Tuesday, December 28, 2004

The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As A

Pest Control Technician

Really. No, I'm not kidding--I just see you as someone who could make a career at this. Let's face it, kid--what have you done that makes you think medical schools will all be throwing open their doors to welcome you? Your marks aren't great, and really, you have the social skills of... Well, never mind that--just hear me out.

First of all, you're not going to need eight or more years of school for this. You just need to get to know the guy who owns the business. Chances are, he drinks a fair bit, probably by himself or a few of his employees. Find out where, and get to know him--buy him a drink and explain how you think pest control is so important and fascinating. Then ask how to get into the business--chances are he's looking to replace one of the many itinerant losers that are working for him, and your brown-nosing makes you an instant candidate.

You'll job shadow for a few weeks, and learn the basics: How to tent a house, drill down the termite poison, and lie to the neighbors when they see you carrying your equipment from the unmarked van. Tell them it's something routine like a septic problem--never admit you're there because your client is a filthy swine whose disgusting personal habits have made his home an ideal residence for all manner of plagues and pestilence.

Fact is, the world is going down the tubes, and people aren't going to be building a lot of new houses--they'll have to live in what they can afford in a crappy economy. That means old wood, old foundations and plenty of termites, ants and rats. You'll be good at it before long--you'll know how long you can expose yourself to the various toxins you work with before your lose your lunch, and you'll make sure to check the kitchen for anything good you can grab before filling the tent with the gas--after all, they'd just have to chuck it anyway.

You'll make a decent living--after a decade of loneliness--face it, your job won't bring in the babes--you'll send away for one of those mail-order brides. Take my advice--experience has taught me not to trust the pictures in those catalogues--it ain't cheap, but get a flight to Manila and check out the merchandise first hand--seriously. But, I digress.

A decent gas mask, the occasional tetanus shot, and a general disregard for social standing will make this a very successful career for you. You'll thank me one day, I guarantee it.


Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here

Friday, December 17, 2004

The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as an

Art Critic

Yes, I heard you say "artist". Just listen--you're going to make a very good art critic one day, and you won't be eating out of dumpsters.

I've seen your application to art school, but I've seen a lot of others as well. That guy with the dreads who works in the video store across the road from the school--he's been to art school. The woman who fills the vending machines--same with her. It doesn't have to be that way with you, though. It could go like this:

You'll arrive at art school idealistic--you are going to be the refreshing breath of life that will excite both your teachers and fellow students alike--you're sure of it. The first few weeks challenge your perception of your own superiority, and you notice that other students don't hear the professor's criticism as often as you do. Soon you're doubting your most basic of instincts, struggling to choose the medium that suits your vision, and trying to find the most inconspicous work space in the classroom. Other students occasionally invite you to join their group for a drink after class, but you stay to work on your "exciting new idea". You almost don't notice them catch each others' eyes and smirk as they walk away.

The first semester ends and you are called into the advisement office, where two of your instructors explain that maybe you aren't quite suited to a life of art. You blink back the tears as they try to soften the impact of their words. You realize, for the first time in your life, that at that moment you could take the life of another human being--two, in fact--in a fit of rage. But you push the feeling back inside long enough to actually shake their hands and stagger out into the unfriendly world.

You take a job at the coffee shop across the road from the art college. It seems crazy to the other students--so close to your shame--yet in the back of your mind, you realize the damage a rifle pointed out the coffee shop's supply room window could do to the pretentious crowd of successful students whose art the teachers didn't hate.

While you plan your blood-soaked revenge, you take a college extension writing course, and are almost shocked to discover that your teacher sees 'great potential' in your writing. For extra credit, you agree to help out with the college newspaper, and in a fortuitous turn of events, you end up taking over the column of the paper's arts critic when she graduates. You struggle but manage to write meaningful commentary on local movie festivals, plays, or indie rock acts, but your words flow effortlessly when you get the chance to attend the regular art shows staged to display the talents of your former rivals back at the art school. At first, you try to be cautious in your criticism--poke tiny holes in the egos of your enemies so you won't seem so transparent in your hatred--but you soon realize that success lies in the occasional annihilation of some young hopeful. You give the occasional positive review--but save them for the quiet ones who didn't snicker at your "Self-Portrait in Cheese".

Your column gets noticed. It's flattering when the local newspaper picks it up for their weekend arts section, and not long after come offers, attractive ones, to go to a bigger paper in a bigger city. You turn it down. You need to be where you can do the most damage. You bide your time, and then it comes. Your first art college instructor, a middle-aged painter whose nervous breakdown ten years earlier put his own art career on hiatus, has ventured back into his first love--oil painting. A local gallery is the the site of your revenge. You actually park your car across from his house and wait until you see him go to the gallery so he can witness your visit to his collection. You pause at different works, sigh, cluck and make scribbled notes to yourself. You see him looking worried out of the corner of your eye--twice he moves to approach you, but stops.

The review is your most talked about ever--not just because you cut him to pieces with the very words he used to describe your work--"shallow", "derivative", "cheesy"--but because of his overdose the day after the paper hit the newstands.

Two weeks later you are working for a national paper and driving your first Lexus.


Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here

Sunday, December 05, 2004

Profiles in Greatness: Ilsa the Costco Girl

(Note: My daughter made me go to Costco on Friday night. I am somewhat ashamed we even have a membership. That, combined with a bit of boredom, led to this little story)

She sat on her grandfather's knee as a girl, hearing stories of the old days. Stalin was misunderstood, he told her, and ten years later, she wept with him the night the wall came down. She hated the slide into greed, consumption and decadence that reunification brought. She finished university with honours, and was courted by many employers, but wandered unfulfilled from one elite private academy to another, looking for the discipline that seemed to have disappeared forever.

She decided to confront the mecca of decadence and decay--she would go to the west, face the evil heart of capitalism, and then decide if she needed to come home and join a terrorist cell--perhaps the Red Army Brigade, or Baader Meinhof had openings... She blended in easily in North America, travelling from city to city, hiding her disgust at the filth and chaos--the disorganized scramble to grab more and more wealth without discipline or hard work. She was ready to return home and commit her life to the west's destruction when suddenly, she found it. She couldn't believe it at first, but there it was--Costco.

Amid the undisciplined, shiny commercialized insanity, there it was, its employees in their standard apron--red, how comforting--and checking laminated identification cards before allowing customers to enter the store. She begged an employee to let her inside, and was astounded at the concrete drabness and sterility--not one pyramid of canned goods, nary a bright poster or streamer to be found. It took her back to the GUM store her grandfather had taken her to as a little girl on their one visit to Russia--only the party elite were allowed inside.

Ilsa was still entranced when she found the manager. She begged him for a job, but her credentials intimidated him--she spoke five languages fluently, had several graduate degrees, and was strikingly attractive--nervously he dialed a number, spoke a few words, then, hanging up the phone, whispered for her to come closer.

"Our regional manager is upstairs--in the office--he'll see you." He looked frightened as he led Ilsa up the stairs, knocked on an unmarked door, and quickly retreated.

"Come in." The voice was quiet, but more authoritative than any she had heard. She could hardly control her excitement. A well-dressed, powerful man stood up from behind his desk. He did not offer to shake her hand, but simply motioned her to a chair. "You may call me O'Brien, if you wish." She sat, shaking, not so much with nervousness but anticipation.

"I would like to work at this place very much," she said softly. O'Brien didn't reply at first, but just stared at her with his piercing, disconcerting eyes. She shifted uncomfortably, waiting.

"Yes, I suppose you would. Ilsa, isn't it?" She nodded. Somehow it seemed right that he would know her name. She believed that somehow he knew everything about her. "You crave something you haven't found yet, don't you, Ilsa?" She nodded again, afraid to speak. "Let me show you something." He took a remote control off his desk, and turned on a television monitor mounted on the wall. It showed a grainy black and white image--a closed circuit feed from within the store. He switched from feed to feed, finally settling on a fairly close view of a check stand.

"I don't mind paper or plastic bags," a customer stammered.

"Nein! There are no bags. You will take the boxes. There are only boxes!" The checkout woman looked vaguely familiar--Ilsa recognized her as Frau Muller, the one who had turned in many of their neighbours to the secret police when Ilsa was a girl. Frau Muller had disappeared after reunification. There she was, throwing a tiny, inadequate box at a whimpering customer.

Then the picture changed--sample tables, giving away tiny bites of crackers. A smiling hostess stood by graciously, then suddenly, a teenage boy tried to grab a second sample, and her clawlike hand immediately latched onto his arm. She muttered some quick, harsh words--the camera did not pick them up properly--and the boy ran away. For a moment Ilsa recognized the look in her eyes--it was the look Ilsa's grade 2 teacher gave her when she asked why people weren't allowed to go to visit West Germany. Ilsa couldn't sit down comfortably for two days after that, but she learned not to ask impertinent questions.

"But I don't understand," said Ilsa softly. "Everyone has abandoned this for the 'rights of the individual'--how is it that people put up with paying for identity cards, undecorated stores and all the rest?"

"Ahh--you see, most people, deep down, feel very insecure. Their lack of self esteem makes them feel it is somehow right when they are mistreated--why should their rights supercede the rights of the collective?" O'Brien flicked the remote again; a huge parking lot full of cars came into view. "Look at that--thousands each day flock here, yet we do not advertise. We don't send out flyers, we charge them to come into the store, and we actually have higher prices than most of our competition. Tell me Ilsa--why do you think they come?"

Ilsa thought for a moment. What had drawn her to this place? "They come because they crave the discipline of an ordered society?" she ventured.

"Very good. You will do well with us, Ilsa." He handed her an apron. Somehow it already had an I.D. card with her name and photo pinned to the front.

"What will I do?"

"With your qualities and training, you will go far, but I think I know what you want. No office for you--you will work at the exit. You will be the Exit Search Warden. You will have a clipboard, and you will be severe. They must fear you."

Ilsa could barely control her excitement. "Can I have a whistle?"

"It is not standard, but I think for you we could make an exception." O'Brien was almost smiling at her, but not quite

"What about a riding crop?" She regretted the words almost immediately after they escaped her mouth.

"Ilsa--this is still the west. Things take time. Be patient, child." Then he sat down and the desk and began looking over papers. Ilsa realized she was dismissed. She opened the door and began to step out of the office when he called her back.

"Ilsa," he said, without looking up, "You will have dinner with me tonight. At 8:00." Ilsa nodded. To be honest, her feelings about men had always been ambigious. But there was no question about O'Brien. No question at all...

Friday, December 03, 2004

The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As a

Long Distance Trucker

Hi kid--so you want to drive the big rigs? I remember when I was in high school--there was this whole CB radio craze, and then this really cool movie "Convoy"--well, actually, it was kind of stupid, and then there was this Stephen King story that they made into a movie called "Duel", and that was... Oh, right.

So, you may want to finish high school--though it doesn't really matter. Don't tell anybody I said that though. You'll need to go to one of those truck driving schools--be prepared for lots of people honking and giving you the finger for a few weeks while you roll backwards at traffic lights--you may crush a car or two, but eventually you'll get the hang of it. Once you've got the air brakes ticket and the license, you're set to go. You could drive for someone else, or you could save up, borrow, and beg to buy your own truck.

Don't worry that it's got well over half a million miles on the engine--a Cummins diesel's good for at least a million, easy. You might as well live with the chrome mud flaps with the traditional naked chick on them--that plays well in the inbred small towns where you'll be parking to eat most of your fried chicken and hamburger meals that will give you your first heart attack before you're 40. You'll spend so many hours inside the cabover that the rank smell of your own sweat will be a welcome comfort as you settle down for a quick nap on the side of the highway. Eventually your loneliness will make you propose to the waitress from the cafe next to your truck company office after she tells you she's knocked up--which turns out to be a lie, you later discover.

You regret the marriage almost as soon as it happens, buy you've got the perfect job to escape it almost full time. When kids finally do come, you don't worry about the fact that neither of them resembles you in the slightest, and the math around the birthdays is a little sketchy... You're gonna keep sending home the paychecks either way--the cash you get for the overweight runs--you know how to avoid the scales--goes straight in your pocket, and Luellen's none the wiser.

Like all truckers, you rely on uppers to keep you awake on the long runs, and on downers to counter the uppers when you need to crash. Coupled with your greasy spoon diet, you've had three heart episodes before you decided to convert to a healthier lifestyle--you'll smoke when you get hungry to drop that extra 30 pounds that's hanging over your belt. That way everyone can see the belt better--it's one of those beauts with a six inch buckle showing a 1967 Kenworth leaving all others in the dust...

In spite of yourself, soon you know the words to every Willie Nelson song ever written, and while you try listening to books on tape, only country music can sing the pain in your lonely, truck-drivin' soul. You've flattened more racoons at 70 mph than you ever dreamed you would, but you'll never retire, because there just ain't a pension plan for the long-haulers. Don't worry, though, with your heart--you'll be lucky to see 60. Have fun...

More Career Advice Here...