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.
Showing posts with label resume. Show all posts
Showing posts with label resume. Show all posts
Sunday, August 17, 2008
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)
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.
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.
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