So things are changing for both of us, Pangloss. I'm going to Wisconsin and you're headed out Colorado way. Quite a change from our prospects a mere month ago. Dismal prospects have shifted to bright opportunities, dark alleyways have opened into illuminated...alleyways.
Alleyways, of course, are narrow. They box you into a route. No turn around, no lateral movement, no offshoots. There may be a the garbage of a Korean restaurant in the way, and a mangy, rabid dog. But the only way to travel once you're inside the alleyway is forward, until you find your way out. You have to endure it the entire way. Right to the point where the metaphor loses all reasonable purpose.
I think my new job is steering me to a position of creature comforts, financial stability and social cachet. No more insulting patrons sneering at me. But I wonder how brave I am to pursue the things I sought. Will I break it off? I leave tomorrow.
The odd thing, and maybe, who knows, we can return to our subtitle's motivation with this thought, is that both of us are heading into relatively recession proof industries. The economy is going through all sorts of hell right now, but I'm going into healthcare and you're guiding wealthy WASPs down mountains. Neither of these situations will be affected. How weird is that?
Friday, September 26, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
So I got a job
Well, the days of slumming it in my parent's attic will soon be no more. I have procured employment, albeit far different from Martin's line of legitimate white collar work. In a few weeks, I'll load up the truck and blaze a path west to Colorado, where I'll work as a snowmobile guide.
This will be more than job. This is more on the scale of an adventure. I won't know a soul, I'm doing something I've never tried before, and my wages will necessitate my continued pauper-like lifestyle. The types of people will be quite different from me and my friends. There will be lots of money, lots of alcohol, probably lots of drugs, and lots of unbridled excess amongst my clients and compatriots. People living so high on the hog that they don't even know that the other half exists. That's what I'm stepping into.
But I'm happy for that. Sometimes I learn the most about myself, and act the most like myself, when surrounded by my polar opposites. So I'm not worried. Indeed, I think that this job will give me the opportunity to pursue that Western dream so many Americans have, whether it turns out to be fruitful or not. And who knows, I might like it so much I won't come back.
This will be more than job. This is more on the scale of an adventure. I won't know a soul, I'm doing something I've never tried before, and my wages will necessitate my continued pauper-like lifestyle. The types of people will be quite different from me and my friends. There will be lots of money, lots of alcohol, probably lots of drugs, and lots of unbridled excess amongst my clients and compatriots. People living so high on the hog that they don't even know that the other half exists. That's what I'm stepping into.
But I'm happy for that. Sometimes I learn the most about myself, and act the most like myself, when surrounded by my polar opposites. So I'm not worried. Indeed, I think that this job will give me the opportunity to pursue that Western dream so many Americans have, whether it turns out to be fruitful or not. And who knows, I might like it so much I won't come back.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Potential waster
You post, as usual, brings up a unique perspective, Pangloss. I have had similar experiences, working in a dead-end job with people who have no desire to find another avenue. This happens a lot in the service industry. People are professional servers, sometimes pulling down as much as $33k a year, which isn't great money but considerably better than most and even tastier when you consider how much of that isn't getting reported with taxes. But when conversations arise over our lives, the fact that I have a college degree is an often flummoxing fact.
Why don't you get another job? You are over qualified for this, they say. And I am. And I hate it when I look at them and say to myself that while I appreciate the work and do a good job, I feel I am better than this job. I do not live based on these earnings and I will not do this the rest of my life. Serving is awful work and if I did it forever, like many of them will, then I'd consider myself a burnout.
The only thing I consider redeeming about myself when I think this is that being aware of how ruthlessly patrician it sounds perhaps means that I don't mean it as much, or at least know what kind of asshole says this stuff. Like I have the right to scorn a job. But then again, a lot of the people there have kind of burned out. Drop outs who have smoked themselves THC stupid and rednecks who are so convinced that they've got something bigger coming around the corner but won't give up "a good job." Maybe this is the end and it's all they need or want. But there are people who work there also who are on breaks from getting their degrees and will never finish, and I know they don't want this as the end. They have skidded off the track.
I don't ever know how to feel about these things. I am overqualified to be a bartender and so I am not out of bounds of saying that I want to find more challenging work. But then the people who work there who never planned on doing that forever but now have to do so. I think what I'm facing is the question of whether I can think of wasting potential as a bad thing, bad enough to reflect on the character of the person who wasted it.
Why don't you get another job? You are over qualified for this, they say. And I am. And I hate it when I look at them and say to myself that while I appreciate the work and do a good job, I feel I am better than this job. I do not live based on these earnings and I will not do this the rest of my life. Serving is awful work and if I did it forever, like many of them will, then I'd consider myself a burnout.
The only thing I consider redeeming about myself when I think this is that being aware of how ruthlessly patrician it sounds perhaps means that I don't mean it as much, or at least know what kind of asshole says this stuff. Like I have the right to scorn a job. But then again, a lot of the people there have kind of burned out. Drop outs who have smoked themselves THC stupid and rednecks who are so convinced that they've got something bigger coming around the corner but won't give up "a good job." Maybe this is the end and it's all they need or want. But there are people who work there also who are on breaks from getting their degrees and will never finish, and I know they don't want this as the end. They have skidded off the track.
I don't ever know how to feel about these things. I am overqualified to be a bartender and so I am not out of bounds of saying that I want to find more challenging work. But then the people who work there who never planned on doing that forever but now have to do so. I think what I'm facing is the question of whether I can think of wasting potential as a bad thing, bad enough to reflect on the character of the person who wasted it.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Strange old town
In my off days I've been working at an apple farm in my hometown. It's nice because it gets me out of the house, outside, and doing honest work. Although carrying a bushel of apples around your neck for six to eight hours a day is rough, the pay is good and I have the pride of doing well something that most people would shirk from. And the views from the orchard are fantastic.
The guys I work with are a bizarre group. Two are Mexicans who have worked there for about 10 years. Then there's Jimmy, a kid who went to the prestigious high school in town but never went to college, though he's clearly smart enough to, and just sort of seems to bum around town doing whatever suits him. Then there's my old friend who's getting ready to move to Hollywood to make movies, though he loves working at the orchard. Finally there's the eccentric owner of the orchard, who rants about poor people not working and makes leering comments about woman at the fruit stand, yet pays us well and keeps the whole insane operation running in the black.
As I was plucking Jonagolds from the tree today, I silently listened to their conversations about women, politics, jobs, lazy kids who aren't working there anymore, high school football, the local police, and the like. And I realized that their conceptions of who they were and how they were living their life was so different from mine. Here I am, trying to find a purpose, a path, some noble truth to which I can dedicate myself and achieve great things. I've got an internal set of principles that, as much as I struggle with them, manage to guide my decisions and intentions. But these guys don't operate like that. When they talked about what they wanted, be it money or women or whatever, that thing became an end in and of itself. What they would do and how they would act with it was given no consideration. They gave only thought to what they could gain, and not a thought to how such a gain would require them to act if they were to be good men.
I realized today that the vaunted, lofty ideals of my liberal arts education are truly carried forth by few in this world. That is not a derisive moral judgment on my part; I understand that others have traveled different paths than I and perhaps understand certain things far better than I ever will. But as I work to pay my way out of this town, I must confront the fact that many people either do not or must not consider their actions beyond its immediate utility to them. They do not say, "What is required of me?" but rather, "What will this get me?" Perhaps that is the unfortunate fact of surviving in this world. Yet I believe such is the basic but vital root of problems that we see and try to solve only on the large scale.
Some cannot help this, for they have never been given opportunity to achieve such perspective. Yet even those who are educated, like my old friend and the orchard owner, fall short. It is education that we should vaunt, not the educated, for the educated may go out and make that terrible sin of squandering a good thing granted. But education, one of inquiring, considering, and reasoned critique, lies there, waiting patiently for those who choose to take it up and use it for what it was intended: to better human life, even if only one, by revealing the right and good way to live out one's desires and actions.
I'm trying to escape from this town, but I'm not wishing it so yet. Perhaps these guys were given to me so that I can see what I have been given in my education. And I hope that soon I can give something back.
The guys I work with are a bizarre group. Two are Mexicans who have worked there for about 10 years. Then there's Jimmy, a kid who went to the prestigious high school in town but never went to college, though he's clearly smart enough to, and just sort of seems to bum around town doing whatever suits him. Then there's my old friend who's getting ready to move to Hollywood to make movies, though he loves working at the orchard. Finally there's the eccentric owner of the orchard, who rants about poor people not working and makes leering comments about woman at the fruit stand, yet pays us well and keeps the whole insane operation running in the black.
As I was plucking Jonagolds from the tree today, I silently listened to their conversations about women, politics, jobs, lazy kids who aren't working there anymore, high school football, the local police, and the like. And I realized that their conceptions of who they were and how they were living their life was so different from mine. Here I am, trying to find a purpose, a path, some noble truth to which I can dedicate myself and achieve great things. I've got an internal set of principles that, as much as I struggle with them, manage to guide my decisions and intentions. But these guys don't operate like that. When they talked about what they wanted, be it money or women or whatever, that thing became an end in and of itself. What they would do and how they would act with it was given no consideration. They gave only thought to what they could gain, and not a thought to how such a gain would require them to act if they were to be good men.
I realized today that the vaunted, lofty ideals of my liberal arts education are truly carried forth by few in this world. That is not a derisive moral judgment on my part; I understand that others have traveled different paths than I and perhaps understand certain things far better than I ever will. But as I work to pay my way out of this town, I must confront the fact that many people either do not or must not consider their actions beyond its immediate utility to them. They do not say, "What is required of me?" but rather, "What will this get me?" Perhaps that is the unfortunate fact of surviving in this world. Yet I believe such is the basic but vital root of problems that we see and try to solve only on the large scale.
Some cannot help this, for they have never been given opportunity to achieve such perspective. Yet even those who are educated, like my old friend and the orchard owner, fall short. It is education that we should vaunt, not the educated, for the educated may go out and make that terrible sin of squandering a good thing granted. But education, one of inquiring, considering, and reasoned critique, lies there, waiting patiently for those who choose to take it up and use it for what it was intended: to better human life, even if only one, by revealing the right and good way to live out one's desires and actions.
I'm trying to escape from this town, but I'm not wishing it so yet. Perhaps these guys were given to me so that I can see what I have been given in my education. And I hope that soon I can give something back.
Monday, September 1, 2008
A real job, Geppetto
So this is what it's like to be emerging from the Twilight. I did have a successful interview, Pangloss, and the result is that I have a job -- a real job. I'm moving out of the basement and into an apartment. Never again will I work for tips. Such a rich and wonderful feeling I thought I'd never know.
And your thoughts are well received, Pangloss. The primary anxiety I've faced since receiving the job offer has been a continuation of the same fear I expressed in my last post. One of the post-grad hopes I had strongly embraced had been the fact that for my lack of direction I also had a lack of obligation. This new job, while not an obligation in the same way that, say, a kid, a wife or major debt might be, is nevertheless such a reassuring reentry into the security of stability that I fear I might pick up a kid, a wife or major debt just to ensure that I would never leave it.
But don't worry, Pangloss, because I'm not abandoning our blog just yet. For one thing, I have an entirely different set of anxieties to worry about. Like moving to a new place where I know almost no one, taking a job I have no idea how to do and attempting to do all of the things that adults do without very much experience. I also get the added bonus of going an entire month on my own without any income, as checks come every month. So that's fun.
And your thoughts are well received, Pangloss. The primary anxiety I've faced since receiving the job offer has been a continuation of the same fear I expressed in my last post. One of the post-grad hopes I had strongly embraced had been the fact that for my lack of direction I also had a lack of obligation. This new job, while not an obligation in the same way that, say, a kid, a wife or major debt might be, is nevertheless such a reassuring reentry into the security of stability that I fear I might pick up a kid, a wife or major debt just to ensure that I would never leave it.
But don't worry, Pangloss, because I'm not abandoning our blog just yet. For one thing, I have an entirely different set of anxieties to worry about. Like moving to a new place where I know almost no one, taking a job I have no idea how to do and attempting to do all of the things that adults do without very much experience. I also get the added bonus of going an entire month on my own without any income, as checks come every month. So that's fun.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Congrats
Martin, I congratulate you on what sounds like a successful interview and on finding a good company to work for. And as for your qualms about reconciling your past plans with your current situation, I would not worry too much. Ideals and dreams are a beautiful thing and we should all strive to achieve them to their nth degree. But it is a fact of our flawed human existence that it cannot be so.
Just because we cannot immediately dedicate our life to the cause in which we believed wholeheartedly does not make us immoral or lesser human beings. Indeed, if we manage to keep alive that belief through the harsh reality of our world, then that is all the more credit to our faith and belief in the idea that we are called to something greater. And transcending that immediate difficulty to achieve noble things testifies that we are more than those we must tread with in daily drudgery, in secure but unfulfilling work.
Do not worry about losing that desire to go abroad, to see and do great things, to help where it is needed. If that dream cannot survive in the face of security, prosperity, and comfort, then it is a dream not worth having. And if that dream fades despite your desire to keep it alive, then it is not meant to be. We cannot control our situation or station in life, but we can control our choices. Choose to seek that path in your daily life; awake and say, "Today will put me one step closer to what I know is right." If in the end you follow that dream, then wonderful. If not, then don't lose sleep over it. Choice is the only thing we can really control and Fate must rule the rest.
Again, I congratulate you, Martin. Go with boldness along this path, for that is all one can do if unsure. Choose your dreams.
Just because we cannot immediately dedicate our life to the cause in which we believed wholeheartedly does not make us immoral or lesser human beings. Indeed, if we manage to keep alive that belief through the harsh reality of our world, then that is all the more credit to our faith and belief in the idea that we are called to something greater. And transcending that immediate difficulty to achieve noble things testifies that we are more than those we must tread with in daily drudgery, in secure but unfulfilling work.
Do not worry about losing that desire to go abroad, to see and do great things, to help where it is needed. If that dream cannot survive in the face of security, prosperity, and comfort, then it is a dream not worth having. And if that dream fades despite your desire to keep it alive, then it is not meant to be. We cannot control our situation or station in life, but we can control our choices. Choose to seek that path in your daily life; awake and say, "Today will put me one step closer to what I know is right." If in the end you follow that dream, then wonderful. If not, then don't lose sleep over it. Choice is the only thing we can really control and Fate must rule the rest.
Again, I congratulate you, Martin. Go with boldness along this path, for that is all one can do if unsure. Choose your dreams.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
An interview
Pangloss, sorry I have been so long in posting a response. You see, I was out of town. I had a job interview. For a real job.
It was a crazy experience -- the company paid for my flight to their location, paid for my stay at a (nice) hotel, bought dinner, breakfast and lunch, and picked up every taxi bill as well. My first thought, as soon as I arrived at the hotel, was how bizarre it seemed that a company would be so interested in me. After all, six months before any given day this week, I was probably drunk on Spring Break. I thought, if these people only knew me well enough, they'd realize how silly it is to hire me. But then, that's how a lot of people feel, I bet.
Of course, this company is a real company with huge revenue numbers. They're capitalist to the bone. They're expanding rapidly. They're the opposite of what I thought I would do when I graduated. And now that I'm in the running for a real job with real pay and real benefits, it unsettles me that I am so excited at the possibility of abandoning the hopes I had when I was in college for a life that eschewed conventionality in favor of vibrancy. What does this mean for me?
For starters, I haven't completely abandoned my ethics. The company is incredibly gracious and very concerned about doing the right thing. It's not Google, but they're motto is not very different from Google's "Don't be evil" mantra. So I've either a) found the shining example of responsible profit-motive or b) been seduced. Either way, though, I've let something slip since college. Taking this job, if I'm offered it, doesn't mean that I'm entirely selling out, but it does mean that already, in the three months since graduation, I've become something of that person I used to disparage. You know, the college-age liberal who was not quite so willing to forgo the luxuries provided him in the safe environment of the university when he was on his own. "Fight for world peace, until you find that you might have to go without HBO!"
It also means that I have to abandon, at least for a few years, my plan to go international. It once was incredibly formalized and had since devolved into little more than foreign vagrancy, but it still holds a dear place in my heart. Deny that? For a job? Where is my gusto? In six months, I might only be able to find it in my locker at the country club.
The company, though, really was great. I'd love to work for them, at any age, which is part of what makes this process so frustrating. If I had already gone into the great big world to have my adventure, then this is exactly where I'd like to work when I came home. The company really seems perfect, save one thing. While they may have arranged all flights and accomodations, I did still have to pay for parking at the airport.
It was a crazy experience -- the company paid for my flight to their location, paid for my stay at a (nice) hotel, bought dinner, breakfast and lunch, and picked up every taxi bill as well. My first thought, as soon as I arrived at the hotel, was how bizarre it seemed that a company would be so interested in me. After all, six months before any given day this week, I was probably drunk on Spring Break. I thought, if these people only knew me well enough, they'd realize how silly it is to hire me. But then, that's how a lot of people feel, I bet.
Of course, this company is a real company with huge revenue numbers. They're capitalist to the bone. They're expanding rapidly. They're the opposite of what I thought I would do when I graduated. And now that I'm in the running for a real job with real pay and real benefits, it unsettles me that I am so excited at the possibility of abandoning the hopes I had when I was in college for a life that eschewed conventionality in favor of vibrancy. What does this mean for me?
For starters, I haven't completely abandoned my ethics. The company is incredibly gracious and very concerned about doing the right thing. It's not Google, but they're motto is not very different from Google's "Don't be evil" mantra. So I've either a) found the shining example of responsible profit-motive or b) been seduced. Either way, though, I've let something slip since college. Taking this job, if I'm offered it, doesn't mean that I'm entirely selling out, but it does mean that already, in the three months since graduation, I've become something of that person I used to disparage. You know, the college-age liberal who was not quite so willing to forgo the luxuries provided him in the safe environment of the university when he was on his own. "Fight for world peace, until you find that you might have to go without HBO!"
It also means that I have to abandon, at least for a few years, my plan to go international. It once was incredibly formalized and had since devolved into little more than foreign vagrancy, but it still holds a dear place in my heart. Deny that? For a job? Where is my gusto? In six months, I might only be able to find it in my locker at the country club.
The company, though, really was great. I'd love to work for them, at any age, which is part of what makes this process so frustrating. If I had already gone into the great big world to have my adventure, then this is exactly where I'd like to work when I came home. The company really seems perfect, save one thing. While they may have arranged all flights and accomodations, I did still have to pay for parking at the airport.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Abandoning the past
Martin, I agree wholeheartedly with you. I am thankful that my readings of history and literature are not subject to the whims of a professor who may not have a more valid grasp of the topic that I, and that I am not subject to his critical eye for the sake of a favorable grade in order to graduate magna cum laude.
I looked at photos from a dear friend's Facebook album chronicling the beginning of her senior year and I felt a twinge of pain. But I forced myself to look at those emotions that triggered that response, and realized the complexity of those feelings. I wished I was with those people, enjoying good, unique times. Yet the physical places that they were I wished to have no part of. I wanted to be doing crazy, out of control things with them, but miles away from my old college, where they were. That exemplifies the complexity of post-grad feeling: one wishes to continue the relationships of the past, yet one realizes that such relationships must transcend a given place and time. But which friendships are built on context and which extend beyond it? That is the challenge that we face, and not all survive that test.
I try to connect with people I was so very close with three months ago, Martin. Some of them I do make a genuine connection with, and the others seem fake, a continuation of conditions long expired. I hope and pray that I will be able to break free of that tyrannical grip that context holds over us and reconnect with those I have neglected over the past few months.
I looked at photos from a dear friend's Facebook album chronicling the beginning of her senior year and I felt a twinge of pain. But I forced myself to look at those emotions that triggered that response, and realized the complexity of those feelings. I wished I was with those people, enjoying good, unique times. Yet the physical places that they were I wished to have no part of. I wanted to be doing crazy, out of control things with them, but miles away from my old college, where they were. That exemplifies the complexity of post-grad feeling: one wishes to continue the relationships of the past, yet one realizes that such relationships must transcend a given place and time. But which friendships are built on context and which extend beyond it? That is the challenge that we face, and not all survive that test.
I try to connect with people I was so very close with three months ago, Martin. Some of them I do make a genuine connection with, and the others seem fake, a continuation of conditions long expired. I hope and pray that I will be able to break free of that tyrannical grip that context holds over us and reconnect with those I have neglected over the past few months.
A good thing
Sometime over the past week and a half, I had some long conversations with friends who are still undergrads. The talks were typical, mulling over common interests with lazy pleasure. It was good to know that these friends had not abandoned me since I departed the university. But somewhere in the conversation, it became clear to both of us that while our friendship is not tied to my alma mater, I was certainly graduated and he was certainly not. And in that recognition, I did find at least one light shining in our collective darkness, Pangloss. We do not have to start another year of college this week.
Summer has been a bit of a blow-off season. I've searched for jobs and scrounged for quarters, but I've also spent a lot of June, July and August "taking time off." I've been drunk. I've spent hours listening to records. I started a blog. The depression of our condition is no reason to take heart, but the fact that I am, for all my non-starting, in the real world and not tied to the academic institution forces a smile. So Pangloss, times are grim, things are rough, but we do not have to wake for a class, study for a test or ponder theoretical interpretations of the presence of uncircumcised penises in modern French film. At least, not for a grade. And we are adults. So that's a good thing.
Summer has been a bit of a blow-off season. I've searched for jobs and scrounged for quarters, but I've also spent a lot of June, July and August "taking time off." I've been drunk. I've spent hours listening to records. I started a blog. The depression of our condition is no reason to take heart, but the fact that I am, for all my non-starting, in the real world and not tied to the academic institution forces a smile. So Pangloss, times are grim, things are rough, but we do not have to wake for a class, study for a test or ponder theoretical interpretations of the presence of uncircumcised penises in modern French film. At least, not for a grade. And we are adults. So that's a good thing.
Friday, August 22, 2008
The desert of our youth
This is it, Martin, that great, vast expanse of wilderness where enthusiasm, idealism, and dreams perish. If we look backward, their scattered bones, bleached white by the sun, mark the trail we have followed, right into the Kalahari of post-graduate hope. Denied of spiritual sustenance, the water of life if you will, our faculties diminish to a faint glimmer of what they once were. Intelligence, sharpness of thought and tongue, energy for the task at hand, gone. Delusions, like thirst, set in and fog our mind, clouding our judgments and leading us to decisions which only worsen our condition.
What do I mean by this? I mean that in taking jobs we never dreamed of wanting, setting marginal, petty goals that amount to little more than survival, and wallowing in malaise, we are like a lost man straggling toward a mirage. We think it is what we want but in the end, whatever we hoped it would bring will vanish, just like all the hopes that we carried out of our alma mater's doors.
It is one thing to have a spiritual crisis, to not know one's own purpose and direction in life, to search for a new path when the sought-after one was blocked. Such a trial can be hard even under good conditions, where one is secure inside an institution or community or station in life. But confronting such a crisis while broke, luckless in finding a legitimate job, bereft of friends, and reduced emotionally to the level of a middle schooler by one's parents, is devastating. Devastating in the way carpet bombing is devastating.
Where does one go? Drawing inward is the only defense, trying to escape those external tormentors with the hope that one's internals will survive intact. But even that effort might prove fruitless in the end. One might deny one's capacity for living (and not merely existing) so much that it will be forgotten, blown away in a sandstorm which disorients the self as to its direction and goal.
Let us hope that there is an escape from this desert before it becomes too late, too late for us even to care about our pained musings on this site. But I do not know, Martin, if we will be that lucky.
What do I mean by this? I mean that in taking jobs we never dreamed of wanting, setting marginal, petty goals that amount to little more than survival, and wallowing in malaise, we are like a lost man straggling toward a mirage. We think it is what we want but in the end, whatever we hoped it would bring will vanish, just like all the hopes that we carried out of our alma mater's doors.
It is one thing to have a spiritual crisis, to not know one's own purpose and direction in life, to search for a new path when the sought-after one was blocked. Such a trial can be hard even under good conditions, where one is secure inside an institution or community or station in life. But confronting such a crisis while broke, luckless in finding a legitimate job, bereft of friends, and reduced emotionally to the level of a middle schooler by one's parents, is devastating. Devastating in the way carpet bombing is devastating.
Where does one go? Drawing inward is the only defense, trying to escape those external tormentors with the hope that one's internals will survive intact. But even that effort might prove fruitless in the end. One might deny one's capacity for living (and not merely existing) so much that it will be forgotten, blown away in a sandstorm which disorients the self as to its direction and goal.
Let us hope that there is an escape from this desert before it becomes too late, too late for us even to care about our pained musings on this site. But I do not know, Martin, if we will be that lucky.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Late nights and low expectations
Sleeping. Fast food. Television. Girls Gone Wild commercials.
With all of the free time I have, you might think I would find something more productive. But I haven't. I've put off an oil change for my car for a week, neglected to wash more than one load of laundry since graduation and still have not unboxed any books.
The lack of motivation, Pangloss, is one of the many negative factors of our condition. When we first graduated, this was called decompression. We had earned the time off. We deserved an uninterrupted break. But I can't seem to break the cycle.
Part of it is undeniably my job. If I keep late hours, spend my mornings asleep and eat high-carbohydrate food without exercising, I'm going to be sluggish. But the job can't bear all the burden. If I wanted to do so, I could be asleep most nights by eleven thirty. Instead, I stay awake to play "Asteroids," which wasn't cool in the 1980s and isn't cool now.
I think that another part of it, though, is that I'm able to get away with it. I have such low expectations for myself that I hardly have any interest in motivating myself to exceed them.
With all of the free time I have, you might think I would find something more productive. But I haven't. I've put off an oil change for my car for a week, neglected to wash more than one load of laundry since graduation and still have not unboxed any books.
The lack of motivation, Pangloss, is one of the many negative factors of our condition. When we first graduated, this was called decompression. We had earned the time off. We deserved an uninterrupted break. But I can't seem to break the cycle.
Part of it is undeniably my job. If I keep late hours, spend my mornings asleep and eat high-carbohydrate food without exercising, I'm going to be sluggish. But the job can't bear all the burden. If I wanted to do so, I could be asleep most nights by eleven thirty. Instead, I stay awake to play "Asteroids," which wasn't cool in the 1980s and isn't cool now.
I think that another part of it, though, is that I'm able to get away with it. I have such low expectations for myself that I hardly have any interest in motivating myself to exceed them.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Crawling into a cave
I wish I had sword blessed by the Pope, Martin, so that you could slay your two hell-spawned Doppelgangers. But, alas, I am short that part of my armory.
I wholly understand anger at people who attempt to sympathize with your position without knowing what you've gone through. They offer platitudes like, "Oh, I'm sorry, but don't worry, it'll sort itself out. You'll find something." Yes, I know that, you don't have to tell me that. Don't pity me. What makes me even more mad, though, are the people who think that they have the solution for you. "You should go to law school," one woman at church told me. She's a high-powered corporate attorney who only works two weeks a month and flies to New Orleans to do it. "I'm really not interested in being a lawyer," I told her. She looked like she'd swallowed a blowfish. She was offended that, even in my bad luck and soul-searching, I still had dreams and principles that I would follow and would shun her profession altogether.
Experiences like that are why I seclude myself away, crawl into a cave. In my town, that's not too hard, since I have no friends left here. I go to church sometimes but more often than not don't, not out of lack of faith but out of desire to avoid people asking about my future. I don't go out on Friday nights: I sit at home and read essays by Faulkner. Most of the people from college I don't talk to, because all we can do is talk about the past; we are living worlds apart now and have no common ground. So my day-to-day consists of much job searching, much reading, and far too much thinking, alone.
I am a hermit, existing but not living. But until I find a path out, I would not trade it for your position, Martin. For I do not have to worry about exposing my dignity or self-worth to others' disdain. I can hide, disappear, until I am ready to emerge with a path to travel. I am willing to pay the price of loneliness if it means keeping my sense of self-worth.
I wholly understand anger at people who attempt to sympathize with your position without knowing what you've gone through. They offer platitudes like, "Oh, I'm sorry, but don't worry, it'll sort itself out. You'll find something." Yes, I know that, you don't have to tell me that. Don't pity me. What makes me even more mad, though, are the people who think that they have the solution for you. "You should go to law school," one woman at church told me. She's a high-powered corporate attorney who only works two weeks a month and flies to New Orleans to do it. "I'm really not interested in being a lawyer," I told her. She looked like she'd swallowed a blowfish. She was offended that, even in my bad luck and soul-searching, I still had dreams and principles that I would follow and would shun her profession altogether.
Experiences like that are why I seclude myself away, crawl into a cave. In my town, that's not too hard, since I have no friends left here. I go to church sometimes but more often than not don't, not out of lack of faith but out of desire to avoid people asking about my future. I don't go out on Friday nights: I sit at home and read essays by Faulkner. Most of the people from college I don't talk to, because all we can do is talk about the past; we are living worlds apart now and have no common ground. So my day-to-day consists of much job searching, much reading, and far too much thinking, alone.
I am a hermit, existing but not living. But until I find a path out, I would not trade it for your position, Martin. For I do not have to worry about exposing my dignity or self-worth to others' disdain. I can hide, disappear, until I am ready to emerge with a path to travel. I am willing to pay the price of loneliness if it means keeping my sense of self-worth.
Monday, August 18, 2008
A dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind
Pangloss, I couldn't agree with you more about a desire to be caught up in history. While war is not my preferred method, it is hard not to feel a twinge of jealousy towards those men throughout history who have triumphed in difficult circumstances forced upon them by great and powerful tides. George Orwell, Ernest Hemingway, Winston Churchill; the common man drafted to fight in World War II; the brave journalists who flew to Afghanistan in the days immediately following 9/11. (I am not missing the point that every one of these instances involves combat.) So maybe a war isn't the answer, but some moment of global or human crisis, when humanity shows its worst colors, would provide a moment to offer our best. I only hope that we have the wisdom to recognize it, the nerve to chase it and the vanity to write a book about it when we are finished.
In the meantime, while we trudge this dark night, I want to share a story of my temporary job. Like Rod Serling's classic television show The Twilight Zone, tonight, your protagonist, Martin, found himself strangely exposed to two characters. One came from his past, a painful reminder of both past and present failings. The other came from the street, but might as well have come from his future, the awful negative to the photograph he hopes to develop.
Like all good stories about men, this one starts with a girl. The bar had a slow night, but the dining room was popping. I stepped out from behind the bar to deliver drinks to a table -- mother, father, college age daughter and high school age son -- and greet them while the table's actual server dealt with a new six-top. I am about to launch into the specials when the daughter interrupts me to ask if we know each other. She is a beautiful girl, blonde hair and green eyes. She speaks eloquently and compassionately. In all circumstances, she conducts herself with poise. I know all of this, of course, because I do know the girl. I went to high school with her. Back then, I hit on her relentlessly. Now I was explaining the fish special to her.
"So, what are you doing?"
"I just graduated from college, slinging drinks, looking for jobs. What about you?"
"I just got back from foreign study and am about to go back to Tulane." The girl is a rising senior.
"Where were you on foreign study?"
"Ghana. You were a year ahead of me. What are you trying to do?"
At this point I dramatically overinflated my minimal prospects. Why? Because I didn't want to admit to this girl that my odds are as bad as they really are. I didn't want her to think poorly of me.
But then I did something even worse. I told her, in general terms, that I had a plan but it was ruined, so I was trying to forge a new plan. She said: "That'll probably be me in a year." Weak smile.
Patronizing bitch.
There are a lot of terrifying things about this encounter. First, it checks your ego in a big way to serve someone you once considered your peer and also wanted to date. That ego check comes hard and below the belt, but it's not one that I think I particularly need. I certainly did not want it. The second thing is that she just returned from work in Africa, which was my plan before it was ruined. So already, she has accomplished the one thing I was going to do after college before she even finished her degree. She's a leg up on me. These two things sting hard, with all the childish bitterness of elementary school ridicule.
Third, I did no credit to my job. I tend bar and I'm good at it. Instead of holding my head high for doing a job well, I engaged in petty snobbery and tried to appeal to some college girl I literally have not seen in four years. I suggested that I was a failure and so is every other person with whom I work. I also decided in a split second to use her as a rubric for success. That last thing, though, is what made this half of the encounter awful.
"That'll probably be me in a year." It was something all of my behavior asked for, a validation from her for my bad state, a recognition that I wasn't a failure, an undeserved, patronizing remark that offered false solidarity. And I begged for it. And if she is ever anything like I was, she said, "Mom and Dad, I will never do that" as soon as I left the table.
To pander like that left me with less dignity than I had when I volunteered to deliver the drinks. If you can strike a difference between dignity and self-respect, I want to say that while I hardly respect myself for my position, before tonight I had never felt like it was costing me my dignity.
The second person I met was a bar fly. This guy was in his early thirties and handsome. Lots of teeth in the smile. He came in late, ordered a beer and made small talk with the other patrons and me. Then, as the night closed down, he sipped on a water and spoke one on one with me. We started out with a casual conversation, but soon we were talking metaphysics, and somewhere along the way, he lost the calm tone he had at the start of the evening in favor of a tripped-out drawl that rambled on and on about establishment agendas. I thought that I was talking to Dennis Hopper. "Dude, you gotta know about the agendas behind what they're teaching you, man. I've done lots of reading on my own, man."
I found this fellow frightening because of his back ground. "Man, I'm just wandering. I don't think I want to be part of anything establishment." The wandering gig, the free spirit lifestyle, the hobo-philosopher tramp -- I find that life romantic. But here was a guy doing that into his thirties. He was a burnout, and while I'll never do all the drugs he must have done, I can't say I didn't see one avenue my life could take in that guy.
So how does a person wander and follow a dream, eschew the economic demands for and cultural confiscation of identity? And to return, rather heavy handedly, to the initial point, how do we do that without some grand historical event?
In the meantime, while we trudge this dark night, I want to share a story of my temporary job. Like Rod Serling's classic television show The Twilight Zone, tonight, your protagonist, Martin, found himself strangely exposed to two characters. One came from his past, a painful reminder of both past and present failings. The other came from the street, but might as well have come from his future, the awful negative to the photograph he hopes to develop.
Like all good stories about men, this one starts with a girl. The bar had a slow night, but the dining room was popping. I stepped out from behind the bar to deliver drinks to a table -- mother, father, college age daughter and high school age son -- and greet them while the table's actual server dealt with a new six-top. I am about to launch into the specials when the daughter interrupts me to ask if we know each other. She is a beautiful girl, blonde hair and green eyes. She speaks eloquently and compassionately. In all circumstances, she conducts herself with poise. I know all of this, of course, because I do know the girl. I went to high school with her. Back then, I hit on her relentlessly. Now I was explaining the fish special to her.
"So, what are you doing?"
"I just graduated from college, slinging drinks, looking for jobs. What about you?"
"I just got back from foreign study and am about to go back to Tulane." The girl is a rising senior.
"Where were you on foreign study?"
"Ghana. You were a year ahead of me. What are you trying to do?"
At this point I dramatically overinflated my minimal prospects. Why? Because I didn't want to admit to this girl that my odds are as bad as they really are. I didn't want her to think poorly of me.
But then I did something even worse. I told her, in general terms, that I had a plan but it was ruined, so I was trying to forge a new plan. She said: "That'll probably be me in a year." Weak smile.
Patronizing bitch.
There are a lot of terrifying things about this encounter. First, it checks your ego in a big way to serve someone you once considered your peer and also wanted to date. That ego check comes hard and below the belt, but it's not one that I think I particularly need. I certainly did not want it. The second thing is that she just returned from work in Africa, which was my plan before it was ruined. So already, she has accomplished the one thing I was going to do after college before she even finished her degree. She's a leg up on me. These two things sting hard, with all the childish bitterness of elementary school ridicule.
Third, I did no credit to my job. I tend bar and I'm good at it. Instead of holding my head high for doing a job well, I engaged in petty snobbery and tried to appeal to some college girl I literally have not seen in four years. I suggested that I was a failure and so is every other person with whom I work. I also decided in a split second to use her as a rubric for success. That last thing, though, is what made this half of the encounter awful.
"That'll probably be me in a year." It was something all of my behavior asked for, a validation from her for my bad state, a recognition that I wasn't a failure, an undeserved, patronizing remark that offered false solidarity. And I begged for it. And if she is ever anything like I was, she said, "Mom and Dad, I will never do that" as soon as I left the table.
To pander like that left me with less dignity than I had when I volunteered to deliver the drinks. If you can strike a difference between dignity and self-respect, I want to say that while I hardly respect myself for my position, before tonight I had never felt like it was costing me my dignity.
The second person I met was a bar fly. This guy was in his early thirties and handsome. Lots of teeth in the smile. He came in late, ordered a beer and made small talk with the other patrons and me. Then, as the night closed down, he sipped on a water and spoke one on one with me. We started out with a casual conversation, but soon we were talking metaphysics, and somewhere along the way, he lost the calm tone he had at the start of the evening in favor of a tripped-out drawl that rambled on and on about establishment agendas. I thought that I was talking to Dennis Hopper. "Dude, you gotta know about the agendas behind what they're teaching you, man. I've done lots of reading on my own, man."
I found this fellow frightening because of his back ground. "Man, I'm just wandering. I don't think I want to be part of anything establishment." The wandering gig, the free spirit lifestyle, the hobo-philosopher tramp -- I find that life romantic. But here was a guy doing that into his thirties. He was a burnout, and while I'll never do all the drugs he must have done, I can't say I didn't see one avenue my life could take in that guy.
So how does a person wander and follow a dream, eschew the economic demands for and cultural confiscation of identity? And to return, rather heavy handedly, to the initial point, how do we do that without some grand historical event?
We need a good war
Many thanks, Martin, for the well-wishes. I certainly am thankful for the job and even more thankful that it is part-time. That way I'll have enough time to make a little money and still enough time to look for legitimate work; furthermore, being a cashier at a big box store will certainly remind me that I need to get the hell out of Dodge as quickly as possible.
Here's a fundamental problem with our current predicament, Martin: we're too responsible for our own future. Everything is up to us, the ball is in our court. But we're not happy with that, because most of the options aren't what we want. Numbing corporate servitude is pretty much the soup du jour, unless we choose graduate school or decide to waste a few years teaching English in Asia like lots of other free-spirit liberal arts types.
We need a good war. I'm not talking the Iraq/Afghanistan conflicts we have going on now. Most Americans don't have to get their hands dirty with those, as important as they are. I'm talking The Big One, against The Enemy. We need to get swept up in the tide of history, where the possibilities for being a part of something great are almost infinite and we don't have to go hunting high and low for that chance to stand out.
Okay, so I jest about wanting a war. That would actually probably suck if we didn't win or it went nuclear. But you get the idea. Something nice and big and historical. I'd settle for a revolution or even just some civil unrest. At least it'd be a nice break from our bland day-to-day existence. And maybe we could do some looting. Ever since my bank account dipped into the three digits, I'm all about looting.
Here's a fundamental problem with our current predicament, Martin: we're too responsible for our own future. Everything is up to us, the ball is in our court. But we're not happy with that, because most of the options aren't what we want. Numbing corporate servitude is pretty much the soup du jour, unless we choose graduate school or decide to waste a few years teaching English in Asia like lots of other free-spirit liberal arts types.
We need a good war. I'm not talking the Iraq/Afghanistan conflicts we have going on now. Most Americans don't have to get their hands dirty with those, as important as they are. I'm talking The Big One, against The Enemy. We need to get swept up in the tide of history, where the possibilities for being a part of something great are almost infinite and we don't have to go hunting high and low for that chance to stand out.
Okay, so I jest about wanting a war. That would actually probably suck if we didn't win or it went nuclear. But you get the idea. Something nice and big and historical. I'd settle for a revolution or even just some civil unrest. At least it'd be a nice break from our bland day-to-day existence. And maybe we could do some looting. Ever since my bank account dipped into the three digits, I'm all about looting.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
The temporary job
Well, Pangloss, it's good to hear that you found employment. I'm guessing that you have yet to find a real job, due to the fact that you're still posting on this blog, but perhaps your stars are changing. Or at least you can leave the attic, where you spend all your time posting hateful screeds on a blog.
I will say this: there is real danger in these temporary, time passing jobs. As I said before, you can trick yourself into thinking that all of this will pass. After weeks and weeks of not making any money while unemployed, the cheese you collect from your first paycheck will look like a winning Powerball ticket. Finally, you think, I can afford to buy all of the liquor you have needed for so long. Then you do some quick math and think that if you keep this going under present circumstances (living at home without real bills) you will save up thousands of dollars. Thousands of dollars -- oh, the glorious things you can do with thousands of dollars. Maybe you will hang onto this position a little bit longer...
I look forward to hearing stories from your new job about crazy employees, burnout managers and irate and idiotic customers. Congratulations.
I will say this: there is real danger in these temporary, time passing jobs. As I said before, you can trick yourself into thinking that all of this will pass. After weeks and weeks of not making any money while unemployed, the cheese you collect from your first paycheck will look like a winning Powerball ticket. Finally, you think, I can afford to buy all of the liquor you have needed for so long. Then you do some quick math and think that if you keep this going under present circumstances (living at home without real bills) you will save up thousands of dollars. Thousands of dollars -- oh, the glorious things you can do with thousands of dollars. Maybe you will hang onto this position a little bit longer...
I look forward to hearing stories from your new job about crazy employees, burnout managers and irate and idiotic customers. Congratulations.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Straight shooting?
How the hell does a company like Target stay afloat? I don't like the store in the first place because it doesn't have useful things (like hunting knives, propane, or PVC piping) but prefers to stock lots of "trendy" cheap clothes and "hip" furniture bordering on studio apartment kitsch. Oh, and they carry wine but no beer. That tells you something about their target demographic.
But what baffles me is their approach to their staff. My brother worked there, hired basically as an assistant manager for the consumables section. They told him it was a full-time position but it turns out it only worked about 25 hours a week, because they like to hire more people than they need in order to keep from paying benefits to full-time workers.
Yet knowing all this I applied anyway to work there, mainly out of desparation. Big box stores make me sympathize at least in part with people gone postal, but I was willing to bite my tongue just to get some positive cash flow. I put in my application and applied for every open position they had. After nearly three weeks, I went back over to talk to them and ask why they hadn't called me back. They had a "system crash" the woman said and would contact me once they got my application pulled up. My brother said this was bullshit, that nevers happens to them. I went in the next day to talk to the HR rep in person, just to inquire what the status of my application was. She wouldn't even come up front to talk to me; the peon at the "Guest Services" desk said that she was "reviewing" applications and would call me by the end of the week to set up an interview.
I left the store, not really believing them, and on a whim, went to a store next door. I applied to be a cashier. They called me a 24 hours later and asked me to interview the next day. I went in, completed two surveys and three interviews, and the next day got my job offer and a drug test. I never heard back from Target.
Why the hell would Target basically ignore someone who wanted to work there doing anything, came in dressed nicely and asked on several different occasions to meet with HR reps? You have to have staff to run a store; if you can't even handle that properly, how much worse can the rest of your operations be?
This problem can't be endemic to corporations in general. Clearly the company which just hired me has their act together. But I do wonder how these organizations run themselves and still manage to make millions of dollars in profit.
But Martin, if there's one thing that pisses me off more than Target, it's The Home Depot. I will not put up with their shameless pandering to ethnic groups. Slavishly trying to lure in the Dutch ex-patriate community with a profligate use of orange is just unethical. I mean, really, what's that all about?
But what baffles me is their approach to their staff. My brother worked there, hired basically as an assistant manager for the consumables section. They told him it was a full-time position but it turns out it only worked about 25 hours a week, because they like to hire more people than they need in order to keep from paying benefits to full-time workers.
Yet knowing all this I applied anyway to work there, mainly out of desparation. Big box stores make me sympathize at least in part with people gone postal, but I was willing to bite my tongue just to get some positive cash flow. I put in my application and applied for every open position they had. After nearly three weeks, I went back over to talk to them and ask why they hadn't called me back. They had a "system crash" the woman said and would contact me once they got my application pulled up. My brother said this was bullshit, that nevers happens to them. I went in the next day to talk to the HR rep in person, just to inquire what the status of my application was. She wouldn't even come up front to talk to me; the peon at the "Guest Services" desk said that she was "reviewing" applications and would call me by the end of the week to set up an interview.
I left the store, not really believing them, and on a whim, went to a store next door. I applied to be a cashier. They called me a 24 hours later and asked me to interview the next day. I went in, completed two surveys and three interviews, and the next day got my job offer and a drug test. I never heard back from Target.
Why the hell would Target basically ignore someone who wanted to work there doing anything, came in dressed nicely and asked on several different occasions to meet with HR reps? You have to have staff to run a store; if you can't even handle that properly, how much worse can the rest of your operations be?
This problem can't be endemic to corporations in general. Clearly the company which just hired me has their act together. But I do wonder how these organizations run themselves and still manage to make millions of dollars in profit.
But Martin, if there's one thing that pisses me off more than Target, it's The Home Depot. I will not put up with their shameless pandering to ethnic groups. Slavishly trying to lure in the Dutch ex-patriate community with a profligate use of orange is just unethical. I mean, really, what's that all about?
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Why I want a real job
I guess what I was trying to say is that satisfaction rarely comes from the work you do to sustain your life, no matter the time period. The major work of a poet such as John Donne came after years of angling for a small parish minister position, whereupon he could neglect many of his church duties in favor of writing his own poetry.* So we get cubicle jobs and then compose amazing literature in hidden Microsoft Word documents. "The boss is coming -- minimize your magnum opus." But this little tete-a-tete we've been having points to a larger issue (and hopefully away from the dour self-absorption towards some appropriately cynical humor.)
The issue, of course, is how some bright young men like ourselves decided that we needed real jobs and then found it to be absolutely impossible to get one. The situation is ridiculous. I spend my nights now slinging drinks at a restaurant bar or, worse, serving pasta dishes named after my manager. It is heartbreaking to realize that you must recommend a plate of risotto named after the person who has you hauling leaky ice buckets up and down stairs while she sips Pinot Grigio from a coffee cup. Pangloss will undoubtedly curse my good fortune to have any type of employment, but I tell you this: when you want a real job and all you can find is "the thing I'm doing before I find my real thing," you risk lulling into a sideways contentment. At first, I was only going to be home for two weeks. Then I was only going to be home for two months. Then I was going to be out by September, or maybe October. October 13th (my birthday) at the latest. Now, it seems, I could be as long in my parents' basement as May. What the hell happened?
The economy sank so quickly during our last year of college that you would have been smarter to have booked a cruise on the Hunley. Even though I've sent out a dozen applications, I've not made it much farther than a phone interview (apart from my previously detailed dealings from hell). So what are we to do? We have to keep living at home, or start to incur a ton of debt, or live at a level so reliant upon rice and beans that our teeth are sure to rot within six months. Pangloss, it would be nice to live in an era where a man could take some time to work alone, live alone, travel, and when he wanted to shake the dust from his boots, he could. Now, though, if you haven't been sucking internships since you were four, you probably aren't qualified for an entry level position. The lull in your employment history looks like a leprous skin tag.
"Don't touch that guy, Bill."
"Why not, Gene? He's a nice young kid, could probably use a break."
"Do you see that unemployment spot? Right there, above the part where he still lists a college professor as a reference. If you touch it, you'll get it too. Do that and you might as well clear out your desk by lunch time and go home to tell the kids that they should stop growing if they want clothes that fit."
"Wow, I can't believe I missed that. Thanks, Gene -- you saved me and my pubescent kids. Hey kid -- fuck you! Pay your own parking."
But this thought remains with me -- before I graduated, I did not want a real job. I wanted to find work that involved helping people. Making money did not matter, earning potential did not matter, stock options did not matter and even the prestige of the position did not really matter. I don't want to dig ditches, but I don't need a job that carries lots of social cachet. Then again, if I wanted to dig ditches, I'd probably need an M.A. in that, too, and 3-5 years experience shoveling. "No time lifting cow shit from here and putting it over there? Sorry -- I think we have more qualified applicants." But after graduation, moving home, living with my parents and explaining to women I meet that I am in a transitional phase that makes it absolutely impossible for them to come home with me, I can't think of anything I want more than the stability guaranteed by a real job. I want to be independent, as I thought I would be by now, and I will take corporate buzzwords and casual Fridays to get that independence. I must guard against finding myself sideways content with that, too. If I had a good, easy job, I would probably rationalize my way to retirement. I don't want to do that -- an extraordinary life will not be found behind a desk.
There is one other reason I want to get a real job -- vengeance. I'm not resentful of the bad economy; I am absolutely furious with it.
*Correction: John Donne did not neglect his clerical duties. My mistake -- he did, however, work for a long time in a job that paid little money and found his satisfaction through the extracurricular interest of composition. (8/14)
The issue, of course, is how some bright young men like ourselves decided that we needed real jobs and then found it to be absolutely impossible to get one. The situation is ridiculous. I spend my nights now slinging drinks at a restaurant bar or, worse, serving pasta dishes named after my manager. It is heartbreaking to realize that you must recommend a plate of risotto named after the person who has you hauling leaky ice buckets up and down stairs while she sips Pinot Grigio from a coffee cup. Pangloss will undoubtedly curse my good fortune to have any type of employment, but I tell you this: when you want a real job and all you can find is "the thing I'm doing before I find my real thing," you risk lulling into a sideways contentment. At first, I was only going to be home for two weeks. Then I was only going to be home for two months. Then I was going to be out by September, or maybe October. October 13th (my birthday) at the latest. Now, it seems, I could be as long in my parents' basement as May. What the hell happened?
The economy sank so quickly during our last year of college that you would have been smarter to have booked a cruise on the Hunley. Even though I've sent out a dozen applications, I've not made it much farther than a phone interview (apart from my previously detailed dealings from hell). So what are we to do? We have to keep living at home, or start to incur a ton of debt, or live at a level so reliant upon rice and beans that our teeth are sure to rot within six months. Pangloss, it would be nice to live in an era where a man could take some time to work alone, live alone, travel, and when he wanted to shake the dust from his boots, he could. Now, though, if you haven't been sucking internships since you were four, you probably aren't qualified for an entry level position. The lull in your employment history looks like a leprous skin tag.
"Don't touch that guy, Bill."
"Why not, Gene? He's a nice young kid, could probably use a break."
"Do you see that unemployment spot? Right there, above the part where he still lists a college professor as a reference. If you touch it, you'll get it too. Do that and you might as well clear out your desk by lunch time and go home to tell the kids that they should stop growing if they want clothes that fit."
"Wow, I can't believe I missed that. Thanks, Gene -- you saved me and my pubescent kids. Hey kid -- fuck you! Pay your own parking."
But this thought remains with me -- before I graduated, I did not want a real job. I wanted to find work that involved helping people. Making money did not matter, earning potential did not matter, stock options did not matter and even the prestige of the position did not really matter. I don't want to dig ditches, but I don't need a job that carries lots of social cachet. Then again, if I wanted to dig ditches, I'd probably need an M.A. in that, too, and 3-5 years experience shoveling. "No time lifting cow shit from here and putting it over there? Sorry -- I think we have more qualified applicants." But after graduation, moving home, living with my parents and explaining to women I meet that I am in a transitional phase that makes it absolutely impossible for them to come home with me, I can't think of anything I want more than the stability guaranteed by a real job. I want to be independent, as I thought I would be by now, and I will take corporate buzzwords and casual Fridays to get that independence. I must guard against finding myself sideways content with that, too. If I had a good, easy job, I would probably rationalize my way to retirement. I don't want to do that -- an extraordinary life will not be found behind a desk.
There is one other reason I want to get a real job -- vengeance. I'm not resentful of the bad economy; I am absolutely furious with it.
*Correction: John Donne did not neglect his clerical duties. My mistake -- he did, however, work for a long time in a job that paid little money and found his satisfaction through the extracurricular interest of composition. (8/14)
No rose-tint here
I can see why you would say that I was romanticizing, Martin. However, let it be noted that I have no qualms about criticizing the past and examining its nature, good and bad. My description that you quote was perhaps a poor phrasing of what I intended to convey. I intended those descriptors of "farmer," "craftsman," and the like to indicate an era when such professions were the dominant form of work. I'm not saying that farming was idyllic and without hardship; indeed, it involved privation and trial unlike most could tolerate today. And such times often lacked liberties or comforts that we consider essential and basic tody.
But the issue is not whether such times were a Golden Age, which they were not, but rather how such a civilization compares to our own. If we want to claim that certain parts of our modern age are better than the past, then we must also be willing to grant that parts of the past are better than the present. Do the ills of the present outweigh the ills of the past? That is the issue I am posing. I merely contend that I would rather deal with hardships of the past over the hardships of the present.
It is as much a personal choice as it is a moral distinction. But you're a good post-modernist, Martin, so I'm sure you'll settle for the former.
But the issue is not whether such times were a Golden Age, which they were not, but rather how such a civilization compares to our own. If we want to claim that certain parts of our modern age are better than the past, then we must also be willing to grant that parts of the past are better than the present. Do the ills of the present outweigh the ills of the past? That is the issue I am posing. I merely contend that I would rather deal with hardships of the past over the hardships of the present.
It is as much a personal choice as it is a moral distinction. But you're a good post-modernist, Martin, so I'm sure you'll settle for the former.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Corporate ass-kissing
I knew that I had become cynical in the two months since graduation, but until I reread these posts, I did not realize how brutally unhappy I have been. And Pangloss is right -- a Real Job is something I want to have, but not something I want. Dissect that syntax and see what it tells you about commodification in modern society.
Pangloss, I think you're correct in saying that the modern world trains us to love things and forces us to play Pavlov's dog to the bell of prestige, but you must be careful not to overly romanticize the past. It's easy to do that, but "a world of farmers and ranchers, artists and craftsmen" would incorporate a lot of the things that you think are so detestable now. Farmers and ranchers often had subsistence existences, where the thing that kept them alive consumed all of their life. You know this, and maybe you wish for a farming existence more present in non-western or ancient cultures. But I guess when I think of life as an artist in another era, there was still the same corporate ass-kissing. After all, can you imagine trying to convince a spoiled Duke that you really were the best person for him to patronize as a poet?
Pangloss, I think you're correct in saying that the modern world trains us to love things and forces us to play Pavlov's dog to the bell of prestige, but you must be careful not to overly romanticize the past. It's easy to do that, but "a world of farmers and ranchers, artists and craftsmen" would incorporate a lot of the things that you think are so detestable now. Farmers and ranchers often had subsistence existences, where the thing that kept them alive consumed all of their life. You know this, and maybe you wish for a farming existence more present in non-western or ancient cultures. But I guess when I think of life as an artist in another era, there was still the same corporate ass-kissing. After all, can you imagine trying to convince a spoiled Duke that you really were the best person for him to patronize as a poet?
Do I want a "real job"?
"Real jobs," as Martin has described them are a source of peculiar and confused emotions for me. Although I am actively pursuing one, I am deep into questioning why I am doing so and for what end I am pursuing this avenue.
Most "real jobs" today do not entail what I like to do. That is, sitting inside on a beautiful day, staring at LCD screens, talking to people on the phone, filling out forms, having meetings. In fact, those are perhaps my least favorite activities on the face of the earth. I would much rather be outside, doing something active, or contributing something worthwhile to human existence. However, those jobs usually either don't pay you enough to live on, are few and far between, require lots of qualifications, or don't exist. So if I want to have my root canals at least marginably affordable and to hope to have a chance of maybe owning a small house one day, I have to seek a "real job."
But why? I have no desire to pursue a conventional career. That means investing in something I don't value and don't like, sort of like Social Security. Which means I'm condemned to either working a non-career job or being perpetually stuck at the bottom of the corporate ladder.
The fact that motivated, ambitious, intelligent people in this world have almost no choice but to participate in this system of alienated existence is insane. In order to simply live, one must further the very thing which makes them dislike life. They cannot live simply and pursue honest, though less glorious, jobs for that is not what our civilization values. Progress, growth, wealth creation, consumption -- this is life as we define it now. We worship those idols so fervently that we are blind to the fact that there, for centuries, was another path.
I would prefer that we were a world of farmers and ranchers, artists and craftsmen, where life was slower and more valued, where life was measured in seasons and eras, not in quarterly profit projections. Where life was a spiritual and philosophical journey, not a struggle to ensure the triumph of consumption. That is how much of humanity has existed across its history. Of course, there is no going back now, not without changes that no modern person would ever tolerate, and certainly not with the chronological snobbery we wallow in.
Plenty of you corporate types will laugh and berate me for my "old-fashioned" or "obsolete" yearnings. He doesn't understand how great affluence, technology, and leisure has made human life! they'll say. What a rube, wishing for days he'll never see! That's fine, perhaps you are happy and proud of what you've done. But no man can count himself truly humble unless he can look at what he has created and somewhere in his mind wonder if there is not a terrible, unseen cost, questioning whether what was old has truly been replaced by something better. I contend that is has not.
Most "real jobs" today do not entail what I like to do. That is, sitting inside on a beautiful day, staring at LCD screens, talking to people on the phone, filling out forms, having meetings. In fact, those are perhaps my least favorite activities on the face of the earth. I would much rather be outside, doing something active, or contributing something worthwhile to human existence. However, those jobs usually either don't pay you enough to live on, are few and far between, require lots of qualifications, or don't exist. So if I want to have my root canals at least marginably affordable and to hope to have a chance of maybe owning a small house one day, I have to seek a "real job."
But why? I have no desire to pursue a conventional career. That means investing in something I don't value and don't like, sort of like Social Security. Which means I'm condemned to either working a non-career job or being perpetually stuck at the bottom of the corporate ladder.
The fact that motivated, ambitious, intelligent people in this world have almost no choice but to participate in this system of alienated existence is insane. In order to simply live, one must further the very thing which makes them dislike life. They cannot live simply and pursue honest, though less glorious, jobs for that is not what our civilization values. Progress, growth, wealth creation, consumption -- this is life as we define it now. We worship those idols so fervently that we are blind to the fact that there, for centuries, was another path.
I would prefer that we were a world of farmers and ranchers, artists and craftsmen, where life was slower and more valued, where life was measured in seasons and eras, not in quarterly profit projections. Where life was a spiritual and philosophical journey, not a struggle to ensure the triumph of consumption. That is how much of humanity has existed across its history. Of course, there is no going back now, not without changes that no modern person would ever tolerate, and certainly not with the chronological snobbery we wallow in.
Plenty of you corporate types will laugh and berate me for my "old-fashioned" or "obsolete" yearnings. He doesn't understand how great affluence, technology, and leisure has made human life! they'll say. What a rube, wishing for days he'll never see! That's fine, perhaps you are happy and proud of what you've done. But no man can count himself truly humble unless he can look at what he has created and somewhere in his mind wonder if there is not a terrible, unseen cost, questioning whether what was old has truly been replaced by something better. I contend that is has not.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
When the job hunter becomes the hunted
Living with our parents, idling the days away and wasting hours cultivating soap opera addictions are all things that we fear in the twilight. These are symptoms of the disease -- the pathogen is unemployment. Even if you hold down a do-nothing, go-nowhere temporary job, you still lack the elusive "Real Job." A "Real Job" is a job with health insurance, a 9-5 work day, retirement opportunities, company softball teams and drunken office party sex romps in the copy room with the tramp from Accounting. The Willy Loman angst, the tiny cubicle, the priggish and overpromoted boss -- I would give anything for that. Alas, that's something that those of us with humanities degrees only dream of having. Those jobs belong to the Business Major intern-whores. I'll have something to say at a later date about how my employment goals have declined since college, and Pangloss probably has a thought to offer on the subject as well, but I'd like to riff for a second on one of the things you do when you realize just how far in the distance that real job lies.
Let me set the stage: You graduated from college filled with bluster from that shitty commencement speech. Your parents welcomed you to their house, referring to it as "Your Launchpad." Optimism was plaguish. You took your Hope to the internet, scouring CareerBuilder for available positions. This is the future of employment, you told yourself. Hope sang in your heart. Your nerve quavered at posting a résumé devoid of actual content, but Hope popped it back into place, telling you that you had the requisite chutzpah. A few positions caught your eye, and thinking to yourself that you might get lucky trying for a job which demanded 3-5 years professional experience, you pressed send.
No reply from the employer, so you tried again. Nothing. Hope looked a little listless sitting in her corner, what with Realistic Appraisal of the Job Market and Your Lack of Actual Qualification tag-teaming at the other side of the ring. You started to think that maybe Hope had been inflating your odds. You couldn't blame her, though -- after all, you had taken some liberties in your résumé as well, stretching the time you told the new work-study kid how to operate the department copy machine into "Trained New Employees in Technology." All the while, you received a couple of unsolicited emails. "Marketing Consultant." "Customer Commitment Specialist." Vague titles, offered by companies like B-Line Marketing and Not Quite a Pyramid Scheme.
At this point, Hope made a play. She curled up next to you, like Othello to Desdemona, and whispered something soft. It sounded like, "Maybe they are real jobs. Maybe you could make a living on 100% commission. You're a hard worker -- you said so on your résumé." So when one of these jobs asked you to come for an interview, you said sure. After all, it's an interview, right?
The interview lasted for five minutes. You were asked to list your positives and your negatives. You were asked to talk about a time when you led people. You were asked to believe that this is a real job. When you were asked if you have any questions, you played hardball. "Can you describe a typical day at this job?" "What does a person with this job do?" "What is the actual title of the position for which I'm interviewing?"
The answer to all the questions was, "I don't really have an answer. If you come back in an hour, we have a video we'll show you and all of the other applicants that will answer all of the questions." Sort of what it's like to buy a timeshare.
Hope, that bitch. She tricked you. And no, once again, they do not validate parking.
Let me set the stage: You graduated from college filled with bluster from that shitty commencement speech. Your parents welcomed you to their house, referring to it as "Your Launchpad." Optimism was plaguish. You took your Hope to the internet, scouring CareerBuilder for available positions. This is the future of employment, you told yourself. Hope sang in your heart. Your nerve quavered at posting a résumé devoid of actual content, but Hope popped it back into place, telling you that you had the requisite chutzpah. A few positions caught your eye, and thinking to yourself that you might get lucky trying for a job which demanded 3-5 years professional experience, you pressed send.
No reply from the employer, so you tried again. Nothing. Hope looked a little listless sitting in her corner, what with Realistic Appraisal of the Job Market and Your Lack of Actual Qualification tag-teaming at the other side of the ring. You started to think that maybe Hope had been inflating your odds. You couldn't blame her, though -- after all, you had taken some liberties in your résumé as well, stretching the time you told the new work-study kid how to operate the department copy machine into "Trained New Employees in Technology." All the while, you received a couple of unsolicited emails. "Marketing Consultant." "Customer Commitment Specialist." Vague titles, offered by companies like B-Line Marketing and Not Quite a Pyramid Scheme.
At this point, Hope made a play. She curled up next to you, like Othello to Desdemona, and whispered something soft. It sounded like, "Maybe they are real jobs. Maybe you could make a living on 100% commission. You're a hard worker -- you said so on your résumé." So when one of these jobs asked you to come for an interview, you said sure. After all, it's an interview, right?
The interview lasted for five minutes. You were asked to list your positives and your negatives. You were asked to talk about a time when you led people. You were asked to believe that this is a real job. When you were asked if you have any questions, you played hardball. "Can you describe a typical day at this job?" "What does a person with this job do?" "What is the actual title of the position for which I'm interviewing?"
The answer to all the questions was, "I don't really have an answer. If you come back in an hour, we have a video we'll show you and all of the other applicants that will answer all of the questions." Sort of what it's like to buy a timeshare.
Hope, that bitch. She tricked you. And no, once again, they do not validate parking.
A Productive Day
A Productive Day:
1. Moe's Southwestern Grill was disappointed that I didn't have any "restaurant experience" listed on my application. Where do I start if not at the bottom?
2. I found a bottle of flat Sundrop in the pantry.
3. I found Diary of a Mad Black Woman in the $2 bargain bin.
4. My dog bit a yellowjacket.
5. I had a good bowel movement right after I woke up.
6. Listened to Isaac Hayes' Greatest Hits and read World War One poems until 1 AM.
I never knew you can find parallels between trench warfare and unemployment.
1. Moe's Southwestern Grill was disappointed that I didn't have any "restaurant experience" listed on my application. Where do I start if not at the bottom?
2. I found a bottle of flat Sundrop in the pantry.
3. I found Diary of a Mad Black Woman in the $2 bargain bin.
4. My dog bit a yellowjacket.
5. I had a good bowel movement right after I woke up.
6. Listened to Isaac Hayes' Greatest Hits and read World War One poems until 1 AM.
I never knew you can find parallels between trench warfare and unemployment.
What it means to live in the basement...
Pangloss, you are correct. I do live in a basement. What is more, I live in my parent's basement. I took control of an unused room, neglected my former chambers upstairs and took root. I have not unpacked many of my belongings because to do so would be to admit residency. It is one thing to stay at my parent's house while I endure an interim of purposeless unemployment. It is an entirely different thing to live with them after I have graduated. There is a semantic difference between saying I live "in my parents' house" and "with my parents." The former describes an unfortunate but transitory state. The latter is as firm as a granite tombstone. And reflecting on that thought, I have another: I now hold semantic differences between descriptions of my residence to be of the utmost importance. When the ship sank, I never thought I'd find such flimsy flotsam.
But there is an upside to living in the basement. For instance, I am left to myself, except when there are activities in which everyone living here is expected to participate. The furniture is a little rudimentary (my desk is a card table and my headboard has collapsed), but I have internet access and cable television. My parents rarely come to visit and know that if they need to talk to me, they probably should just call. I can't have girls stay the night because there are rules about overnight guests and I get in trouble if I drink in my room, but then again, it's pretty unlikely I'll get busted. Besides, if they caught me, it would only be the first time. What could they really do? After all, I had the exact same situation as a college freshman -- Oh, wait.
Four years away from home and an education worth more than I may ever make in one year, but I still feel like I'm 18 years old.
The decision to move into the basement was based on the idea that if I went back to the room I had when I was in high school, it might feel like a regression. The basement was new territory. Now I feel like it is more of an exercise in stereotyping. I sleep a lot and drink a lot and spend countless hours watching television. I tell myself I will read a good book or start a novel or make it to the gym, but then again, there is so much to see on the internet and Lifetime has a Frasier marathon playing all day. I think that being at home, no matter where you live in the house, is bound to feel like a regression.
But there is an upside to living in the basement. For instance, I am left to myself, except when there are activities in which everyone living here is expected to participate. The furniture is a little rudimentary (my desk is a card table and my headboard has collapsed), but I have internet access and cable television. My parents rarely come to visit and know that if they need to talk to me, they probably should just call. I can't have girls stay the night because there are rules about overnight guests and I get in trouble if I drink in my room, but then again, it's pretty unlikely I'll get busted. Besides, if they caught me, it would only be the first time. What could they really do? After all, I had the exact same situation as a college freshman -- Oh, wait.
Four years away from home and an education worth more than I may ever make in one year, but I still feel like I'm 18 years old.
The decision to move into the basement was based on the idea that if I went back to the room I had when I was in high school, it might feel like a regression. The basement was new territory. Now I feel like it is more of an exercise in stereotyping. I sleep a lot and drink a lot and spend countless hours watching television. I tell myself I will read a good book or start a novel or make it to the gym, but then again, there is so much to see on the internet and Lifetime has a Frasier marathon playing all day. I think that being at home, no matter where you live in the house, is bound to feel like a regression.
Home Sweet Home
I once saw on a wall the following quote: "Home is not a place but where they understand you." Well, if that's the case, then I should be spending my nights sleeping at the liquor store, because only those guys know what I really, really need in life.
I thought time travel was impossible but moving back home has proved that to be a false impression. But I didn't get to go back to see Led Zeppelin in concert or to Washington crossing the Delaware. No, I got sent back to 9th grade: "Who are you talking to on the phone? Where are you going? You need to do this, this, and this."
I am eternally grateful to my parents for allowing me to live under their roof, for otherwise I would have no where else to go while down on my luck. But sometimes there's a lot of tension, and whose fault it is isn't always clear. In one of our arguments last night, I was told that I need to stop acting like a child and learn to be the adult that I claim I want to be treated as.
Now this is extremely confusing, because I think I might have acted childish in this one instance. But was that all my fault or was it at least half my parent's fault for treating me like a child in the first place? Nature or nurture, Mom and Dad? It's quite a Catch-22, because I can't act like an adult and do whatever I want without raising their ire ("There are rules you have to follow while living under my roof."). But if I do what they want, then I fundamentally regress into being what they claim they don't want me to be.
Some days, you just wake up and wish that your woman was curled up by your side, her soft head gently resting on your shoulder. And then you realize that, no, that would be embarassing, because then she'd have to see all your old high school paraphanelia every morning. But at least I don't live in the basement, Martin. That's just plain stereotype. I've graduated to the attic. Hah.
I thought time travel was impossible but moving back home has proved that to be a false impression. But I didn't get to go back to see Led Zeppelin in concert or to Washington crossing the Delaware. No, I got sent back to 9th grade: "Who are you talking to on the phone? Where are you going? You need to do this, this, and this."
I am eternally grateful to my parents for allowing me to live under their roof, for otherwise I would have no where else to go while down on my luck. But sometimes there's a lot of tension, and whose fault it is isn't always clear. In one of our arguments last night, I was told that I need to stop acting like a child and learn to be the adult that I claim I want to be treated as.
Now this is extremely confusing, because I think I might have acted childish in this one instance. But was that all my fault or was it at least half my parent's fault for treating me like a child in the first place? Nature or nurture, Mom and Dad? It's quite a Catch-22, because I can't act like an adult and do whatever I want without raising their ire ("There are rules you have to follow while living under my roof."). But if I do what they want, then I fundamentally regress into being what they claim they don't want me to be.
Some days, you just wake up and wish that your woman was curled up by your side, her soft head gently resting on your shoulder. And then you realize that, no, that would be embarassing, because then she'd have to see all your old high school paraphanelia every morning. But at least I don't live in the basement, Martin. That's just plain stereotype. I've graduated to the attic. Hah.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Just because there is no enemy doesn't mean I don't want a Broken Arrow
Indeed, dear reader, Pangloss is right. Vietnam has become the most apt descriptor of our situation. Demoralization, depletion of resources, nationalistic ennui and impossible victory are the currency of our dialog.
Pangloss' post is an excellent summary of the purpose of this blog, so I want to kick off my contributions with a hard-facts story of American economic downfall. Granted, the newspaper industry has been traveling a rough road for a long time, but I never thought I'd hear this in any interview:
Managing Editor: So, are you interested in this position?
Me: Absolutely. I think I'm totally qualified to do this.
Managing Editor: I do not disagree. Are you willing to work long hours for little pay and little chance of advancement?
Me: Absolutely. Pay me a pittance.
Managing Editor: Well, even though we advertised to hire for this position both online and in print media, we cannot afford to do so. Thank you for stopping by our office to interview for the imaginary position at your own expense. No, we do not validate parking.
Who advertises for a job that does not exist? Maybe it is an elaborate joke on the part of tenured professionals.
"See that fresh college grad, Bill?"
"Sure do, Gene. Looks like a greenhorn."
"I concur. Let's mess with him."
And then, splat: The economy is a herd of pigeons, I am a statue.
This is what awaits the American post-grad. For a long time, a joke has circulated about future generations needing graduate degrees to fold sweaters at the Gap -- now it seems like that may already be the case. After all, it's not as though there are jobs for people like us. Necessary: 5-8 years experience. How am I to gain 5-8 years experience when no one is hiring?
If Dr. Pangloss was right and this is the best of all possible worlds, then every one of us is already in trouble. Call in the Broken Arrow -- the enemy may not have completely overrun us yet, but I am not sure I want to persist in this bunkered state.
After all, the bunker is in my parent's house. Pangloss, take that ship and sail with it.
Pangloss' post is an excellent summary of the purpose of this blog, so I want to kick off my contributions with a hard-facts story of American economic downfall. Granted, the newspaper industry has been traveling a rough road for a long time, but I never thought I'd hear this in any interview:
Managing Editor: So, are you interested in this position?
Me: Absolutely. I think I'm totally qualified to do this.
Managing Editor: I do not disagree. Are you willing to work long hours for little pay and little chance of advancement?
Me: Absolutely. Pay me a pittance.
Managing Editor: Well, even though we advertised to hire for this position both online and in print media, we cannot afford to do so. Thank you for stopping by our office to interview for the imaginary position at your own expense. No, we do not validate parking.
Who advertises for a job that does not exist? Maybe it is an elaborate joke on the part of tenured professionals.
"See that fresh college grad, Bill?"
"Sure do, Gene. Looks like a greenhorn."
"I concur. Let's mess with him."
And then, splat: The economy is a herd of pigeons, I am a statue.
This is what awaits the American post-grad. For a long time, a joke has circulated about future generations needing graduate degrees to fold sweaters at the Gap -- now it seems like that may already be the case. After all, it's not as though there are jobs for people like us. Necessary: 5-8 years experience. How am I to gain 5-8 years experience when no one is hiring?
If Dr. Pangloss was right and this is the best of all possible worlds, then every one of us is already in trouble. Call in the Broken Arrow -- the enemy may not have completely overrun us yet, but I am not sure I want to persist in this bunkered state.
After all, the bunker is in my parent's house. Pangloss, take that ship and sail with it.
Despair Sets In
Welcome all, to the terrible wasteland that is the post-graduate life. Maybe you had some hopes and dreams about what you were going to do right after college. Hey, I've got a bachelor's degree, I can do plenty of stuff, I can succeed.
But, no, you soon find that the world has no space for intelligent, capable people who have no qualifications to do anything. Internships? Nope. Work-study? Nope. Have you ever rolled burritos for pay? Nope. Well, you're just not what we're looking for at the moment.
If you are or have been in the same situation, having followed your passions, worked hard, and still got sharted on by Life, I welcome you to read this blog. For laughter is the best medicine and we will attempt to soften the despair of failure with some good-natured humor.
Why the picture at the top? Because for us, the post-grad world is like Vietnam. You're like a Green Beret stuck in a backwater camp, hoping that you can keep the indigs (i.e. your sanity) together while the Vietcong attack the wire every night. You hope and pray that the VC (i.e. the economy) will hold off long enough for the 5th Air Cav (i.e. some employer) to break through the bad weather (i.e. all the other peons applying for jobs) and bail your ass out. Otherwise, Charlie is going to break through the southern redoubt and barbeque the hootches with napalm. But things don't look good, so you never rule out the possibility of calling in "Broken Arrow" over the radio. Yes, that it might be: your hope of a career can end just like an A-4 Skyraider dumping high explosive on top of your overrun position, taking you along with the enemy.
So here we go, boldly venturing into the dark humor which sustains us in this time of trial. Let's just hope Dr. Pangloss wasn't right.
But, no, you soon find that the world has no space for intelligent, capable people who have no qualifications to do anything. Internships? Nope. Work-study? Nope. Have you ever rolled burritos for pay? Nope. Well, you're just not what we're looking for at the moment.
If you are or have been in the same situation, having followed your passions, worked hard, and still got sharted on by Life, I welcome you to read this blog. For laughter is the best medicine and we will attempt to soften the despair of failure with some good-natured humor.
Why the picture at the top? Because for us, the post-grad world is like Vietnam. You're like a Green Beret stuck in a backwater camp, hoping that you can keep the indigs (i.e. your sanity) together while the Vietcong attack the wire every night. You hope and pray that the VC (i.e. the economy) will hold off long enough for the 5th Air Cav (i.e. some employer) to break through the bad weather (i.e. all the other peons applying for jobs) and bail your ass out. Otherwise, Charlie is going to break through the southern redoubt and barbeque the hootches with napalm. But things don't look good, so you never rule out the possibility of calling in "Broken Arrow" over the radio. Yes, that it might be: your hope of a career can end just like an A-4 Skyraider dumping high explosive on top of your overrun position, taking you along with the enemy.
So here we go, boldly venturing into the dark humor which sustains us in this time of trial. Let's just hope Dr. Pangloss wasn't right.
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