finally got home and I scurried over to my laptop to find out how many new hits there had been on my blog since last I checked. (I'll refrain from judging this action myself and allow you, dear reader, to arrive at your own conclusion.) I gleefully discovered that there had been a flurry of activity on the old (T)UILG since I'd been out. More than 25 hits!

A closer inspection of the statistics revealed that this spike in hits did not signify a clutch of new readers all spontaneously flocking to the site at once. Rather, it seemed that a single reader had gone through and read practically every post I've written since I started blogging a couple of months ago.

I jumped to the conclusion that some saavy, widely-read reporter had stumbled onto this site, gave it a comprehensive once over, and was preparing to feature it prominently in his or her next piece. The exposure would catapult me into the national spotlight, land me a book deal, and in no time I'd be retreating to rural New Hampshire to join J.D. Salinger in mythic, sequestered obscurity.

The moment passed. I'd been down this road before. A month or so ago I got an email from a friend telling me that I needed to look at the back cover of the New York Times Magazine(!). Thoughts similar to the ones above raced through my head. It turned out to be a full page ad for some cosmetics brand, which my friend thought I should see because it featured the golden-tressed, pale-skinned face of Gwyneth Paltrow. You'd think I'd've learned my lesson after that episode.

It seems that every day that goes by causes my ambition to grow that much more. And it gets harder to stomach the idea that someday soon I'm probably going to have to settle.

I was reading an article on Wikipedia about Thomas Pynchon recently. The article stated that he had graduated college in 1959 and that he began to work as a technical writer for Boeing in February of the following year. While he was at Boeing, he worked on his first novel, which was published two years later and was awarded the William Faulkner Award for the best first novel of the year. Now, I'm often looking for people whose post-graduate careers resemble mine in any way (you may remember my Susan Orlean period). Here was evidence that the great author Thomas Pynchon had been unemployed for several months after he graduated, took a low-rent job, wrote creatively in his spare time, and went on to have one of the most distinguished literary careers of the 20th century.

My journalistic instincts kicked in after I read this, and I commenced a thorough scouring of the internet for more biographical information about Pynchon. There were a few gaps in the timeline that Wikipedia had left out:

By the time Pynchon graduated from college, he was already earning money from the publication of short stories. He turned down many opportunities (including fellowships, a position as a writing instructor at Cornell, and a job reviewing films at Esquire magazine) and took the Boeing job so that he would have more time to finish his novel.

So, another potential role model had bit the dust. Maybe it's time to start writing my own version of the biography of a successful writer.

Red in the Face

2005-12-14T13:51:00.000-05:00

Yet another chapter in my ongoing saga with The C* of P*...

I sent an email to the contact person at the C* to confirm that she'd received my application. It was obvious that I hadn't gotten the job (I applied a month ago) but, as always, I felt like I was owed some form of acknowledgement. I got a reply within an hour, and here's what it said:

Hi Michael:

Yes, I did receive your materials. We have made a hire for that position. Thank you for your interest.

By the way -- the attachments you sent me included a cover letter addressed to a Mr. D* C* at the L* C* T*. Just letting you know that you might want to doublecheck your documents before emailing them to employers as you continue your job search.

Best of luck.

I was so ashamed of myself that I almost deleted the email the moment I was finished reading it. In fact, even as I'm writing this, I'm trying not to look up.

In one fell swoop, this woman drained every ounce of my self-righteousness. As a matter of personal character, maybe this was beneficial. But my self-righteousness has been the foundation (albeit a shaky one) of my emotional stability as I claw my way toward a career. An hour ago, I was a valiant warrior fighting for the principles of fairness and professionalism against a corporate enemy that was cold and cruel and ambivalent. Now, I'm just another soulless resume monger, whoring his shiny ivory tower diploma and flabby cover letter prose all over town.

For a moment, I considered sticking it to the Man (in this case, the Woman). I mentally drafted this reply:

Thanks for getting back to me, and please forgive my faux pas. I'll be sure to be triply dilligent in checking my materials from now on.

By the way, I must say that it makes for a rather disheartening experience when the only substantive response I've received from any job I've applied to in the past month has been your message pointing out the error in my application. To think, had my application been flawless I might never had heard from you.

I know it doesn't really say anything, but the point was to sound like a prick. I didn't send it.

The nagging question that's left in the aftermath of this absurdity is: how many other applications have I screwed up? I won't kid myself by thinking that every employer who's ignored me has done so because I incorrectly addressed the cover letter. It's just one more thing to be paranoid about.

The kicker is that I didn't really care about this job all that much anyway. The kicker to the kicker is that I never even applied to the Litchfield County job.

Some thoughts on film (3) - King Kong

2005-12-13T20:04:00.000-05:00

I refuse to believe that "King Kong" is a good movie.

On the one hand, there's what I know about the it: Naomi Watts and a giant computer generated gorilla meet, fall in love, fight dinosaurs, watch the sun set and waltz around on top of the Empire State Building. And it's directed by Peter Jackson, the man responsible for my least favorite movie of 2001, and 2002, and 2003. Jackson has proven himself adept at creating stunning visual spectacles, to be sure. Nevertheless, I can't imagine that any measure of visual wizardry can transform the flimsy subject matter of "King Kong" into an intelligent, purpose-driven motion picture.

But everything I've read about the movie has insisted that Jackson has created yet another "masterpiece." Rolling Stone raved about it. So did Entertainment Weekly. And Roger Ebert. Even my old friend A.O. Scott, usually a stalwart crusader against populism, sang its praises in The New York Times.

It's funny, because this is exactly the kind of movie that I tend to get most excited about seeing--a movie that I know is going to be terrible, but has gotten really good reviews. I can't wait to get in there and see past the smoke and mirrors, sift out the flaws (the more the better), and prove the world wrong. I love being a killjoy almost as much as I love being smug.

Some thoughts on film (2) - Biopics

2005-12-12T18:55:00.000-05:00

I hate biopics.

Well, that's not quite true. But there are so many things that I find intolerably obnoxious about the genre that I can't help but ball my fists, clench my teeth and stifle a rant every time I even hear the word. And what an abrasive word! "Biopic." Blech. It sounds like what it is: the deformed crack baby of the benignly descriptive phrase "biographical motion picture." "Biopic" sounds more like some science lab torture device than a film genre. The recent release of "Walk the Line," a dyed in the wool biopic, inspired the following rant.

For reasons which I have yet to fully understand, biopics are often award fodder. One main component (which does make sense to me) is that at the center of a biopic is usually at least one Oscar-baity role. If someone is the subject of a motion picture, they've probably had an eventful and interesting life; in following, the actor playing the real-life individual is sure to have plenty of material to use to flex his acting muscle.

One of my main problems is that, in my mind, all so-called great biopic performances amount to little more than glorified impersonations. On this point, I don't discriminate between biopics that I like--there are some, but more on that later--and those that I don't like. It's always distracting to see a recognizable actor attempting to play the role of another recognizable figure. Biopic performances are routinely mired down in the intricacies of the subject's mannerisms, speech patterns and physical appearance. Jamie Foxx in last year's "Ray" is a prime example. I'll concede that Foxx does a brilliant Ray Charles impression, but any subtleties of the performance are completely obscured by the audience's being distracted by the scratchy drawl, the wavering head and the glinting sunglasses.

The character constraints that generally accompany biopics often translate into plot deficits as well. There's a basic biopic formula: character faces hardship in youth; character discovers natural talent and/or pursues ambition; character faces hardship in adulthood (usually some form of addiction); character either overcomes hardship and lives happily ever after ("Ray," et. al.) or character succumbs to hardship and dies ("The Hours" et. al.).

A sampling of some of the worst-offending biopics of recent years: "Walk the Line," "Finding Neverland," "The Aviator," "Kinsey," "De-Lovely," "Beyond the Sea," "Frida," "Ali," and "The Hurricane" to name just a few. I liked some, I disliked others, but they were all unmistakably biopic-y.

There are some techniques a biopic can employ to break ranks with the dismally repetitive pack. When the subject of the film isn't such a cultural icon--as in "Monster," the Charlize Theron lesbian serial killer flick of a couple of years ago--the impersonation effect is less of a problem. But even "Monster," which I liked immensely, was bogged down by Theron's extreme uglification. A biopic can also succeed by refraining from being overly episodic. Biopics that focus on shorter time frames and more specific events make room for a deeper examination of the film's human subject. I would put "Erin Brockovich," "A Beautiful Mind," and "Capote" in this category. But on the other hand, I wouldn't saddle any of those movies with the loathsome label of biopic to begin with. They're movies about specific episodes in the lives of real people. "Erin Brockovich" is about an investigation and a trial, "Capote" is about the writing of a book. In those cases, the stories just happen to be true.

And that's my rant on biopics.

Some thoughts on film (1)

2005-12-12T01:34:00.000-05:00

As we are currently in the midst of prestige season--the last few weeks of the year during which art houses and multiplexes teem with Oscar hopefuls--I've had plenty of fodder for opinion-formulating on the subject of film. Here's the first of a continuing series:

-I find it incredibly bizarre--and bordering on offensive--that three Chinese actresses (Ziyi Zhang, Michelle Yeoh and Gong Li) play the three female leads in the film adaptation of "Memoirs of a Geisha." It's probably excusable that this Japenese historical drama was written, produced and directed by white Americans. Stateside moviemakers shouldn't be restricted to making films about their own personal cultures. (Imagine if Scorsese had only made movies about Italian-Americans...All right, bad example.) I suppose the argument could also be made that actors are actors and that they, too, should not be excluded from roles simply by virtue of their national origin. Maybe I'm a cynic, but I have a hard time believing that the Chinese Ziyi Zhang was cast because she was the most qualified actress in the Hollywood orbit to play a Japanese geisha. From this outsider's perspective, it seems that she was cast because she is a vaguely recognizable (and thus marketable) Asian woman. American audiences aren't expected to know, let alone care, whether she's from China or Japan or Korea; nor are we expected to be aware of the cultural and ethnic differences that exist between the nationalities that we would lump together under the Asian heading. Whatever aspirations "Memoirs of a Geisha" has of exposing Americans to a facet of Asian culture are negated by the film's reinforcement of the embarassing American perception that "all look same" and, therefore, all are the same.

Test post

2005-12-10T13:01:00.000-05:00

Something seems to be screwed up with the main page of my blog. Maybe adding a new post will fix it.

At last, a response

2005-12-08T12:36:00.000-05:00

I got an email yesterday from the Y* D* R*. A surge of electricity went through my body when I saw the strange addressee and the subject line that read "features entertainment reporter." It had been a while since I'd had any job correspondence to speak of (NPR is refusing to answer my repeated emails, and I've stopped caring about a handful of other applications (not including the three that I sent by mail last week)). Here was one of those rare reminders that I am, in fact, actively seeking employment.

Now, Gmail has this feature where, when you get an email, you see the subject line in bold, and then as much of the text of the email as will fit in the remainder of a single line in the Inbox. This is what I could read of the email before I even opened it:

"Michael, This is to acknowledge that we have received..."

[Great! I thought. A simple acknowledgement is all I've ever hoped to get out of most of the applications I send out. And here was one that was courteous, timely...this Y* D* R* seemed like a classy operation! I went on to open the email, not expecting anything more than another word or two in addition to what I'd already read. Here's the rest of the email:]

"...your letter of interest in the features entertainment reporter position.

This position has been filled.

Thanks for your interest."

All right, fine. I can deal with that. It's disappointing, because I was actually interested in this job, but it was the least appealing of the three from last week. And the ad for it was a couple of weeks old by the time I responded to it. I'm sure they received more applications than just mine. It's my own fault for waiting too long. I don't necessarily have to think of this as an out and out rejection.

Except for the fact that I was told on Thursday (five days earlier) that they were still accepting applications.

I should probably just stop thinking about this now. They told me the position has been filled, there's no chance I'm going to get it, and that's that. But still, there's this nagging voice in my head that keeps saying "They probably read through your cover letter and writing samples and decided that you weren't even worth interviewing. They were just being nice when they told you that the position was filled. That's how small town people work." Can it be? Am I not even worthy of being considered for a writing gig at a little paper in rural Pennsylvania? I'm going to do my best to forget the whole situation.

So that leaves the Virginia and Georgia jobs from this round. No news, I suppose, is good news. But why has my job search suddenly started feeling like a countdown?

Iambic inspiration

2005-12-07T02:26:00.000-05:00

Whenever my writing hand gets itchy, and I'm starved for inspiration, I have a habit of copying down poems that I've committed to memory. It's a short-lived diversion, since I have exactly four poems memorized (not counting the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales or The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams [thanks, Lester]). Three of the poems are by Robert Frost, one is by John Updike. If you happened to be paging through any of my college notebooks, you'd find these poems scattered throughout (along with pages full of my signature, and lists of all of the U.S. states and their capitals).

As a dutiful English major trained in the art of hermeneutics, I look to these poems for insight into whatever problem is facing me at the current moment, and I'm usually able to find it. What would Robert Frost have to say about my current situation? He'd probably remind me that my idealized youth was bound to come to a bitter end sooner or later. And Updike? He'd probably assure me that adulthood is just a melancholy march to the Great Beyond. (Maybe that's not what they'd actually say, but all that matters is that, at this particular moment, that's what I think they'd say.)

It makes me happy that I know a few poems by heart, and I'm OK with the fact that three of them are by Robert Frost (I wish I could memorize "Birches," but it's a little long). The constancy of poems is soothing. Writing them down is like seeing an old friend.

Below are those four poems, in whatever order they happen to come out. My apologies to the authors for any typos or lacunas.
---------------------------------------
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake

These woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep
--------------------
Shipbored
by John Updike

That line is the horizon line
The blue above it is divine
The blue below it is marine
Sometimes the blue below is green

Sometimes the blue above is grey
Betokening a cloudy day
Sometimes the blue below is white
Foreshadowing a windy night

Sometimes a drifting coconut
Or albatross adds color but
The blue above is mostly blue
The blue below and I are too
--------------------
Fire and Ice
by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire
Some say in ice
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire
But if it had to perish twice
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction, ice
Is also great
And would suffice
----------------
Nothing Gold Can Stay
by Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold
Her early leaf's a flower
But only so an hour
Then leaf subsides to leaf
So Eden sank to grief
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay

The margarita was way too salty (and other sensory experiences)

2005-12-06T13:07:00.000-05:00

The gang and I went to c. o. jones for dinner and drinks yesterday evening. It was the third night in as many nights that I'd gone out and had a really good time. As a result, there's been less angst to report over the past 72 hours. For a change of pace from the usual soul-probing thought excavation, here's a five-point all-sensory account of last night's bacchanal:

Tactile: A triangular patch of cold on my right thigh. I was wearing my favorite (and currently sole) pair of corduroy pants last night. They've got a right angle-shaped rip on the right leg, which has been there for a while. Sometimes I put a piece of duct tape behind it to keep it closed, but last night I'd forgotten and so the ripped piece was folded over to expose a small portion of my leg. I wore my hat and gloves, so the only part of me that was cold outside was that little triangle.

Visual: A big, black "9.00" on the screen of the cash register behind the bar. c. o. jones is a Mexican restuarant (get it? like cojones?) that is well-known for it's 5-7 p.m. margarita happy hour. When we first arrived, I ordered a margarita called the "Parrot Head " from the drink menu, and put a five dollar bill on the counter (assuming my drink would be around $3). The bar tender raised an eyebrow at me and said, "That's a nine dollar drink. Only house margaritas are half-off." I sheepishly reached into my wallet for another five. I didn't order any more drinks.

Auditory: Lots of noise. The restuarant is tiny--just a single room that holds, at best, maybe 5o people. Every word any one of us spoke to each other had to be shouted. But we were all half in the bag anyway, so we didn't really mind.

Gustatory: Carina's salty margarita. Tequila, lime juice and ice were flowing freely to our table last night, but unfortunately, so was salt. Carina ordered one last drink toward the end of the meal, which ended up sitting, practically untouched, in the center of the table for the last 15 minutes that we were there. She asked if I wanted it, so I took a sip--it was like taking a big, unexpected gulp of seawater. It was vile.

Olfactory: My car smells like cigarettes. In the car on the way home from Starbucks on Sunday, Carina (again) was smoking a cigarette and telling me the story of how she once threw a butt out the window of a moving car and it flew back in and landed on her lap. I told her to make sure that she did a good job of throwing her current butt out. She assured me she would. When I got back to my house, I made a quick, paranoid check of the back seat, and sure enough, there was a cigarette butt on the floor of the car. It had burned a hole in the mat. Last night my car still smelled like cigarettes.

In spite of a $9.00 margarita, a mouthful of salt, a cold thigh, a loud restaurant and a car that smelled like cigarettes, it was a very pleasant night.

The radio, driving, and thinking

2005-12-04T17:42:00.000-05:00

I was driving around aimlessly last night, and I was upset to find that there was no good talk radio to listen to. Cruising in my trusty/sexy 1998 Nissan Maxima (beige, leather interior), biding my time before meeting up with some buds for a night at the bar, all I wanted was to hear some thought-provoking and insightful commentary on some interesting topic. But Saturday night is the wasteland of talk radio. A Prairie Home Companion finishes up at 8, and then all of the NPR stations in my range switch over to instrumental music (one station was blaring some God-awful Celtic crap last night). All I could find on the AM dial was the play-by-play for a high school football game, which I think was a rerun. I was left with no choice but to pop in my CCR greatest hits CD, which I did grudgingly--it only took me a moment to settle into a relatively contented state of singing/shouting along to "Lodi" and "Bad Moon Rising."

I find that I do most of my best thinking behind the wheel. Something in the nature of driving engages my mind like no other activity. The act of driving is a series of instinctual motions and reactions. Muscle groups contract and extend in response to images taken in through the eye and processed in the brain via the miracle of cognition. Pistons fire, fuel burns, wheels spin. As with any habitual activity, the mind is given ample room to wander.

Last night was a particularly splendid driving night. Pristine road conditions (prior to this morning's powdery dusting of snow). Dark, with only the tiniest thumbnail sliver of moon visible. Chilly, but not frigid. One small pleasure of mine is rolling down the driver's side window and letting the cold air stream in. Talk about head-clearing, and anyway it keeps the windows from fogging up.

What was I thinking about during last night's drive? Lots of things. I wondered what winters are like up in Lenox, Massachusetts, and what they're like down in the northern suburbs of Atlanta. I wondered what they'd have on tap at the bar we were going to. I tried to remember where I thought I'd be spending this New Year's Eve a year ago. Most substantially, I arrived at the conclusion that my current lifestyle is self-perpetuating and self-justifying. (How to describe this one...hmm. Here goes: Because I'm unemployed, I am lazy and unmotivated. Because I am lazy and unmotivated, I am unemployed. It might be a Catch-22; it's definitely a vicious circle.)

I really, really want to get one of those jobs I applied for last week. No more excuses: if I get one, I'm taking it. Fuck how far away it is, or how much it pays, or how much I think I'm going to dislike it. I graduated from college six months ago, and I'm sick of being a loser. It's time to become a person. Writing pretentious bullshit about the radio and driving and thinking isn't turning me into a person. It's turning me into a joke.

Three new jobs

2005-12-02T08:15:00.000-05:00

After a bit of a lull (the only application I've really got pending is for an editorial assistant gig at NPR's Weekend All Things Considered. I've "followed up" many times, but haven't even been given the time of day by the NPR folks. I'm not sure if I'll ever hear anything, and that pisses me off. Speaking of being pissed off, I waved the white flag at the F* & W* people [my "follow up" email said something to the effect of "I'm sure you've already hired someone by now"] but they haven't decided to display the tiniest speck of human decency either. I mean, come on, it cost me fifty bucks for that lousy twenty minute interview! The original clause of this sentence, pre-parenthesis, by the way, was "After a bit of a lull"...)I've applied to three new jobs.

Uno: Entertainment writer for the Y* D* R* in York, Pennsylvania. Wasn't sure about the old YDR at first (what, you haven't heard of it?), but then I realized that it's actually a pretty well-respected little paper. Especially recently. The D* R* has received a lot of attention for it's coverage of a little case called Kitzmiller v. Dover--the "intelligent design" case. If you haven't heard of it, check out www.ydr.com, and follow the link to Dover Biology or something like that. Anyway, the job description sounds like something that's along the lines of what I might conceivably like to do, so I drafted a cover letter, printed a resume, tossed a few writing samples into an envelope and sent it off yesterday.

Due: Features writer for the P* N* and M* J* M* in Woodbridge, Virginia. Sounds a little random, but the area is just outside Arlington (which is just outside of D.C.) as far as I can tell. So, I think this qualifies as a writing job in D.C. Sent that baby off yesterday as well.

Tre: Copy editor for P* N* M* in Cumming (heehee!), Georgia. Apparently, P* N* is a society/lifestyle type magazine in the "well-to-do" northern suburbs of Atlanta (pardon me, HOT-lanta). The job description sounded warm and friendly: "The work load will include creative writing, fact checking articles, updating databases, story photo retrieval, representing the magazine at area press events and assisting editors on special projects. We are looking for a creative and talented writer who feels comfortable taking on various writing assignments and someone who works effectively as a team." None of those abrasive terms I've gotten accustomed to; things like "highly driven and ambitious" and "not afraid to dig deep for a good story" and "willing to make children and old ladies cry." Well, the last one is a little less common. I get the sense that this magazine is looking for someone a little more my speed. Atlanta wasn't high on my list of places to go, but...well, we'll see what happens.

So that's the news from Lake Employmenow (bonus points if anyone reading this gets the Garrison Keillor reference).

P.S. - I'm up early cause I'm going blackjackin' today! I hope I come back with more than I left with! Christmas is coming!

Eureka

2005-11-30T12:00:00.000-05:00

Since yesterday's post I've been scouring my New Yorker archive, not quite sure of what I'm looking for, but feverish in my pursuit of it nonetheless. One of the first writers I was drawn to was Susan Orlean. I didn't know much about her, but I'd seen Meryl Streep portray her on screen, so I was intrigued.

She and her writing were the subject of a Spike Jonze/Charlie Kaufmann movie a couple of years ago, "Adaptation." In a roundabout way, that film was about the writing of her book, "The Orchid Thief," which was developed from a New Yorker article that she had written. At some point in the movie, one character describes Orlean's style as "that flowery New Yorker shit." That phrase stuck with me and it was constantly in the back of my mind as I began reading the magazine this past summer. It sounded like the kind of writing that I would like to do.

Before I started sifting through Orlean's pieces in the archive, I Googled her. The first link was one to her own website (www.susanorlean.com). I went to the site, and I noticed a link on the main page to a section entitled "About Me." Here was her biography, which was precisely what I was looking for. What illustrious path had this esteemed writer taken on her way to literary greatness?

Excerpts from her first-person account:

"I am the product of a happy and relatively uneventful childhood in Cleveland, Ohio...This was followed by a happy and relatively squandered college career at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor...I studied literature and history and always dreamed of being a writer, but had no idea of how you went about being a writer--or at least the kind of writer I wanted to be: someone who wrote long stories about interesting things, rather than news stories about short-lived events. There is no guidebook to becoming that kind of writer, so I assumed I'd end up doing something practical like going to law school, much as the thought of it made me cringe. After college I moved to Portland, Oregon to kill some time before the inevitable trek to law school--and amazingly enough I lucked into a writing job at a tiny, now-defunct monthly magazine. That led to a job at an alternative newsweekly in Portland where I wrote music reviews and feature pieces...I started writing for Rolling Stone and the Village Voice...I moved to Boston in 1982...I wrote for the Boston Phoenix and the Boston Globe, and started work on my first book...Four years later I moved to New York. After moving to New York, I learned how to snowboard; wrote The Orchid Thief; became a staff writer at The New Yorker; got married; got a Welsh springer spaniel; learned how to order take-out food. These days I do some lecturing and some teaching, but most of the time I'm writing pieces for The New Yorker and occasionally for other magazines, and working on books."

Was this it? Had I found what I was looking for? A step-by-step guide (the kind of guide that Orlean claims doesn't exist) to becoming a writer? I'm already a quarter of the way there, but what's the next step? Buying a ticket to Portland? Dumb luck? To be continued...

Sidebar: I just received an email from an editor at The G* P* P* (the part-time publishing job I interviewed for last month). She makes it sound like the main reason I didn't get the job was because it was part-time and they didn't want to hire someone who might leave as soon as they found a full-time job. Frustrating (since I should have done more to assure them that I wasn't looking for a full-time gig (even though I was)), but not altogether surprising.

A big dilemma

2005-11-29T14:38:00.000-05:00

It's life's small dilemmas that occupy most of my time these days: What to have for lunch. What time to go to get out of bed. Whether to listen to Rush Limbaugh or Al Franken while I'm driving around town. You know, the kind of decisions that make the earth tremble a little.

Today (actually right this second) I'm grappling with a particularly tough decision. I celebrated a birthday recently, and one gift I received from my mother was The Complete New Yorker, which is an electronic compilation of every page of every New Yorker magazine ever published. All I had asked her for was a subscription to the magazine (which she also got for me), so I was stunned when I unwrapped the hefty-yet-sleek volume. I knew about the set from seeing ads in the magazine, but I never imagined owning it myself. Only recently have I become an avid New Yorker reader. This past summer, I spent a lot of time with my aunt and uncle at their lake house in western Connecticut. They receive a free subscription to the magazine, which neither of them reads. So there are piles of New Yorkers lying around their cabin stretching back literally for years. Each morning, I'd grab a few copies to take with me to read as we boated or lounged around by the docks. I spent many a warm summer day sprawled out on a towel reading Jonathan Franzen and David Sedaris, wishing, as I often do when I discover something that most other people have discovered long before, that I hadn't joined the party so late.

Now is my chance to catch up. It might take a few years, but if I really wanted to, I could go back and read every word every published in The New Yorker magazine. But I'm not going to do that. I'll probably just stick to the highlights. Plenty of amazing authors cut their teeth at The New Yorker, and I look forward to going back to see how those people that I admire wrote at the beginning of their careers. The list is awe-inspiring: John Updike, Philip Roth, Truman Capote, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Vladimir Nabokov, John Cheever, Raymond Carver. Dozens of writers, any one of which I could only hope to emulate in my dreams.

I realize how ridiculous it is to think of this set as anything more than a thoughtful birthday gift. But I can't help but wonder whether there's something to be gained here. One miniscule grain of understanding, one instant of clarity, that lights a tiny little spark...

I'm incredibly anxious to begin scouring the archives for that one bit of inspiration that will catapult me into a career as a respected, successful (dare I say beloved?) writer.

But here's where that dilemma comes in: where to start?

28 shopping days 'til Christmas

2005-11-28T11:18:00.000-05:00

Only in retrospect have I realized that Thanksgiving was probably a milestone (or perhaps more accurately, a deadline) in my job search. After a weekend of big family meals and evenings spent with friends who were in town for the holiday, it has become obvious to me that the last week of November and the first 23 days of December are really just a time out between the two major family holiday weeks of the year.

This was certainly the case when I was a college student. Thanksgiving break was a distant beacon of light when classes began at the end of August. After twelve unbroken weeks of lectures, papers, tests (and I suppose problem sets), the week off was a practical necessity. On the opposite side of the break, there'd be one final week of regular classes, one full week off to prepare for exams, and about two weeks for the exams themselves. Very little new learning actually took place. These few weeks were really about biding time until the semester was over. Studying for and taking exams were things we did to distract ourselves.

I can't imagine what sort of job opportunities will come my way during this four-week holiday wasteland. I'll be as diligent as ever in checking the web boards and sending out electronic applications (and following up, and following up again). But I find it hard to imagine anything new happening in December. It's getting on to winter. It's cold, plants are dying. Up in the Northeast we're getting into bad weather mode. And December is about spending money, not making it. I hope that I'm wrong. I'd be willing to start work on Christmas Day (especially if it were a job as an editorial assistant at NPR [my latest pie-in-the-sky application]). Maybe this will be my month. The alternative is (forgive me) a long December.

Turkey Day/Snow Day

2005-11-24T23:29:00.000-05:00

Early this morning, I was awakened by the sound of a motor running. It was clearly a large piece of lawn equipment--a tractor or leaf blower or some such device--and not a car or anything else. My immediate reaction was "Why did my neighbor have to decide to mow his lawn at 8 a.m. on Thanksgiving Day?" I tried to ignore the noise, but I was unsuccessful in falling back to sleep after a half hour of tossing and turning. So I crawled out of bed and hobbled to my window with the intention of catching my neighbor red-handed in his incosiderate yardwork, and perhaps casting a stern and disapproving glance his way.

I began to pull on the drawstring of the shade and as I caught my first glimpse of the scene outside, I thought that I must have gone temporarily blind. It was a strange blindness--a kind of reverse blindness. Rather than my field of vision being totally black, the light that reached my eyes from beyond the window was stark white. The white began as the thinnest of slivers, but then continued to grow, unbroken, as I raised the shade higher and higher. The ground, the trees, even my bundled-up neighbor pushing his snow blower down his driveway were all blindingly white. I could barely distinguish the white siding of the house next door from the ground below or the sky above. A feeling of unease washed over me. The scene was familiar, but something about it was sickeningly wrong.

I hurried down stairs to find out whether the same scene was visible out of all of the windows in my house. I jumped down the last three steps and a moment later reached a ground floor window. With an awkward jerk, I pulled the unfurled shade away from the window, and was confronted by yet another view of a snow-covered winter wonderland.

As I looked out that window, and my brain registered the obvious truth that it had snowed overnight, there was a single instant, the briefest of flashes, during which I was convinced that I had missed the entire month of December. I remembered going to sleep during the wee hours of the fourth Thursday of November, Thanksgiving Day. As I drifted off that night, I did not dream of snow or cold; I dreamed of stuffing and cranberry sauce. In southern New England, snow in November certainly isn't unheard of, but it isn't terribly common either. When one wakes up on what one believes to be Thanksgiving morning, one does not expect to be greeted by the remnants of a spontaneous overnight snowfall. Christmas, on the other hand, fits that bill perfectly. And so in that instant, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was Christmas day, and that the entire month of December had passed me by while I slept.

During this infinitesimally small cognitive hiccup, I felt like the anti-Scrooge in a bizzaro version of A Christmas Carol. Whereas Scrooge goes to sleep on Christmas Eve and wakes up on Christmas day having learned his lesson and having been given a chance to make up for his failings, I had gone to sleep on Thanksgiving eve and woken up on Christmas day, robbed of an entire month as punishment for squandering so many weeks of my life through my laziness and indecision. I felt awful.

But then the moment passed. I accepted the whiteness outside as what it actually was: a freak late-November snow storm. Without hesitating, I dashed back up to my room, pulled on some warm work clothes and gloves, and headed out to the garage to grab a snow shovel. Before anyone else in my house was out of bed, I was going to shovel the driveway. It was an embarassingly exhausting chore, but for the first time in months I actually felt useful. I had done work! And physical labor at that!

It was a Thankgiving miracle.

Funerals (and Weddings)

2005-11-23T00:42:00.000-05:00

One thing I've had plenty of time to do over the past few months has been to attend funerals. [I realize that the previous sentence is grammatically awkward, but I can't figure out how to revise it so that I can keep the subject at the end and still make it sound right.] I've been to two funerals in the past month or so. Even though it's been only two so far, I already feel like I'm on the funeral circuit. At the very least, I hear that "these things come in threes," so I've been steeling myself for another funeral sometime in the near future. So far, the deceased have been distant relatives. A great-great-uncle several weeks ago, and a great-aunt today. But I've got plenty of old relatives, some closer relations than others, so I wouldn't be surprised if I were to attend another funeral (or two) before the year (or my unemployment) is up.

I'm tempted to draw out some of the mortality issues that I've been grappling with since I've begun attending funerals. But that's a pretty staid topic. Pardon me for being morbid, but these few experiences have been more notable for the chance they have afforded me to observe people in mourning. Grief occupies an interesting corner of the human emotional spectrum. As far as I can tell, it allows people to engage in short bursts of unfettered public displays of sorrow, and to receive the unequivocal sympathy of their more distant family members and aquaintances. Am I an asshole for being so emotionally isolated from these somber events, and for treating them as anthropological exercises? Perhaps. Probably. But the way I see it, the more funerals of distant relatives that I attend now, the better prepared I'll be for the funerals that are really going to matter in my life. I can already envision myself delivering at least a couple of eulogies. In my family, I'm basically the go-to guy for any kind of speech or considered reflection (not to mention the fact that I'm the go-to guy for emotional stability. Ha! Shows what my family knows!) People in my family expect me to be stoic during the tough times, so the best I can do now is get some practical experience.

Weddings, on the other hand, I'm looking forward to. I see many weddings in my future, and I'm looking forward to each and every one of them. Between my relatives and my high school and college friends, I hope to be attending dozens of weddings over the next couple of decades. I've only been to a couple (and in recent, post-drinking age memory, I've only been to one). But my meager experience has been enough to give me a taste of how enjoyable a wedding (the anti-funeral) can be. Again, I can see myself being called upon to pontificate at a few of these future matrimonials. For the most part, I've got a much more positive outlook for these sure-to-be trite speeches. I've even begun drafting a few in my head.

If I had a job, or if I was in school, I'd have an excuse for not attending funerals. But I have no job, and thus I have no excuse. So for now, I think of each funeral I attend as a chance to make the next one easier. And all the while, I'm thinking how great it'd be if I were at a wedding.

Long weekend

2005-11-21T02:10:00.000-05:00

I've had a busy few days for a change. The college crew began rolling in on Thursday evening, and since then it's been nearly non-stop action. A pleasant change of pace, in all.

Re: last week's morbid "The gathering storm" post, the reality of this reunion weekend wound up being much less demoralizing than predicted. As always, it was intensely enjoyable to have the buds in town. In spite of the fact that they're all off earning astoundingly prestigious degrees or making remarkable contributions to society (I know you're reading this, and you know it's true), not one of them is even slightly condescending or disdainful of my current status. I never expected that they would be, but it's comforting to know that the old support system has withstood at least these past few months.

I was obliged to answer the dreaded questions a few dozen times. It occurred to me too late that I should've had a cover story prepared. A few ideas were floated (marine biologist, "imports/exports," industrial polishing), but none gained traction. Ultimately, there was really no need for a cover story. I told the truth to anyone who asked. Sometimes I'd get a pat on the shoulder and a word or two of encouragement. Mostly people just nodded politely, which is probably what they would have done if I told them I was at Columbia Law or Goldman Sachs or in training for a manned mission to Neptune.

I learned that there are even a few people from my graduating class who are just as unemployed as I am. The only difference between me and them, it seems, is that they're all wise enough to resist the urge to pour their frustrations and insecurities into an electronic journal that's accessible to the public.