The Find a Job Thrillogy; Part I

First of all, dear readers, let me start by saying that I'm not sorry.

I am not-- I repeat-- not sorry that this blog went neglected and forgotten for a matter of months.  It was, as a matter of fact, necessary.  I had landed a job that was in my field.  It was nowhere near glamorous, but it was a job, it got on my resume, and that was all that I needed from it... until I could find a better job because that particular employer was something to the effect of a megalomaniac, and, fittingly, during the Christmas season, I was getting paid less than Bob Cratchit.  Don't worry, though.  It all works out.  For better; for worse?  I am still trying to figure that one out.

Read on.

Far be it from me to complain about having a job in the first place.  Immediately prior to receiving the phone call that eventually amounted to me being hired back into my field, I had been at an interview everyday for two straight weeks.  I used the word "glamorous" in the first paragraph to describe my ideal work place.  I like that term, but for the sake of aligning our ideas of a "glamorous" work place, let's read it under the light of a Midwestern Protestant work ethic.  A glamorous work place does not involve a brightly colored vest.  A glamorous day of work involves decision-making, some level of thinking, and sweet, beautiful, deadline-induced stress-- yes, stress, the nectar of life granted by God to help us forget all of our other problems.  The only thing that can cure stress is a different kind of stress, and, happily, the kind of stress that one finds in a workday at least results in a steady paycheck.  So, henceforth, that is my definition of a glamorous job.  Glamour isn't glitter, eyeliner, and David Bowie.  Glamour is hard work, stress, and a paycheck.

And, of course, not all of the jobs that I had been looking at prior to my hire were glamorous.  Some, as a matter of fact, were not at all.  Such was the position that I was in the midst of "interviewing for" on a fateful Thursday afternoon some months back.  In Los Angeles, on any given day, thousands of vendors take to the street to sell the most useless crap in the universe.  And I, my dear friends, was at the juncture of becoming one of those vendors.  In the vernacular, that would be a door-to-door salesman.  Yes, I-- even I, was entertaining the thought of peddling the most useless crap in the universe.  "What kind of crap?" you ask?  (Author's aside: After some menial research I think that may actually be the proper punctuation for the previous sentence)  As aforementioned, "the most useless crap in the universe," I answer.  We're talking discount massages, here.

On the bright side, I would not be the one who would have to give the massages.  No one wants that.  Rather, I would be the person barging into stores and trying to act charming until somebody would agree to purchase said massages.  In my heart of hearts, I firmly believe that no one wants that, either.

But here I was, in Western Los Angeles, dressed in some garb that I really wish that I had reserved for a slightly more formal occasion (like cleaning toilets) and wandering the streets on a trial day.  You get a whole day to figure out if this is right for you.  I love that.  "So how do you feel about wandering around for the rest of your days selling massages at a discount rate?  No, don't answer right now, just-- just give it a try for an hour or twelve."  So, what was I thinking?

Well, I firmly do believe that any work is an opportunity.  Part of me, a small sliver of me, was actually enjoying it.  I got to meet a potpourri of hoi poloi.  Also, due to stories that I had read in Reminisce magazines that my Great Grandmother had given to my family, I have a respect for door-to-door salesmen.  Imagine how disheveled and filthy the world would be if nobody was able to get Unbreakable Combs and Vacuums before 1960.  Seriously, thank a door-to-door salesman.

So, since it was close enough to a sure thing, I'm sitting there thinking "let's forget about my enjoyment of mathematics, and all the hours that I spent learning the intricacies of econometrics.  Let's forget about the experience in warehouses, and the financial brokerage licenses.  Forget about writing, forget about factories, forget about any other prospect.  This could be your life, buddy.  Aren't you the lucky one?"  And, yes, if I had a job-- any job-- I would be, in fact, the lucky one.

So as the sun set and painted the spackle city in its waning pastel rays, I anticipated and feared some temporary closure.  Then, in the cooling of the afternoon, I received a phone call.  It was concerning a position that would keep my hard-earned brokerage licenses alive.  I knew, from the onset, that it wouldn't be glamorous, but it would be a step in the right direction.  After one day of seriously weighing my options, and deciding that my best bet was to act as if I didn't have any, there came a ray of light.

Gainful employment, here I come!  Maybe!

Illin' for Real

In a sea of suits in the Valley, I found myself mingling and drinking tiny bottles of water as the sun set over the mountains the other day.  I was speaking with a man who came, if I'm not mistaken, from Santa Monica, which is a respectable distance.

"That's some drive," I said.

"It's Ok," he replied, "I drive a Prius."

"Oh, so you actually made money on your drive out here."  That was a joke.  It was, at least, meant to be a joke.  Regardless, the person that I was speaking with shot me a glance that seemed to indicate that I was using a tone that shouldn't be taken when speaking to a Prius owner.  I was too worn out to really care.  I had been sick all week, and, after this one, final, last event, I would be able to crawl into bed and just read, or listen to the radio, or experiment with the healing powers of the human mind.  I could take the suit off and put the tiny water bottle down.

The week had been a busy one.  It started on Friday when the Brewers won the division.  That's what got me to bump my run out of my schedule on Saturday morning.  And then, on Sunday, I went to a German Fest held by one of the families at church.  I had spoken with many of these people before, but somehow it had escaped me that, unlike the Lutherans back home, many of whom are German, many of my current fellow parishioners are German-German.  So I was welcomed to butcher the only foreign language that I had ever put any dismal effort into studying while listening to stories about the old country, eating hand-crafted bratwurst, and drinking homemade beer.  It all amounted to a pretty exceptional time.

By the time I woke up on Monday, I had a bit of a scratch in my throat.  I realize that my paragraph placement may look like I'm insinuating that this could have been caused by something at the German Fest, and that is not at all true.  As a matter of fact, immediately after I began to feel ill, I went through a mental montage of things that could have done me in: eating food off the floor, drinking out of the hose, not washing fruit, smoking cigars after the Brewers took the division, etc.  After a brief pause reflecting on what may have gotten me sick, I came to realize that with my lifestyle it's a miracle that I'm not dead yet.

But, it was Monday, and there was work to be done, or found, or whatever.  I had five interviews lined up for this week.  In my line of work, at least in my most recent line of work, it's relatively easy to tell when there are and when there aren't opportunities that will be fitting for me.  So, when I say I have five interviews, two or three of them may be worth pursuing.

And so my week began.  Progressively running a week-long gauntlet around Los Angeles while slightly sick is kind of a trip.  The difference in temperature from the valley to the city can make a guy think that he's got the chills on top of everything else going on.  By day, I would drive an hour in this direction, and then half an hour in the other direction, and then, by night (or, sometimes, late afternoon) I would crawl into bed and read, intently listening for the smallest violin in the world and hoping it would play just for me.

During this onslaught of activity, I also had the opportunity (and I can't stress enough how great this was) to see the California Angels play in their ballpark.  The day before, the Angels still had a shot at the Wild Card before fate decided otherwise.  I came within twenty-four hours of seeing a baseball game that actually mattered!  It turned out to be a great time, and the first time that I had ever seen a ballgame that wasn't in Miller or County.  The feel was subdued, with a lot of prospects being called up from farm teams.  One by one, they consistently maintained their highly-sought-after .000 averages.  But it was still baseball, and I still loved it.

I've found it odd that, as this week may indicate, my social life doesn't necessarily coincide with times that I would find it particularly convenient to have one.  As I dragged myself from interview to interview, open house to open house, and from this and that to the other thing, I met some interesting people.  I got to have a discussion with an East German Refugee, and listen to Europeans express concerns that the US is becoming too much like Europe.  I also had a terrific conversation with a manager at one of my interviews who had immigrated from Lebanon.  He had been working in Dubai, which had been an astoundingly easy place to make money over the last few years.  Still, he had seen fit to move his family to America where he once again found prosperity.  It was Mideast meets Midwest.

"So, why did you move here?" I asked.

"I think we're going to have another civil war in Lebanon," he responded matter-of-factly.  "I don't want my children to go through what I went through the last time we had one.  I don't want them to have to see pieces of fingers on the ground when they walk through the streets.  I want them to have better."

Not expecting that, I started laughing.  "Well, God bless you, man."  That was really all that I could thing to say.  His attitude left an impression on me.

I'm beginning to feel a little better.  My throat hasn't been as scratchy for the last couple days.  I may even feel up to meeting my running buddy tomorrow after church, or I may just watch the Pack or the Brewers' postseason action.  I've got another job interview on Monday, which would be the fourth with this employer.  And, yes, I am still listening for the smallest violin in the world.  It seems, however, like my chances of hearing it are becoming slimmer by the minute.

An Open Letter to Bud Selig, Mark Attanasio, and God

Photo: Reuters/Darren Hauck

Dear Bud, Mark, and God,

I am delighted that events have called for this letter to be written on a Saturday.  I assume that you three could discuss some of its finer points over Bloody Marys tomorrow during your weekly brunch.

In 1982, the Brewers clinched their last division title, and in the process they set a then-record for the most homeruns by a team in the history of baseball.  I wet myself.  I know this, and I'm not ashamed to admit it, because I was seven months old when they ultimately went to the World Series.  At seven months old, I had seen what has so far been the precipice of my baseball life, which amounted to a loss in seven games against the Cards.

I'm not going to lie.  It's been a tough road for the Brewers fan.  It took almost one hundred years to figure out if our Milwaukee Brewers were Major League or Minor League; American or National.  "Bushtown," they called us...  Bushtown.

The darkest hours during my baseball life involved concerns about my team leaving town.  They involved getting used to the idea that 13-0 starts doesn't mean we'll have a postseason.  They involved a Twins fan getting the prestigious "fan of the game" title while my American League team got shellacked in an empty, dilapidated County Stadium by the Twins.  And, as somebody who had always claimed the Cubs as his National League team, they involved several years of therapy since 1997.  Bud, I'll bill you later.

Still, there were things to rejoice over.  Bud got Bob Uecker (who I've always assumed was God's distant relative) to become our local ear candy.  There were Bucket Brigades, Vaughn's Valley, a 1987 no-no, 3000 hits for The Kid, and there was, eventually, something brewing in our farm system-- the Baby Brewers.

These Baby Brewers-- they're all grown up now.  Many have gone to other teams.  But when they came, in the mid aughts, change was in the air.   Our beloved Milwaukeeans in the Selig clan had given the reigns to Mark Attonasio, an outsider.  Forty years after a team showed up in Milwaukee with outlines of stitching that spelled "Seattle" still visible on their jerseys, forty years of identity crises, ups and downs, and worrying that Major League Baseball would be leaving Bushtown-- forty years of hoping for some daylight... and the sun began to shine.  Change was in the air, and, to our collective relief, for the better!

Last night, I got to be a Cubs fan one last time, when, powered by shear hatred cultivated over a century, they managed to not suck, albeit briefly, and destroyed the St. Louis Cardinals.  Your Milwaukee Brewers; Division Champions.

Bud, Mark, God, to you three: hats off.  Somehow you three got baseball in Milwaukee, gave it to me, kept it there, and made it something to be proud of.

But... the timing.  As you know, I had taken off to Los Angeles this last year.  If the deal is that the further away I get from Milwaukee the better the Brewers do, that's no problem.  I can be in North Korea by the start of next season.  But I'm going to need a place to watch the postseason here in LA.

Mark, buddy, I'm looking at you.


With sincere gratitude,

N.T.