A Sports Announcer
Hi there--a sports broadcaster? Yeah, you've got a pretty good voice and you don't stutter, so it might just work.
You can go to one of those "Columbia School of Broadcasting" things you see advertised in magazines but really, any media courses will just give you the ability to run the electronics and make a demo tape--ultimately, you've got to get the chance to do it so the right people hear you. As usual, that means starting at the bottom.
I won't go into how truly awful that will be--let's just say that you probably won't get paid, and your status as a geek loser will be reinforced to all. The only sports you'l likely be given a chance to "broadcast" are lame high school games where your vocabulary will frequently include the word "drubbing". With luck, you'll turn that into a weekly cable broadcast of a Triple-C farm team of the Pawtucket Red Sox and gradually move across North America trying to slightly improve things until you might actually earn enough money at it that you aren't constantly dizzy from selling your own blood. You'll become better at feigning excitement than your Socials teacher on project day.
Which sport are you... Oh, baseball? Well, you should understand that as broadcaster, your job is to distract people from the fact that for 98% of the baseball game NOTHING IS HAPPENING by having tons of trivial facts to... Oh, football then? Well, you should understand that most football broadcasters get to work in places like Detroit and Chicago IN THE MIDDLE OF THE WINTER. L.A. doesn't even have..., oh, basket ball--now that's better--it's indoors and they actually play.
It will be a life out of a suitcase. If you plan to settle down and have a family, you'll have to look outside the basketball culture for dates... why? Well, have you ever been to a WNBA game? The women watching those aren't bringing their, uh, boyfriends, let's just say. Anway, since you'll likely marry someone who has a life seperate from sports, you'll quickly learn how meaningless and trivial all your valuable sports knowledge is in any social gathering outside of the sports bar. This won't make for a happy home life, trust me. And forget asking out the sports babe who does the interviews after the game--those perfect teeth save their smiles for the players--you aren't even on the radar.
When you interview players and coaches, you'll become master of the soft question--after all, most broadcasts are owned by the same company that owns the team, so all you are is a glorified PR schill. "What positives can you take from this loss" will be as tough as you get after the 124 - 67 shcllacking. Meanwhile, even though you travel on the same planes and stay at the same hotels as the players, all they can think of when you interview them is how much you remind them of the nerds they used to torment in gym class.
On the bright side, you'll get to see some great moments in sport. Too bad you won't ever get to relax and enjoy them.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Saturday, April 09, 2005
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Huck Finn
So this book is like the sequel to Tom Sawyer, and instead of being all "paint my fence you suckers" it's all about Huck, who's kind of got the home life of Nelson Munce from the Simpsons. Tom does a whole cameo/guest thing later in the book, though.
So Huck is all "I hate living in this religious house and learnin' stuff" and he takes off and fakes death (didn't they already do that in Tom Sawyer--get some fresh material, dude) and runs away with an escaped slave who's all superstitious and so's Huck but Jim the slave's all stupid most of the time too. It's kinda a racist book--no "Injun Joe" though--and our teacher wouldn't let use "the N word" except Bobby Higgins who's black, er Afric..., whatever dude, you know what I mean. Anyway, Bobby's all "Yo Beeotch" and "Daaamn, Nigga" and the teacher never says a thing because she doesn't want to get into that with him--but here's the thing--I was at Bobby's 10th birthday 'cause I was on his soccer team but nearly everybody there went to this expensive private school with him, and Bobby's dad is a doctor and he was "Robert" back then and he thought Compton, Watts and Harlem were encyclopedias, lightbulbs and basketball teams. Oh, yeah, right. The book
So anyway, this book is hella racist--crap, I just said hella, and I've got less street cred than Bobby--and Huck gets beat on by his dad and sees lots of people die and most of the adults are creepy and these rich people are all Hatfield/McCoys and shoot each other and Jim gets sold and Huck has a bunch of money from back in the Tom Sawyer story and Tom shows up and he's kind of Bart Simpson to Huck's Nelson except Huck doesn't punch him.
Oh, and Mark Twain was like some confederate army deserter who was really Samuel Clemens and I saw him on one of those Star Trek shows and Woody on Cheers was him once and he kinda' reminded me of Colonel Sanders (but now it's KFC) and now I'm getting hungry so good luck with the 43 chapters dude.
So this book is like the sequel to Tom Sawyer, and instead of being all "paint my fence you suckers" it's all about Huck, who's kind of got the home life of Nelson Munce from the Simpsons. Tom does a whole cameo/guest thing later in the book, though.
So Huck is all "I hate living in this religious house and learnin' stuff" and he takes off and fakes death (didn't they already do that in Tom Sawyer--get some fresh material, dude) and runs away with an escaped slave who's all superstitious and so's Huck but Jim the slave's all stupid most of the time too. It's kinda a racist book--no "Injun Joe" though--and our teacher wouldn't let use "the N word" except Bobby Higgins who's black, er Afric..., whatever dude, you know what I mean. Anyway, Bobby's all "Yo Beeotch" and "Daaamn, Nigga" and the teacher never says a thing because she doesn't want to get into that with him--but here's the thing--I was at Bobby's 10th birthday 'cause I was on his soccer team but nearly everybody there went to this expensive private school with him, and Bobby's dad is a doctor and he was "Robert" back then and he thought Compton, Watts and Harlem were encyclopedias, lightbulbs and basketball teams. Oh, yeah, right. The book
So anyway, this book is hella racist--crap, I just said hella, and I've got less street cred than Bobby--and Huck gets beat on by his dad and sees lots of people die and most of the adults are creepy and these rich people are all Hatfield/McCoys and shoot each other and Jim gets sold and Huck has a bunch of money from back in the Tom Sawyer story and Tom shows up and he's kind of Bart Simpson to Huck's Nelson except Huck doesn't punch him.
Oh, and Mark Twain was like some confederate army deserter who was really Samuel Clemens and I saw him on one of those Star Trek shows and Woody on Cheers was him once and he kinda' reminded me of Colonel Sanders (but now it's KFC) and now I'm getting hungry so good luck with the 43 chapters dude.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
A Recording Studio Technician
Hey--you're the kid who runs sound for the assemblies in the gym. A studio techie? Yeah, I guess that's a possibility--let's see...
You'll have to do more than run the crappy gym sound system to learn the skills needed for a career in the recording studio. You'll have to hang around those pathetic rec. center teen band nights, help out in the ska festival, volunteer to run the board for weddings, funerals, elementary school Christmas concerts--whatever it takes. Eventually, you'll understand how to avoid the crappy sound you so often subject us to each time we gather in the gym--hey look, honesty is the only way to go in this sort of business, okay?
You'll either resort to the lamest approach possible to this career--convince your parents to set you up with semi-crappy equipment in your basement or garage--or you'll finally luck into one of the studios downtown. Once you're in, you'll have to be ready to have no life outside the studio--not that you'll get lots of hours, but you have to hang around and be ready to work at a moment's notice.
You visualize making the perfect mix for the next Kurt Cobain, and then while you're smoking up with some rocker during a break he'll invite you to join his upcoming tour so you can live out your own "Almost Famous' fantasy, but that's not likely to happen. More often than not, you're helping some spoiled princess make a demo tape or some bad Christmas CD for her extended family. You get blamed for the shrill, off-pitch caterwauling that is her rendition of "Jingle Bell Rock", and you learn to swear with your mouth closed--so effective when you're in the soundproof producer's mixing room. The hourly rate the studio charges makes them hate you all the more; little do they know you see less than a quarter of that in salary. You take revenge in small ways--deodorant is something you bother with only for the nice clients.
Even worse are the commercials--rarely do singers or talented voiceover professionals grace your sound booth--you get the egocentric real estate magnate who thinks he and his team of ersatz professionals can somehow make their cheesy ditty about their great service into something that doesn't cause thousands to switch stations each day.
You'll never really make any significant money--studios continually go out of business because it only takes a few years for people to realize there's no real profit margin in it. If you're lucky, maybe you'll get hired to run sound in the hockey arena or down at the arts centre. That, and second job down at the rendering plant is the only thing that may eventually enable you to afford moving out of your parent's attic.
Next assembly, how about doing the sound checks BEFORE the entire school is sitting there mocking the special way your voice cracks...
Hey--you're the kid who runs sound for the assemblies in the gym. A studio techie? Yeah, I guess that's a possibility--let's see...
You'll have to do more than run the crappy gym sound system to learn the skills needed for a career in the recording studio. You'll have to hang around those pathetic rec. center teen band nights, help out in the ska festival, volunteer to run the board for weddings, funerals, elementary school Christmas concerts--whatever it takes. Eventually, you'll understand how to avoid the crappy sound you so often subject us to each time we gather in the gym--hey look, honesty is the only way to go in this sort of business, okay?
You'll either resort to the lamest approach possible to this career--convince your parents to set you up with semi-crappy equipment in your basement or garage--or you'll finally luck into one of the studios downtown. Once you're in, you'll have to be ready to have no life outside the studio--not that you'll get lots of hours, but you have to hang around and be ready to work at a moment's notice.
You visualize making the perfect mix for the next Kurt Cobain, and then while you're smoking up with some rocker during a break he'll invite you to join his upcoming tour so you can live out your own "Almost Famous' fantasy, but that's not likely to happen. More often than not, you're helping some spoiled princess make a demo tape or some bad Christmas CD for her extended family. You get blamed for the shrill, off-pitch caterwauling that is her rendition of "Jingle Bell Rock", and you learn to swear with your mouth closed--so effective when you're in the soundproof producer's mixing room. The hourly rate the studio charges makes them hate you all the more; little do they know you see less than a quarter of that in salary. You take revenge in small ways--deodorant is something you bother with only for the nice clients.
Even worse are the commercials--rarely do singers or talented voiceover professionals grace your sound booth--you get the egocentric real estate magnate who thinks he and his team of ersatz professionals can somehow make their cheesy ditty about their great service into something that doesn't cause thousands to switch stations each day.
You'll never really make any significant money--studios continually go out of business because it only takes a few years for people to realize there's no real profit margin in it. If you're lucky, maybe you'll get hired to run sound in the hockey arena or down at the arts centre. That, and second job down at the rendering plant is the only thing that may eventually enable you to afford moving out of your parent's attic.
Next assembly, how about doing the sound checks BEFORE the entire school is sitting there mocking the special way your voice cracks...
Saturday, April 02, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as an
English Professor
Hi there--you're the kid who writes the book reviews in the school paper, right? Those are pretty good--there aren't many kids your age writing about the pre-raphaelite brotherhood, I expect. You want to be an English Professor? Why am I not suprised--here goes:
You'll do an honors degree in English Literature someplace Ivy League, or that feels Ivy League. At first you'll join a sorority, but after one year you'll realize those people aren't for you--clumsy gropings by drunken frat boys send you scurrying instead to dimly-lit downtown poetry readings, where you gradually find your fellow travellers. Unfortunately, the price of intelligent discussions of literature is your participation geekdom's lesser festivities--long nights of role-playing games and the occasional renaissance fair make you a reluctant expert on things you can't talk about outside the inner circle without risking your chance of ever procreating with a non-wizard.
You'll have crushes on a few of your professors--their erudite insights leave you sadly unsatisfied with the young men you spend your time with on weekends--and it's only too likely that one or two of them might violate their code of ethics after a long chat about your most private poetry you've deigned to share some smoky evening at a local angst cafe.
You enter grad school with great expectations--now you can truly focus on your passion for Victorian novelists--and you promise yourself not to let the increasing burden of student loan debt limit your enjoyment of your studies. You immerse yourself in grad school, and your fellow English majors become your surrogate family, though not much of a dating pool; the few pasty males in the crowd evidence Oscar Wilde's sexual proclivities and Hemingway's gender sensitivity.
A master's degree, of course, is merely a wall decoration in the world of literature, and you manage to find a post grad program that accepts you largely based on a few poems you had published in an obscure university literary journal. There you find yourself increasingly isolated--part of you wants to be carried away by some hero from the pages of a Bronte or Austen novel, while the conclave of unshaven lit/women's studies majors you smoke dope with every Friday night scoff at those who seek fulfillment from mere males.
Upon graduation, you do manage to land a position that evolves into an associate professorship at a small college--unfortunately, as junior member of the department, you're stuck with classes of first-years who have the literary sensitivities of Stanley Kowalski from Streetcar Named Desire. You weary of the stupidity of the phys-ed. cro magnons in the back of the class who only lose interest in picking their steroid acne to guffaw when you explain that Lawrence's serpent isn't merely a snake. From that point on, every assignment they submit are little more than puerile attempts to find phallic symbolism in everything they read. You know that all of their decent work has been ghostwritten or bought off the internet, but you are too apathetic to fight the constant onslaught of plagiarism.
Meanwhile, your student loans burden you more than you ever anticipated--you will have to spend two decades driving that VW bus you bought with the professor who left his wife for you and repented his mistake scant six weeks into your relationship.
On the bright side, the money you save on depilatories and hair products will allow you to indulge your need for really nice emo glasses and a trip to an Ani DiFranco concert once every year.
Go here to see other advice from the Cynical Career Counsellor
Hi there--you're the kid who writes the book reviews in the school paper, right? Those are pretty good--there aren't many kids your age writing about the pre-raphaelite brotherhood, I expect. You want to be an English Professor? Why am I not suprised--here goes:
You'll do an honors degree in English Literature someplace Ivy League, or that feels Ivy League. At first you'll join a sorority, but after one year you'll realize those people aren't for you--clumsy gropings by drunken frat boys send you scurrying instead to dimly-lit downtown poetry readings, where you gradually find your fellow travellers. Unfortunately, the price of intelligent discussions of literature is your participation geekdom's lesser festivities--long nights of role-playing games and the occasional renaissance fair make you a reluctant expert on things you can't talk about outside the inner circle without risking your chance of ever procreating with a non-wizard.
You'll have crushes on a few of your professors--their erudite insights leave you sadly unsatisfied with the young men you spend your time with on weekends--and it's only too likely that one or two of them might violate their code of ethics after a long chat about your most private poetry you've deigned to share some smoky evening at a local angst cafe.
You enter grad school with great expectations--now you can truly focus on your passion for Victorian novelists--and you promise yourself not to let the increasing burden of student loan debt limit your enjoyment of your studies. You immerse yourself in grad school, and your fellow English majors become your surrogate family, though not much of a dating pool; the few pasty males in the crowd evidence Oscar Wilde's sexual proclivities and Hemingway's gender sensitivity.
A master's degree, of course, is merely a wall decoration in the world of literature, and you manage to find a post grad program that accepts you largely based on a few poems you had published in an obscure university literary journal. There you find yourself increasingly isolated--part of you wants to be carried away by some hero from the pages of a Bronte or Austen novel, while the conclave of unshaven lit/women's studies majors you smoke dope with every Friday night scoff at those who seek fulfillment from mere males.
Upon graduation, you do manage to land a position that evolves into an associate professorship at a small college--unfortunately, as junior member of the department, you're stuck with classes of first-years who have the literary sensitivities of Stanley Kowalski from Streetcar Named Desire. You weary of the stupidity of the phys-ed. cro magnons in the back of the class who only lose interest in picking their steroid acne to guffaw when you explain that Lawrence's serpent isn't merely a snake. From that point on, every assignment they submit are little more than puerile attempts to find phallic symbolism in everything they read. You know that all of their decent work has been ghostwritten or bought off the internet, but you are too apathetic to fight the constant onslaught of plagiarism.
Meanwhile, your student loans burden you more than you ever anticipated--you will have to spend two decades driving that VW bus you bought with the professor who left his wife for you and repented his mistake scant six weeks into your relationship.
On the bright side, the money you save on depilatories and hair products will allow you to indulge your need for really nice emo glasses and a trip to an Ani DiFranco concert once every year.
Go here to see other advice from the Cynical Career Counsellor
Friday, April 01, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Teen Pop Singing Sensation (by request)
What's that? Oh, I remember you--you're the girl who booked me to be one of the judges for the karaoke contest last fall and then when Mr. Carter wasn't going to be sick after all, you dumped me and put him in. Sooo, you fancy yourself a singer, do you? Well, I think we can figure out what lies ahead:
First of all, you'll need to drop about 25 pounds. Your mother may think you're perfect, but you're gonna have to prance around in some pretty slutty stuff, and you ain't got the shape for it, believe me. Also, look at the people "making it"--that australian piece of fluff--Kylie Minogue--you think she's got some sort of corner on the good singing voice market? Face it, even more serious music can't pretend; how much have you heard about Charlotte Church since she turned chunky--who cares about the "voice of an angel" if she's making too many trips to the buffet? Every time they tell you some chick like Stevie Nicks is making a comeback it's just another way of saying they've finally joined Weight Watchers. What's the matter? You got something in your eye? Yeah, there's some kleenex in the box there...
So, where was I? Oh yeah--you've been taking singing lessons--but that's only half of it--you need to learn to move. I've seen you in that morning dance class--you look like an injured water buffalo. You need to take some intensive dance training--maybe drop a few academic classes, after all, when you're famous and rich who cares if you learned high school chemistry?
Your parents don't think so? Tell me--who's the career counsellor here, anyway? If your parents cared about your performing career they'd have gotten you an agent by the time your were 6 and you wouldn't be sitting here wasting both of our time. Remember that girl who played the clumsy dancer in "Hollywood Steam Baths"? You don't--well trust me, it was a classic in the genre. Anyway, she went to this school, and about eight years ago she sat in this very office and I told her what she needed to do to make it in show business. Now look at her--she's even got a web site with pictures. So who knows more about how to succeed in a performance career--me or your parents?
Hey, you know that girl in the library club with the braces and the thick glasses? Jeannie? Yeah that's her--she's got an amazing voice. You should get her to record some stuff and practice lip syncing to it--her voice is good enough, but the way she looks... Let's just say she won't be on any album covers any time soon. Talent? Of course talent matters--just like you care about the color of a car you might want to buy--but it isn't the main factor.
Hey, where you going? I ain't halfway finished... Hey--why don't you go ask Mr. Carter what he thinks? Oh wait--he's a P.E. teacher--what does he know about singing? Must be a lot, since he was such a damn good karaoke judge and all...
hmm--I think I'll send a note home to mom and dad about her burgeoning eating disorder...
What's that? Oh, I remember you--you're the girl who booked me to be one of the judges for the karaoke contest last fall and then when Mr. Carter wasn't going to be sick after all, you dumped me and put him in. Sooo, you fancy yourself a singer, do you? Well, I think we can figure out what lies ahead:
First of all, you'll need to drop about 25 pounds. Your mother may think you're perfect, but you're gonna have to prance around in some pretty slutty stuff, and you ain't got the shape for it, believe me. Also, look at the people "making it"--that australian piece of fluff--Kylie Minogue--you think she's got some sort of corner on the good singing voice market? Face it, even more serious music can't pretend; how much have you heard about Charlotte Church since she turned chunky--who cares about the "voice of an angel" if she's making too many trips to the buffet? Every time they tell you some chick like Stevie Nicks is making a comeback it's just another way of saying they've finally joined Weight Watchers. What's the matter? You got something in your eye? Yeah, there's some kleenex in the box there...
So, where was I? Oh yeah--you've been taking singing lessons--but that's only half of it--you need to learn to move. I've seen you in that morning dance class--you look like an injured water buffalo. You need to take some intensive dance training--maybe drop a few academic classes, after all, when you're famous and rich who cares if you learned high school chemistry?
Your parents don't think so? Tell me--who's the career counsellor here, anyway? If your parents cared about your performing career they'd have gotten you an agent by the time your were 6 and you wouldn't be sitting here wasting both of our time. Remember that girl who played the clumsy dancer in "Hollywood Steam Baths"? You don't--well trust me, it was a classic in the genre. Anyway, she went to this school, and about eight years ago she sat in this very office and I told her what she needed to do to make it in show business. Now look at her--she's even got a web site with pictures. So who knows more about how to succeed in a performance career--me or your parents?
Hey, you know that girl in the library club with the braces and the thick glasses? Jeannie? Yeah that's her--she's got an amazing voice. You should get her to record some stuff and practice lip syncing to it--her voice is good enough, but the way she looks... Let's just say she won't be on any album covers any time soon. Talent? Of course talent matters--just like you care about the color of a car you might want to buy--but it isn't the main factor.
Hey, where you going? I ain't halfway finished... Hey--why don't you go ask Mr. Carter what he thinks? Oh wait--he's a P.E. teacher--what does he know about singing? Must be a lot, since he was such a damn good karaoke judge and all...
hmm--I think I'll send a note home to mom and dad about her burgeoning eating disorder...
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
An Aircraft Mechanic (by request)
An aircraft mechanic? You're the kid who put that lawnmower engine on the skateboard, right? Well, it's probably not a bad career, if you can hack it--it will probably work out like this:
You'll have to do all the basic grease monkey wannabe stuff--put in the hours during high school and go for apprenticeships right after--you'll have to work in a regular garage for a little while you wait to hear, but eventually, maybe you'll get in if your grades, references and bribes all fall within the acceptable range. It won't be easy--there's way more parts on a 747 than on your average Hyundai, and if you botch up the car, it doesn't plunge 350 people to a fiery death.
The social life isn't that great--you think you'll have prestige, but the first time you get brushed off by a stewardess will teach you otherwise--heck, you put Brad Pitt in a set of blue coveralls with his name in the little red oval on the front and they wouldn't even give him the time of day. It's okay--you'll spend so much time logging overtime that you'll get to know all the concession ladies well--and when their marriages collapse, you'll pick up the crumbs that fall off the table.
You'll never be truly "comfortable" in your job--even your basic Cessna is a delicate instrument--so you never get to have an "off" day. You will need to learn everything there is to know about simple prop engines and advanced jet aircraft. Then, if you are fortunate enough to work your way from the hellhole bush plane outposts into a major commercial airport, you'll also have to learn to play amateur secret agent--you see, you are one of the last lines of defense against the terrorists' plots to blow planes out of the sky. You must be able to look at an engine and tell if something doesn't look quite right.
You're also going to be the scapegoat if something awful happens--and at some point in your career, it probably will. Face it, they aren't going to insult the pilot's memory and offend his family by publishing the discovery that he had 6 martinis before he crashed the plane full of orphans into the side of the mountain--it will be blamed on "mechanical error"--that's you, bucko. When that happens, you'll be out of a job, and eventually the military will find you--they'll know the real story, and make you an offer you'll be desperate enough to take--fixing helicopters and transport planes in some crappy desert airbase until some would be martyr blows up enough of your anatomy to qualify you for a disability pension.
Still--you get to drink lots of $8 cups of coffee along the way...
An aircraft mechanic? You're the kid who put that lawnmower engine on the skateboard, right? Well, it's probably not a bad career, if you can hack it--it will probably work out like this:
You'll have to do all the basic grease monkey wannabe stuff--put in the hours during high school and go for apprenticeships right after--you'll have to work in a regular garage for a little while you wait to hear, but eventually, maybe you'll get in if your grades, references and bribes all fall within the acceptable range. It won't be easy--there's way more parts on a 747 than on your average Hyundai, and if you botch up the car, it doesn't plunge 350 people to a fiery death.
The social life isn't that great--you think you'll have prestige, but the first time you get brushed off by a stewardess will teach you otherwise--heck, you put Brad Pitt in a set of blue coveralls with his name in the little red oval on the front and they wouldn't even give him the time of day. It's okay--you'll spend so much time logging overtime that you'll get to know all the concession ladies well--and when their marriages collapse, you'll pick up the crumbs that fall off the table.
You'll never be truly "comfortable" in your job--even your basic Cessna is a delicate instrument--so you never get to have an "off" day. You will need to learn everything there is to know about simple prop engines and advanced jet aircraft. Then, if you are fortunate enough to work your way from the hellhole bush plane outposts into a major commercial airport, you'll also have to learn to play amateur secret agent--you see, you are one of the last lines of defense against the terrorists' plots to blow planes out of the sky. You must be able to look at an engine and tell if something doesn't look quite right.
You're also going to be the scapegoat if something awful happens--and at some point in your career, it probably will. Face it, they aren't going to insult the pilot's memory and offend his family by publishing the discovery that he had 6 martinis before he crashed the plane full of orphans into the side of the mountain--it will be blamed on "mechanical error"--that's you, bucko. When that happens, you'll be out of a job, and eventually the military will find you--they'll know the real story, and make you an offer you'll be desperate enough to take--fixing helicopters and transport planes in some crappy desert airbase until some would be martyr blows up enough of your anatomy to qualify you for a disability pension.
Still--you get to drink lots of $8 cups of coffee along the way...
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Lighter recollections...
More from the trip home:
At church on Easter Sunday a friend introduced me to someone I hadn't seen since junior high--this guy seemed so... quiet, settled--yet all I could think of was that he was the psycho who came home with me in grade 2 and busted all the windows in our playhouse. Must learn to let it go...
Wandering around the mall I realized that everyone--or at least 80% of the population of my home town is fat. I'm not judging them; there's not much else to do there but eat and drink and ride around in your big 4 wheel drive truck.
Took a photo just down the hill from my parents' house--they've clearcut the hillside above my school--not Weyerhaeuser but just a greedy school board this time--and it's now possible to get a picture of both my elementary school and my senior high in the same shot. Here's the picture; click on it for a larger version. If you want waay to much information, there's a link below to a large annotated pic.
The sad thing is that the elementary school--which had 800 kids when I was in grade 4--is now just being rented out to a couple of small private schools, and the high school is closing this June.
Annotated Photo Here (Warning: It's big)
At church on Easter Sunday a friend introduced me to someone I hadn't seen since junior high--this guy seemed so... quiet, settled--yet all I could think of was that he was the psycho who came home with me in grade 2 and busted all the windows in our playhouse. Must learn to let it go...
Wandering around the mall I realized that everyone--or at least 80% of the population of my home town is fat. I'm not judging them; there's not much else to do there but eat and drink and ride around in your big 4 wheel drive truck.
Took a photo just down the hill from my parents' house--they've clearcut the hillside above my school--not Weyerhaeuser but just a greedy school board this time--and it's now possible to get a picture of both my elementary school and my senior high in the same shot. Here's the picture; click on it for a larger version. If you want waay to much information, there's a link below to a large annotated pic.
The sad thing is that the elementary school--which had 800 kids when I was in grade 4--is now just being rented out to a couple of small private schools, and the high school is closing this June.
Annotated Photo Here (Warning: It's big)
Monday, March 28, 2005
The Kid Who Sit Behind You Explains
The Picture of Dorian Gray
So, like Oscar Wilde was gay and they didn't like it back in the day so he went to prison and then France and I'm not sure which would be worse. Anyway, Oscar Wilde wrote this book before they got him in court for being gay. I think maybe they read this book.
You see, it's all about this young hottie guy (Yeah, not that I think any guys are hot, dude) and his name is Dorian and this painter dude is like all in love with him and then this Lord Henry guy shows up and he's all kind of low key lusting for him too but since it's back in the day they go on for pages and pages and then throw in the whole "oh yeah I'm married to a chick" line in but it's not foolin' anyone, Oscar.
Then the painter gives Dorian the painting of him and Dorian wishes the painting would get old instead of him and it happens and then he falls for this actress chick and she's all "Dorian you're wonderful" and then he's all "No, forget what I said, you suck" and she kills herself and Dorian is all "I'm such a jerk"
Lord Henry comes over and says "cool, like no chick ever offed herself for me" and then Dorian is all "yeah, true dat" and then he starts to party and slut around and get with all sorts of people of all genders and he never looks like he's older than when it starts but the picture gets all old and gross. Then Dorian offs his buddy the painter and blackmails another buddy into mushing up the body and making it disappear--kinda like my friend Todd did when he made me do his homework or he'd tell my mom what really happened to her left headlight that time I snuck out with her car.
Then Dorian's picture gets more old and has blood on it and Dorian's all freaking out and then he destroys the painting and then you'll have to read to see what happens next--but I kinda imagined it like that scene at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark when the ark gets opened and all the nazis get turned to dust.
But Oscar--no way anyone's not guessing your secret after they read this book.
So, like Oscar Wilde was gay and they didn't like it back in the day so he went to prison and then France and I'm not sure which would be worse. Anyway, Oscar Wilde wrote this book before they got him in court for being gay. I think maybe they read this book.
You see, it's all about this young hottie guy (Yeah, not that I think any guys are hot, dude) and his name is Dorian and this painter dude is like all in love with him and then this Lord Henry guy shows up and he's all kind of low key lusting for him too but since it's back in the day they go on for pages and pages and then throw in the whole "oh yeah I'm married to a chick" line in but it's not foolin' anyone, Oscar.
Then the painter gives Dorian the painting of him and Dorian wishes the painting would get old instead of him and it happens and then he falls for this actress chick and she's all "Dorian you're wonderful" and then he's all "No, forget what I said, you suck" and she kills herself and Dorian is all "I'm such a jerk"
Lord Henry comes over and says "cool, like no chick ever offed herself for me" and then Dorian is all "yeah, true dat" and then he starts to party and slut around and get with all sorts of people of all genders and he never looks like he's older than when it starts but the picture gets all old and gross. Then Dorian offs his buddy the painter and blackmails another buddy into mushing up the body and making it disappear--kinda like my friend Todd did when he made me do his homework or he'd tell my mom what really happened to her left headlight that time I snuck out with her car.
Then Dorian's picture gets more old and has blood on it and Dorian's all freaking out and then he destroys the painting and then you'll have to read to see what happens next--but I kinda imagined it like that scene at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark when the ark gets opened and all the nazis get turned to dust.
But Oscar--no way anyone's not guessing your secret after they read this book.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
A Doctor
Hi--a doctor, you say? Let me look up your grades... Let's see now--wow--mid to high 90s across the board--especially in all those science courses. What kind of cars do your parents drive? A Neon and a Volvo? What year's the Volvo? Oh. Hmm... That's not so good. You got any rich grandparents? Scholarships? Maybe, but still... I think it might work out something like this.
First of all, you'll be looking at either staying in Canada, in which case when you graduate you have to do the whole "where will the government let me practice" thing, or you go to the states, where it's all about huge amounts of money up front to make big bucks later. Either way, it's expensive and a hellish grind--your little high school success will give you small comfort in the big show....
You'll do the premed stuff without too much trouble; I'm guessing you're smart with a good work ethic, and then you'll find out that med school is built on a rather unusual fallacy--that the day consists of 36 hours rather than 24. There is no magic time portal that will save you from the hell that your schedule will put you though, but there is one thing you'll learn quickly: pharmaceutical support. You see, you absolutely can't afford to lie awake waiting to fall asleep, nor can you dare be less than fully alert in your classes and lab work. It's just not good form to fall asleep face down in the open belly of a cadaver.
Of course, the schedule won't keep you from helping the other med students live out the "work hard, play hard" philosophy that stretch your body and your credit to the limit. One might think that a bunch of future doctors would buy the "body is a temple" thing more than most--but the rampant pursuit of pleasure and altered states of consciousness are what will make your few moments of freedom worthwhile.
You'll also discover that delicious irony that while med students are especially popular in the dating game, you never really have much time to take advantage of it. The few times you do drop the "I'm a med student" line, you realize it's always doubted; not until your dishevelled apartment evidences a variety of medical texts and a stethoscope does your companionship become a valued commodity. This discovery, though, will be a valuable one.
You see, you're going to find the financial pressures of med school tough--it's not like a sociology degree where you can work 30 hours a week at a restaurant and still maintain your GPA. No, an outside job just isn't going to work--that's why you'll start selling medical paraphenalia to friends and friends of friends who want to pull the "I'm a doctor" schtick believably.
When you get caught--only so many old textbooks and stethoscopes can go missing without anyone noticing--you'll explain that you've really been collecting them for third world countries--an even more successful approach than "I'm a doctor", you'll share with your friends who are quickly becoming your disciples.
Upon graduation, you'll have a choice to make--family physician with the comfortable social position it offers, or head towards a specialization, which allows you to become truly wealthy while your interpersonal skills shrivel to nothing.
Either way, it's good--hey--you're pretty up on biology; could you tell me, does this look infected?
Hi--a doctor, you say? Let me look up your grades... Let's see now--wow--mid to high 90s across the board--especially in all those science courses. What kind of cars do your parents drive? A Neon and a Volvo? What year's the Volvo? Oh. Hmm... That's not so good. You got any rich grandparents? Scholarships? Maybe, but still... I think it might work out something like this.
First of all, you'll be looking at either staying in Canada, in which case when you graduate you have to do the whole "where will the government let me practice" thing, or you go to the states, where it's all about huge amounts of money up front to make big bucks later. Either way, it's expensive and a hellish grind--your little high school success will give you small comfort in the big show....
You'll do the premed stuff without too much trouble; I'm guessing you're smart with a good work ethic, and then you'll find out that med school is built on a rather unusual fallacy--that the day consists of 36 hours rather than 24. There is no magic time portal that will save you from the hell that your schedule will put you though, but there is one thing you'll learn quickly: pharmaceutical support. You see, you absolutely can't afford to lie awake waiting to fall asleep, nor can you dare be less than fully alert in your classes and lab work. It's just not good form to fall asleep face down in the open belly of a cadaver.
Of course, the schedule won't keep you from helping the other med students live out the "work hard, play hard" philosophy that stretch your body and your credit to the limit. One might think that a bunch of future doctors would buy the "body is a temple" thing more than most--but the rampant pursuit of pleasure and altered states of consciousness are what will make your few moments of freedom worthwhile.
You'll also discover that delicious irony that while med students are especially popular in the dating game, you never really have much time to take advantage of it. The few times you do drop the "I'm a med student" line, you realize it's always doubted; not until your dishevelled apartment evidences a variety of medical texts and a stethoscope does your companionship become a valued commodity. This discovery, though, will be a valuable one.
You see, you're going to find the financial pressures of med school tough--it's not like a sociology degree where you can work 30 hours a week at a restaurant and still maintain your GPA. No, an outside job just isn't going to work--that's why you'll start selling medical paraphenalia to friends and friends of friends who want to pull the "I'm a doctor" schtick believably.
When you get caught--only so many old textbooks and stethoscopes can go missing without anyone noticing--you'll explain that you've really been collecting them for third world countries--an even more successful approach than "I'm a doctor", you'll share with your friends who are quickly becoming your disciples.
Upon graduation, you'll have a choice to make--family physician with the comfortable social position it offers, or head towards a specialization, which allows you to become truly wealthy while your interpersonal skills shrivel to nothing.
Either way, it's good--hey--you're pretty up on biology; could you tell me, does this look infected?
Saturday, March 19, 2005
Get me some buckshot
I could've slept a little late today--my wife's working but all I've got ahead is my kids' swimming lessons this morning. But no--bizarre noise wakes us up at 6:30. My wife actually guessed what it was--a woodpecker working on the metal cap of our chimney. There's a reason she guessed it so quickly...
Flashback to before our kids were born: We'd been married about six months, in our first house about a month, and we came home from work together. We walk in and flip on the lights--I go one direction, while my wife heads into the dining room--then I hear her scream.
I run in to see blood all over our dining room window and the vertical blinds. There are no windows or doors open in the house--yet there's the blood. I go into the living room, and notice the blood on the window and blinds there as well. I flip on a light and immediately something begins noisy movement on the floor behind the couch.
It's a woodpecker--a big one. It was tangled in the chains of the vertical blinds. Between the two of us, my wife and I managed to get the bird untangled, and it flew into the kitchen where it perched on a rolldown blind. That was when we got a good look at it. The beak on it was about an inch and a half long--something I'd noticed as I had been trying to hold it as we untangled it and it went crazy.
We turned off all the lights in the house except for the one at the back porch, left the door wide open, and herded the bird out of the house. We saw it around the neighborhood for about the next six weeks--I was up on the roof the next day fashioning a cover for our chimney; the ash pattern spread in front of the fireplace made it clear how the woodpecker had got in.
It was kind of freaky though--for just a minute you imagine all sorts of crazy things that may have gotten blood all over the place while you weren't home.
We had to replace the blinds--total bill for the cleanup was just over $1000--but interestingly enough, the insurance adjustor didn't need any photos or proof. He figured there was no way we'd make up a story like that...
Flashback to before our kids were born: We'd been married about six months, in our first house about a month, and we came home from work together. We walk in and flip on the lights--I go one direction, while my wife heads into the dining room--then I hear her scream.
I run in to see blood all over our dining room window and the vertical blinds. There are no windows or doors open in the house--yet there's the blood. I go into the living room, and notice the blood on the window and blinds there as well. I flip on a light and immediately something begins noisy movement on the floor behind the couch.
It's a woodpecker--a big one. It was tangled in the chains of the vertical blinds. Between the two of us, my wife and I managed to get the bird untangled, and it flew into the kitchen where it perched on a rolldown blind. That was when we got a good look at it. The beak on it was about an inch and a half long--something I'd noticed as I had been trying to hold it as we untangled it and it went crazy.
We turned off all the lights in the house except for the one at the back porch, left the door wide open, and herded the bird out of the house. We saw it around the neighborhood for about the next six weeks--I was up on the roof the next day fashioning a cover for our chimney; the ash pattern spread in front of the fireplace made it clear how the woodpecker had got in.
It was kind of freaky though--for just a minute you imagine all sorts of crazy things that may have gotten blood all over the place while you weren't home.
We had to replace the blinds--total bill for the cleanup was just over $1000--but interestingly enough, the insurance adjustor didn't need any photos or proof. He figured there was no way we'd make up a story like that...
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Career As
A Mortician
Hi kid, nice makeup--you like that movie "The Crow", right? What's that? A mortician? Hmm--never had anyone ask about that before. Okay, here's what I figure you can expect:
First of all, you'll need to apprentice somewhere. You'll probably learn about all the aspects of the trade--embalming, caskets, burial plots, memorial services and government bureaucracy. There's lots of money to be made in grief--that's why there's some huge corporations in the business of planting people--but you need to approach it in the right way. An acting class or two, to help disguise your hangovers as you wring your hands in "shared grief" might be helpful.
As an apprentice, you get to do one of the most underrated jobs in the funeral business--driving the hearse. It's a well-kept secret that these babies are among some of the most powerful production automobiles still being manufactured. Let's face it, with a fatter and fatter population, the average hearse needs to be able to carry some heavy loads, and since all the gas is a tax writeoff, there's no need for fuel economy, either.
You might as well practice saying it now--the best alternative is a lovely, closed-casket funeral. You don't want people going for simple cremations--there's very little profit margin there. Open caskets mean more work making the deceased especially presentable, but really don't add any value to your product. Closed casket means you sell a fancy coffin and you can do a quick and dirty makeup job on the body.
You'll make mistakes, of course--there's way too many different religious approaches to how to say goodbye to a loved one, and you know you'll get caught when you keep taking the hearse out on Sunday afternoons to race other apprentices in their oversized station wagons, but it's not rocket science. (Unless, of course, the deceased has chosen the "Eternal Sky" option of being launched into the ether...)
You'll sell people airtight coffins and overpriced granite stones with sentiments that would make a Hallmark hack blush. The itemized expense list shows that everyone has their hand in the bereaved's pocket--but who would be crass enough to question costs at a time like this? You'll see more and more money heading your way as you go from apprentice to full-fledged mortician, and that will almost make the other sacrifices worth it.
What sacrifices? C'mon kid--you can figure it out, can't you? First of all, you won't go out on dates as much as buy them. Not that any of your colleagues will be in a position to look down on you for it. And then there's the conventions--the dark corners of the bar will expose you to stories of lonely men and their desperate acts that burn themselves into your nightmares for the rest of your life. Only increasing whisky consumption can ease your horror temporarily.
And the sights won't be pretty--each one reminding you that one day you'll find your place on the same white porcelain where you will be drained, refilled and cleaned. At least you'll be comfortable with your own mortality, right?
If you do decide to do this, can you get me a discount? I know my ex wife will go cheap if I kick off first for sure...
Hi kid, nice makeup--you like that movie "The Crow", right? What's that? A mortician? Hmm--never had anyone ask about that before. Okay, here's what I figure you can expect:
First of all, you'll need to apprentice somewhere. You'll probably learn about all the aspects of the trade--embalming, caskets, burial plots, memorial services and government bureaucracy. There's lots of money to be made in grief--that's why there's some huge corporations in the business of planting people--but you need to approach it in the right way. An acting class or two, to help disguise your hangovers as you wring your hands in "shared grief" might be helpful.
As an apprentice, you get to do one of the most underrated jobs in the funeral business--driving the hearse. It's a well-kept secret that these babies are among some of the most powerful production automobiles still being manufactured. Let's face it, with a fatter and fatter population, the average hearse needs to be able to carry some heavy loads, and since all the gas is a tax writeoff, there's no need for fuel economy, either.
You might as well practice saying it now--the best alternative is a lovely, closed-casket funeral. You don't want people going for simple cremations--there's very little profit margin there. Open caskets mean more work making the deceased especially presentable, but really don't add any value to your product. Closed casket means you sell a fancy coffin and you can do a quick and dirty makeup job on the body.
You'll make mistakes, of course--there's way too many different religious approaches to how to say goodbye to a loved one, and you know you'll get caught when you keep taking the hearse out on Sunday afternoons to race other apprentices in their oversized station wagons, but it's not rocket science. (Unless, of course, the deceased has chosen the "Eternal Sky" option of being launched into the ether...)
You'll sell people airtight coffins and overpriced granite stones with sentiments that would make a Hallmark hack blush. The itemized expense list shows that everyone has their hand in the bereaved's pocket--but who would be crass enough to question costs at a time like this? You'll see more and more money heading your way as you go from apprentice to full-fledged mortician, and that will almost make the other sacrifices worth it.
What sacrifices? C'mon kid--you can figure it out, can't you? First of all, you won't go out on dates as much as buy them. Not that any of your colleagues will be in a position to look down on you for it. And then there's the conventions--the dark corners of the bar will expose you to stories of lonely men and their desperate acts that burn themselves into your nightmares for the rest of your life. Only increasing whisky consumption can ease your horror temporarily.
And the sights won't be pretty--each one reminding you that one day you'll find your place on the same white porcelain where you will be drained, refilled and cleaned. At least you'll be comfortable with your own mortality, right?
If you do decide to do this, can you get me a discount? I know my ex wife will go cheap if I kick off first for sure...
Sunday, March 13, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
A Prospector
Hi there--what the heck is that animal doing outside the window? A mule? Where you'd... nevermind--I should've learned not to ask questions like that. So--you want to be a muleskinner? No? A prospector? Okay, just let me see, I know there's a info sheet somewhere....
Here it is: "So, to start your lucrative career in prospecting, you'll need to find safe passage through the badlands and eventually make it to San Francisco, where you'll find everything you need to strike it rich up in the Klondike at Jones Mercantile..." What the hell is the date on this thing anyway? Nevermind--things are different now. You probably won't even need that mule. It may go something like this:
You'll need a degree or two in various geology-related disciplines, and then you'll probably have to mortgage your parents' home to get the advanced equipment you need to really make a go of prospecting. Don't expect to have a fixed address anytime soon--you'll wander the most forsaken parts of the earth looking for precious metals, oil, or anything else that will pay the exhorbitant expenses you're running up.
Eventually, you find something good--a load of bauxite, unusual for North America. You play it cool--instead of just filing a claim, you manage to buy up the property cheaply. Now you're ready to make the big bucks, but your money's getting very tight. You get a couple of investors to help keep you afloat, in return for a larger percentage than you want to give them. Just when you think you've got things ready to go--an aluminum manufacturer has already promised you a good price for your bauxite--the roadblocks begin.
First, it's the fact that there's an outstanding claim by a native band who says the land is a combination ritual/burial site--that forces you and your partners to invest heavily in lawyers and eventually buy your way into a settlement. Then the Sierra Legal Defence Fund, along with a coalition of 12 other environmental lobby groups, name your project as the #1 potential environmental disaster of the 21st century. Your cries of "what about the damned rainforest" don't help at the frequent press scrums, either.
Even your deep-pocketed partners are starting to sweat as the costs of creating a large wilderness park--the environmentalists' price to stop picketing your road--become clear. More partners are brought on board, and your share of the project's potential profits is cut to a mere 15%. Still, you reason, there should be enough to save you from bankruptcy, and perhaps cover the cost of two or three years of more fruitless prospecting.
A couple of days before you sign your big contract with the aluminum company, there are simultaneous announcements of huge new bauxite finds in Australia and Brazil. The price of bauxite plummets, and it becomes clear that the cost of extracting material from your mine with North American labor will be much more than it will cost to exploit Brazilian workers--so your project shudders to a halt.
Like rats from a sinking ship, your partners cut their losses and sell their interest in the mine to a large multinational holding company. You resist--you hit up all your friends and relatives for cash, and sell everything you own, in a futile attempt to remain solvent. Eventually, you sell your share to the multinational too, for a pitiful amount that doesn't even pay for your bankruptcy lawyer.
A month later, a civil war starts in Brazil--some suspect the multinational holding company is funding the rebels--and your discovery is once again profitable, as Brazil is suddenly too unstable for the taste of the aluminum cartels who now turn their eyes back north. The holding company makes 3000% profit in the space of six weeks.
You squeak out a living under the poverty line by "witching" wells for ranchers for the rest of your pathetic life. You might wanna think about selling the mule...
Hi there--what the heck is that animal doing outside the window? A mule? Where you'd... nevermind--I should've learned not to ask questions like that. So--you want to be a muleskinner? No? A prospector? Okay, just let me see, I know there's a info sheet somewhere....
Here it is: "So, to start your lucrative career in prospecting, you'll need to find safe passage through the badlands and eventually make it to San Francisco, where you'll find everything you need to strike it rich up in the Klondike at Jones Mercantile..." What the hell is the date on this thing anyway? Nevermind--things are different now. You probably won't even need that mule. It may go something like this:
You'll need a degree or two in various geology-related disciplines, and then you'll probably have to mortgage your parents' home to get the advanced equipment you need to really make a go of prospecting. Don't expect to have a fixed address anytime soon--you'll wander the most forsaken parts of the earth looking for precious metals, oil, or anything else that will pay the exhorbitant expenses you're running up.
Eventually, you find something good--a load of bauxite, unusual for North America. You play it cool--instead of just filing a claim, you manage to buy up the property cheaply. Now you're ready to make the big bucks, but your money's getting very tight. You get a couple of investors to help keep you afloat, in return for a larger percentage than you want to give them. Just when you think you've got things ready to go--an aluminum manufacturer has already promised you a good price for your bauxite--the roadblocks begin.
First, it's the fact that there's an outstanding claim by a native band who says the land is a combination ritual/burial site--that forces you and your partners to invest heavily in lawyers and eventually buy your way into a settlement. Then the Sierra Legal Defence Fund, along with a coalition of 12 other environmental lobby groups, name your project as the #1 potential environmental disaster of the 21st century. Your cries of "what about the damned rainforest" don't help at the frequent press scrums, either.
Even your deep-pocketed partners are starting to sweat as the costs of creating a large wilderness park--the environmentalists' price to stop picketing your road--become clear. More partners are brought on board, and your share of the project's potential profits is cut to a mere 15%. Still, you reason, there should be enough to save you from bankruptcy, and perhaps cover the cost of two or three years of more fruitless prospecting.
A couple of days before you sign your big contract with the aluminum company, there are simultaneous announcements of huge new bauxite finds in Australia and Brazil. The price of bauxite plummets, and it becomes clear that the cost of extracting material from your mine with North American labor will be much more than it will cost to exploit Brazilian workers--so your project shudders to a halt.
Like rats from a sinking ship, your partners cut their losses and sell their interest in the mine to a large multinational holding company. You resist--you hit up all your friends and relatives for cash, and sell everything you own, in a futile attempt to remain solvent. Eventually, you sell your share to the multinational too, for a pitiful amount that doesn't even pay for your bankruptcy lawyer.
A month later, a civil war starts in Brazil--some suspect the multinational holding company is funding the rebels--and your discovery is once again profitable, as Brazil is suddenly too unstable for the taste of the aluminum cartels who now turn their eyes back north. The holding company makes 3000% profit in the space of six weeks.
You squeak out a living under the poverty line by "witching" wells for ranchers for the rest of your pathetic life. You might wanna think about selling the mule...
Monday, March 07, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
An Antique Dealer
Antiques, eh? Well, I'm not an expert by any means when it comes to collectibles and such--five minutes of that "Antiques Road Show" and I want to put a bullet in my head--but it might go like this:
You'll do like all the wannabe antique dealers--you'll become the hated "early bird" who cruises around the night before garage sales, harassing people into letting you see their stuff before the rest of the public gets a look. Some will refuse, of course, while some may even hit you--have a good lawyer prepared to make some money there--but many will let you look. You'll keep your real feelings hidden as you dismiss their junk as trash, then pause as you're about to get to your car, and halfheartedly offer them a fraction of what the Chippendale cabinet is worth.
Finds like that will be rare, and once you open your shop, you want to cultivate a refined image--so you'll hire a team of garage sale sharks who do the hunting for you--your training gives them an eye for the good stuff.
You build your business, but slowly--there's too much competition and not enough good pieces around. Then you hit upon a brainstorm. The retirement homes/extended care hospitals in your community are sorely underfunded. These are the holding pens for the soon to be dead--to you, the soon to be estate sales. Your competition also read the obits--but then it's a battle to scoop the best pieces from the bereaved while they haven't time to check values. But at the care home you can make a connection first.
You sponsor the small buses that ferry the codgers to their weekly outings--making sure your support is acknowledged. You and your staff start paying visits and holding small social gatherings where you figure out whose places will hold the best loot. Rather than keep all that stuff in storage, you tell them, and their beneficiaries, why not sell it ahead of time and enjoy the cash in this life?
Your technique is a great success--you avoid bothering with the estates of the middle class, and get the inside track on those whose furniture will allow you the most markup.
Your ambition, however, remains without bounds--you borrow way too much to build a new store, and when the bank threatens to foreclose, you turn to organized crime for a quick but expensive loan. A few months later, when you can't pay them back, the mafioso offer you an alternative to crushed fingers and eventual death--counterfeit antiques.
You know how to recognize the real thing by this time better than anyone in your town. You figure, then, that you can create faux antiques good enough to fool the philistines that surround you.
Your arrogance gets you caught sooner than you'd hoped, and you plead ignorance as to the origin of the fake--but it's too hot to keep trying that game, so the mob offers you another chance. This time you'll have to ship furniture all over the globe--they finance your new internet antique company--but you'll have found ways to ingeniously hide drugs and all manner of other contraband in the pieces you send away.
It's probably enough to keep you successful and alive for at least three or four years--but eventually, prison cell chic will be your only decor.
Hey--whaddya think this desk is worth?
Antiques, eh? Well, I'm not an expert by any means when it comes to collectibles and such--five minutes of that "Antiques Road Show" and I want to put a bullet in my head--but it might go like this:
You'll do like all the wannabe antique dealers--you'll become the hated "early bird" who cruises around the night before garage sales, harassing people into letting you see their stuff before the rest of the public gets a look. Some will refuse, of course, while some may even hit you--have a good lawyer prepared to make some money there--but many will let you look. You'll keep your real feelings hidden as you dismiss their junk as trash, then pause as you're about to get to your car, and halfheartedly offer them a fraction of what the Chippendale cabinet is worth.
Finds like that will be rare, and once you open your shop, you want to cultivate a refined image--so you'll hire a team of garage sale sharks who do the hunting for you--your training gives them an eye for the good stuff.
You build your business, but slowly--there's too much competition and not enough good pieces around. Then you hit upon a brainstorm. The retirement homes/extended care hospitals in your community are sorely underfunded. These are the holding pens for the soon to be dead--to you, the soon to be estate sales. Your competition also read the obits--but then it's a battle to scoop the best pieces from the bereaved while they haven't time to check values. But at the care home you can make a connection first.
You sponsor the small buses that ferry the codgers to their weekly outings--making sure your support is acknowledged. You and your staff start paying visits and holding small social gatherings where you figure out whose places will hold the best loot. Rather than keep all that stuff in storage, you tell them, and their beneficiaries, why not sell it ahead of time and enjoy the cash in this life?
Your technique is a great success--you avoid bothering with the estates of the middle class, and get the inside track on those whose furniture will allow you the most markup.
Your ambition, however, remains without bounds--you borrow way too much to build a new store, and when the bank threatens to foreclose, you turn to organized crime for a quick but expensive loan. A few months later, when you can't pay them back, the mafioso offer you an alternative to crushed fingers and eventual death--counterfeit antiques.
You know how to recognize the real thing by this time better than anyone in your town. You figure, then, that you can create faux antiques good enough to fool the philistines that surround you.
Your arrogance gets you caught sooner than you'd hoped, and you plead ignorance as to the origin of the fake--but it's too hot to keep trying that game, so the mob offers you another chance. This time you'll have to ship furniture all over the globe--they finance your new internet antique company--but you'll have found ways to ingeniously hide drugs and all manner of other contraband in the pieces you send away.
It's probably enough to keep you successful and alive for at least three or four years--but eventually, prison cell chic will be your only decor.
Hey--whaddya think this desk is worth?
Sunday, March 06, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
A Clown
What's that? You want to be a clown? The circus kind or... Oh--the kids' party kind. Yeah, I know a little bit about that. My ex-wife's lawyer thought it was relevant that the guy I hired for our son's birthday had just been released from... nevermind--let me tell you what's ahead.
First of all, there's really not one particular place to get trained for all this--despite the "Clown College" you heard about on The Simpsons, the best way to go about learning it is to work as gofer and general slave for someone already doing it successfully. You'll need a catchy name--looking at you I'd guess Roly Poly might fit--and try to avoid overdoing the whole hair/makeup thing. What most people doing the clown schtick don't realize is that most kids are terrified of clowns.
Once you've learned to pull off the basic balloon animals and a few simple card tricks, you're ready to leave your mentor and start your act. You'll need a prop tricycle, a lot of annoying noisemakers, and the basic clown suit. You'll buy a crap van that spews blue smoke and you'll get one of those sad magnetic business signs to stick on the side--too bad there won't be enough real metal left on your van to stick it on properly.
You figure out that the only way you'll break into the cutthroat world of party clowning is to undercut your competition. You charge about 2/3 of what your previous boss did, but that just gets you the really cheap, unpleasant customers who deduct that one piece of cake you ate from your pay. You aren't really getting enough money to survive on, so plan B saves you. You carefully orchestrate a variety of rumours about the main competition in town--your whisper campaign hints of drug use, child abuse and more. You couple this with some radio ads--you clean out your savings to pay for them--emphasizing your identity as the "safe" entertainer for children.
Eventually all birthdays, bar mitzvahs and kindergarten graduations begin to look the same. There's always one or two kids who try to pull off your fake nose, and you see more kids vomit from overindulging on party food than you can count.
You get married--fortunately your wife will have a real job; unfortunately she will resent your pathetic income once the novelty of being "Mrs. Poly" wears off. You'll struggle to find clown work during the winter, and be forced into a variety of unsatisfying, low-paying jobs--all you're suited for due to your lack of a real education.
You'll come home beat and your wife will berate you for not being a more involved parent. "You go make everyone else's kids laugh--try it with your own" she'll scream. Of course, your children have long since seen and heard everything you have to offer, and by the time they're 12, you're simply a source of extreme embarassment that only raiding their mother's prescription bottles can alleviate.
By the time you're 45, you'll have to go back to school to learn some sort of useful skill that might earn you a few dollars above minimum wage. Of course, since you wasted half your life trying the futile clown business, you'll then have to work until you're 75 before you can ever hope to retire.
Hey--you know any good jokes?
Read all 20 career explanations here.
What's that? You want to be a clown? The circus kind or... Oh--the kids' party kind. Yeah, I know a little bit about that. My ex-wife's lawyer thought it was relevant that the guy I hired for our son's birthday had just been released from... nevermind--let me tell you what's ahead.
First of all, there's really not one particular place to get trained for all this--despite the "Clown College" you heard about on The Simpsons, the best way to go about learning it is to work as gofer and general slave for someone already doing it successfully. You'll need a catchy name--looking at you I'd guess Roly Poly might fit--and try to avoid overdoing the whole hair/makeup thing. What most people doing the clown schtick don't realize is that most kids are terrified of clowns.
Once you've learned to pull off the basic balloon animals and a few simple card tricks, you're ready to leave your mentor and start your act. You'll need a prop tricycle, a lot of annoying noisemakers, and the basic clown suit. You'll buy a crap van that spews blue smoke and you'll get one of those sad magnetic business signs to stick on the side--too bad there won't be enough real metal left on your van to stick it on properly.
You figure out that the only way you'll break into the cutthroat world of party clowning is to undercut your competition. You charge about 2/3 of what your previous boss did, but that just gets you the really cheap, unpleasant customers who deduct that one piece of cake you ate from your pay. You aren't really getting enough money to survive on, so plan B saves you. You carefully orchestrate a variety of rumours about the main competition in town--your whisper campaign hints of drug use, child abuse and more. You couple this with some radio ads--you clean out your savings to pay for them--emphasizing your identity as the "safe" entertainer for children.
Eventually all birthdays, bar mitzvahs and kindergarten graduations begin to look the same. There's always one or two kids who try to pull off your fake nose, and you see more kids vomit from overindulging on party food than you can count.
You get married--fortunately your wife will have a real job; unfortunately she will resent your pathetic income once the novelty of being "Mrs. Poly" wears off. You'll struggle to find clown work during the winter, and be forced into a variety of unsatisfying, low-paying jobs--all you're suited for due to your lack of a real education.
You'll come home beat and your wife will berate you for not being a more involved parent. "You go make everyone else's kids laugh--try it with your own" she'll scream. Of course, your children have long since seen and heard everything you have to offer, and by the time they're 12, you're simply a source of extreme embarassment that only raiding their mother's prescription bottles can alleviate.
By the time you're 45, you'll have to go back to school to learn some sort of useful skill that might earn you a few dollars above minimum wage. Of course, since you wasted half your life trying the futile clown business, you'll then have to work until you're 75 before you can ever hope to retire.
Hey--you know any good jokes?
Read all 20 career explanations here.
Monday, February 28, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
A Personal Assistant
Hi there--so you want to do what? Personal Assistant? Hmm--never had that one before--most people don't lose all their pride and self respect until after high school. Still, I guess I could figure it out.
Don't fall for the idea that there's some sort of publicist or management course you can take that will prepare you for this line of work. You see, you'll need to become the ultimate generalist--the "jack of all trades" competent in both legal and illegal actions to aid in the comfort and safety of employer.
First of all, you should know that normal people don't have personal assistants. You will work for someone who is both wealthy and disfunctional--musicians, actors, lottery winners, children of corporate scions... Yours will be the 80+ hour week, and your personal life will be nonexistent. There is no way you can raise your own family when you have dedicated your life to parenting an incredibly selfish and needy adult.
You will start off on a professional level, at first--whatever you do, don't ask what happened to the last personal assistant--such a question shows you lack the tact for the job. There will be dozens of questions that are never asked: "Why does your passport list that as your birthday?" "Should I put your mother's call through?" "How old were those girls last night?"--and so many more. You will need to anticipate every whim before it is spoken, and should anything "kill the buzz" of the group, you will be hauled in and berated by your barely-coherent boss. You will never, of course, disrespect your employer in public, and you will sacrifice your own happiness, safety and reputation on a daily basis to keep theirs intact.
You will help them cheat on their taxes, you will calm angry hotel and restaurant managers, you will fire long time employees, you will track down and purchase all manner of illicit substances, you will pimp when your employer is horny, and you will lie to spouses and boyfriends/girlfriends so effectively that you will frighten even yourself. Don't even ask what you'll have to do for their collection of diseased, incontinent pets and relatives.
Ultimately, should you be under 280 pounds and of a gender that your employer finds at all attractive, you will be "hit on"--usually as part of a drunken, drug-addled stupor. By this time, you'll be so far removed from normal social interactions that you won't resist this final act of subservience. The next day, you'll realize that a new level of awkwardness has encroached upon your relationship with your boss, and the clock is now ticking until your replacement is found. This is when you should begin your serious embezzling of funds. Get a swiss bank account, copy and save incriminating documents, phone recordings and videotapes, and remember that everything disgusting and embarassing that's happened over your four years with this overgrown baby is now the substance of your retirement fund--you'll sell your silence to your boss, or peddle your story to the highest bidder.
Just be careful--some personal assistants find that retirement from some employers can be hazardous to one's health.
Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here
Hi there--so you want to do what? Personal Assistant? Hmm--never had that one before--most people don't lose all their pride and self respect until after high school. Still, I guess I could figure it out.
Don't fall for the idea that there's some sort of publicist or management course you can take that will prepare you for this line of work. You see, you'll need to become the ultimate generalist--the "jack of all trades" competent in both legal and illegal actions to aid in the comfort and safety of employer.
First of all, you should know that normal people don't have personal assistants. You will work for someone who is both wealthy and disfunctional--musicians, actors, lottery winners, children of corporate scions... Yours will be the 80+ hour week, and your personal life will be nonexistent. There is no way you can raise your own family when you have dedicated your life to parenting an incredibly selfish and needy adult.
You will start off on a professional level, at first--whatever you do, don't ask what happened to the last personal assistant--such a question shows you lack the tact for the job. There will be dozens of questions that are never asked: "Why does your passport list that as your birthday?" "Should I put your mother's call through?" "How old were those girls last night?"--and so many more. You will need to anticipate every whim before it is spoken, and should anything "kill the buzz" of the group, you will be hauled in and berated by your barely-coherent boss. You will never, of course, disrespect your employer in public, and you will sacrifice your own happiness, safety and reputation on a daily basis to keep theirs intact.
You will help them cheat on their taxes, you will calm angry hotel and restaurant managers, you will fire long time employees, you will track down and purchase all manner of illicit substances, you will pimp when your employer is horny, and you will lie to spouses and boyfriends/girlfriends so effectively that you will frighten even yourself. Don't even ask what you'll have to do for their collection of diseased, incontinent pets and relatives.
Ultimately, should you be under 280 pounds and of a gender that your employer finds at all attractive, you will be "hit on"--usually as part of a drunken, drug-addled stupor. By this time, you'll be so far removed from normal social interactions that you won't resist this final act of subservience. The next day, you'll realize that a new level of awkwardness has encroached upon your relationship with your boss, and the clock is now ticking until your replacement is found. This is when you should begin your serious embezzling of funds. Get a swiss bank account, copy and save incriminating documents, phone recordings and videotapes, and remember that everything disgusting and embarassing that's happened over your four years with this overgrown baby is now the substance of your retirement fund--you'll sell your silence to your boss, or peddle your story to the highest bidder.
Just be careful--some personal assistants find that retirement from some employers can be hazardous to one's health.
Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here
Saturday, February 26, 2005
It's kind of creepy, but...
there are probably a lot of blogs out there written by people who've died. The blogs just sit there, not updated of course, while visitors just assume after a while that the person just got bored and moved on. Over time cyberspace will be filled with these strange memorials--a graveyard full of the thoughts of the dead.
I have a friend who knows my password, I think. (the signin is jpurple) I would hope if I did die, that she'd find a way to post a little note or something. Of course, I guess it wouldn't matter much to me at that point.
I was randomly looking up ICQ i.d's a few months ago, and I found one belonging to someone I know who died about three years ago. Her parents had just left a message on it asking that only her friends use it to communicate about her. (I don't use icq so I'm not really sure how it works)
Yeah, I know, this is kind of a morbid post. I must need some sleep.
J.
I have a friend who knows my password, I think. (the signin is jpurple) I would hope if I did die, that she'd find a way to post a little note or something. Of course, I guess it wouldn't matter much to me at that point.
I was randomly looking up ICQ i.d's a few months ago, and I found one belonging to someone I know who died about three years ago. Her parents had just left a message on it asking that only her friends use it to communicate about her. (I don't use icq so I'm not really sure how it works)
Yeah, I know, this is kind of a morbid post. I must need some sleep.
J.
Friday, February 25, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
A High School Teacher
What? You really want to know that one? Have you seen the people who work here? What in the hell makes you think they have a lifestyle that could in any way be appealing? Seriously, I know these people, and they're freaking misfits, every one. Summers off? Yeah, that might seem nice--but let me explain.
S0, you'll go to college, but before that, maybe you'll work in some job to raise cash for school. Remember that job--if you'd stayed there, you'd have kept on earning money--probably more as you climbed up in seniority and skill, and you wouldn't have had to pay tuition fees. Instead, you'll waste five years at college, when you could learn everything you needed to teach in two. If you ever calculate the difference between going to college and teaching, or staying in your old job, you'll realize that you'll have to work until you're 85 to be ahead on the deal.
When you graduate, you won't find the job of your dreams just waiting--you'll either travel to some godforsaken outpost where all the kids are siblings, engaged to each other, or both, or you'll rot on some substitute teaching list waiting for the phone to ring. After a year, you'll figure out that the more popular subs are those who find subtle ways to bribe the teachers who call them in to work.
Subbing will be tough--you're fresh meat for the truly sociopathic members of the school community--which is about 50% of any given school's population--and few of the regular staff ever get your name right, unless they have to seek you out to blast you for parking in their spot.
Eventually you get a job at a school--not full-time, of course, and the salary of teachers early in their careers is about half of their older, burned-out colleagues, so you won't really be pulling in much more cash than some of the kids you teach manage to earn in their after school jobs. The difference is they still live at home, so they can use their earnings to buy late model cars and clothes that fit, while you lie to yourself that no one laughs at your Pinto and that one day you won't need to pin those pants that a more svelte incarnation of you once wore with ease.
Staff meetings are hell--the pathetic divorcees who live alone with their cats have one venue each month to vent their anger at the world, and you must suffer through it--of course, maybe you'll be lucky enough to share a department with these special individuals, and that means even more quality time hearing why your gender is scum. The only thing worse will be those rare unpleasant social gatherings that include drink--these interactions will scar you for the rest of your life.
Students, of course, will be the source of all that is both good and terrible about your day. Parents won't believe their kids need the ritalin, but you'll know better, and it only takes one or two angry violent teenagers to ruin a decent class. Sadly, some of the worst will excel only in their attendance records.
Even the good ones can't be trusted. They'll mock your wardrobe, particularly if you ever wear the same article of clothing in any 10 day period, and you'll eventually realize that you are lied to about 40 times a day. Your favorites will eventually disappoint you when you find mocking charicatures of you scribbled on the backs of the binders they forget in your classroom. Your feeble attempts to be "relevant"--which means painfully embarassing misuse of 10 year old ghetto slang--will be particular fodder for their parodies that stop when you walk too close...
Eventually, you'll be too old to try to connect any more, and it becomes a sad parade of years wishing 10 months gone to enjoy the all too brief moments of July and August. You become the old fart that everyone wishes would retire, but you can't really afford to. You and your students are united only in your mutual loathing of each other. After the first 10 years, you give up even trying to make the occasional class interesting--too many swine have brutishly trampled the pearls of your creativity.
Parents treat you no better--sure there are the occasional ones who find something positive in what you do, but every parent night has at least a couple who've shown up to work out their anger from their own tragic high school experience on you. Even the good ones are convinced that you are a scam artist stealing a full-time paycheck for working four or five hours a day.
Your family, if you have one, will be under constant financial pressure, and your pile of marking and preparation work is a burden that you carry like Atlas shouldered the globe. You are the only one who ages in a room full of the perpetually young, making you constantly conscious of your own mortality and physical deterioration.
Of course, if it gets too bad, you could always switch to counselling...
What? You really want to know that one? Have you seen the people who work here? What in the hell makes you think they have a lifestyle that could in any way be appealing? Seriously, I know these people, and they're freaking misfits, every one. Summers off? Yeah, that might seem nice--but let me explain.
S0, you'll go to college, but before that, maybe you'll work in some job to raise cash for school. Remember that job--if you'd stayed there, you'd have kept on earning money--probably more as you climbed up in seniority and skill, and you wouldn't have had to pay tuition fees. Instead, you'll waste five years at college, when you could learn everything you needed to teach in two. If you ever calculate the difference between going to college and teaching, or staying in your old job, you'll realize that you'll have to work until you're 85 to be ahead on the deal.
When you graduate, you won't find the job of your dreams just waiting--you'll either travel to some godforsaken outpost where all the kids are siblings, engaged to each other, or both, or you'll rot on some substitute teaching list waiting for the phone to ring. After a year, you'll figure out that the more popular subs are those who find subtle ways to bribe the teachers who call them in to work.
Subbing will be tough--you're fresh meat for the truly sociopathic members of the school community--which is about 50% of any given school's population--and few of the regular staff ever get your name right, unless they have to seek you out to blast you for parking in their spot.
Eventually you get a job at a school--not full-time, of course, and the salary of teachers early in their careers is about half of their older, burned-out colleagues, so you won't really be pulling in much more cash than some of the kids you teach manage to earn in their after school jobs. The difference is they still live at home, so they can use their earnings to buy late model cars and clothes that fit, while you lie to yourself that no one laughs at your Pinto and that one day you won't need to pin those pants that a more svelte incarnation of you once wore with ease.
Staff meetings are hell--the pathetic divorcees who live alone with their cats have one venue each month to vent their anger at the world, and you must suffer through it--of course, maybe you'll be lucky enough to share a department with these special individuals, and that means even more quality time hearing why your gender is scum. The only thing worse will be those rare unpleasant social gatherings that include drink--these interactions will scar you for the rest of your life.
Students, of course, will be the source of all that is both good and terrible about your day. Parents won't believe their kids need the ritalin, but you'll know better, and it only takes one or two angry violent teenagers to ruin a decent class. Sadly, some of the worst will excel only in their attendance records.
Even the good ones can't be trusted. They'll mock your wardrobe, particularly if you ever wear the same article of clothing in any 10 day period, and you'll eventually realize that you are lied to about 40 times a day. Your favorites will eventually disappoint you when you find mocking charicatures of you scribbled on the backs of the binders they forget in your classroom. Your feeble attempts to be "relevant"--which means painfully embarassing misuse of 10 year old ghetto slang--will be particular fodder for their parodies that stop when you walk too close...
Eventually, you'll be too old to try to connect any more, and it becomes a sad parade of years wishing 10 months gone to enjoy the all too brief moments of July and August. You become the old fart that everyone wishes would retire, but you can't really afford to. You and your students are united only in your mutual loathing of each other. After the first 10 years, you give up even trying to make the occasional class interesting--too many swine have brutishly trampled the pearls of your creativity.
Parents treat you no better--sure there are the occasional ones who find something positive in what you do, but every parent night has at least a couple who've shown up to work out their anger from their own tragic high school experience on you. Even the good ones are convinced that you are a scam artist stealing a full-time paycheck for working four or five hours a day.
Your family, if you have one, will be under constant financial pressure, and your pile of marking and preparation work is a burden that you carry like Atlas shouldered the globe. You are the only one who ages in a room full of the perpetually young, making you constantly conscious of your own mortality and physical deterioration.
Of course, if it gets too bad, you could always switch to counselling...
Saturday, February 19, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as
A Used Car Salesperson
Hey there--oh, a car salesman? Yeah, I guess that might work out--how do you feel about plaid suits? Just kidding...
So, the path you'll probably take is to first work on your charm--I don't mean the stuff you use to try to get with that girl I saw you following around at the dance last week, but the truly insincere patter that you can only develop by going for unexpected visits to your elderly relatives or volunteering at the seniors' center. Eventually that cheesy smile and quick handshake will become second nature.
You won't go right into car sales--no one wants to buy a car from an 18 year old--so you'll have to follow the tried and true food chain to success: Stereo store, matress/furniture outlet, used cars, new cars, life insurance.
You'll do well at the stereo store. Your patter will become smoother, and you'll throw around terms you memorize from the audiophile magazines left in the washroom. You learn the fine art of never recognizing the customers who come back to return items, and you have the advantage of being one of the few employees who speaks fluent English and doesn't have to run out the back way when the immigration authorities pay a visit. Your commissions rise steadily, and soon you move on to the matress outlet.
There you continue your success, and soon you're one of the five assistant managers--all that really means though is that they can phone you when the alarm goes off on a Saturday night, and you get to fire people who really piss you off.
Finally, you're ready. You've created an impressive sales resume, and you skip the sketchy dealers on "the strip" and go work in the used lot at a dealership. They've got a simple policy--if you're the bottom in sales for two months out of four, you're fired. With four or five of you always working the lot, it's tricky to stay off that list, but you manage.
You're third in the pecking order on that lot. The top is Bob "The Closer" Wellburn--a veteran who could have moved to the front and sold new cars, but has a schtick that works best with the "get this unique car before it goes" routine that involves his signalling a nearby real estate office where one of three cohorts dashes over to pretend to feel they'd already bought the car in question--Bob, of course, sends them away and usually makes the sale.
Second is Jenny "why yes, I was a Budweiser girl" Baxter; her business attire always includes blouses with snaps rather than buttons that have an amazing knack of popping open at the most opportune times. The mechanics joke that "test drives" are a euphemism with her customers, but you know she has simply perfected the flirt sale.
You become the "honest" one--you will already have learned to fake sincerity better than anybody--and this usually keeps you off the firing list, at least until you drop your guard--your lot is down to four sales people, and you feel unthreatened even after a bad month previous--the new guy, with some unpronounceable name and broken English hasn't made a single sale since they hired him. What you don't anticipate is his wealthy relatives coming in and buying five high-end cars from him on the last two days of the month.
It boils down to you and Jenny for two days--she isn't in danger of being fired, but she's never finished last, either. Bob steps aside to run an office pool on the two of you, and you work without rest--pulling out all the stops and cutting your commissions to nothing, and you are about to close the month safely when Jenny comes in to congratulate you. You chat in the break room, then she leaves--where you see her outside the window crying on the shoulder of your boss. He storms in and fires you for sexual harassment--she pleads for leniency between the tears, and your protests are dashed when she shows him emails she sent herself from your email address when you left your mailbox open on the breakroom computer.
You're furious, but there's nothing you can do. Reputable dealerships aren't hiring, and your ex-boss has blacklisted you with them anyway. You suck it up and head to the strip, where soon you're lying about crash histories and coming in at night to set back odometers. When you can't fake the VIN numbers of cars with dubious ownership histories, you sell them to your new connections in area "chop shops", and overall, you're soon pulling in more money than at your former job.
You're taken down in a sting operation and sentenced to 18 months--you get off in 6 with good behaviour, and move to somewhere like Red Deer or Oklahoma where you spend the rest of your life selling RVs...
More Cynical Career advice here
Hey there--oh, a car salesman? Yeah, I guess that might work out--how do you feel about plaid suits? Just kidding...
So, the path you'll probably take is to first work on your charm--I don't mean the stuff you use to try to get with that girl I saw you following around at the dance last week, but the truly insincere patter that you can only develop by going for unexpected visits to your elderly relatives or volunteering at the seniors' center. Eventually that cheesy smile and quick handshake will become second nature.
You won't go right into car sales--no one wants to buy a car from an 18 year old--so you'll have to follow the tried and true food chain to success: Stereo store, matress/furniture outlet, used cars, new cars, life insurance.
You'll do well at the stereo store. Your patter will become smoother, and you'll throw around terms you memorize from the audiophile magazines left in the washroom. You learn the fine art of never recognizing the customers who come back to return items, and you have the advantage of being one of the few employees who speaks fluent English and doesn't have to run out the back way when the immigration authorities pay a visit. Your commissions rise steadily, and soon you move on to the matress outlet.
There you continue your success, and soon you're one of the five assistant managers--all that really means though is that they can phone you when the alarm goes off on a Saturday night, and you get to fire people who really piss you off.
Finally, you're ready. You've created an impressive sales resume, and you skip the sketchy dealers on "the strip" and go work in the used lot at a dealership. They've got a simple policy--if you're the bottom in sales for two months out of four, you're fired. With four or five of you always working the lot, it's tricky to stay off that list, but you manage.
You're third in the pecking order on that lot. The top is Bob "The Closer" Wellburn--a veteran who could have moved to the front and sold new cars, but has a schtick that works best with the "get this unique car before it goes" routine that involves his signalling a nearby real estate office where one of three cohorts dashes over to pretend to feel they'd already bought the car in question--Bob, of course, sends them away and usually makes the sale.
Second is Jenny "why yes, I was a Budweiser girl" Baxter; her business attire always includes blouses with snaps rather than buttons that have an amazing knack of popping open at the most opportune times. The mechanics joke that "test drives" are a euphemism with her customers, but you know she has simply perfected the flirt sale.
You become the "honest" one--you will already have learned to fake sincerity better than anybody--and this usually keeps you off the firing list, at least until you drop your guard--your lot is down to four sales people, and you feel unthreatened even after a bad month previous--the new guy, with some unpronounceable name and broken English hasn't made a single sale since they hired him. What you don't anticipate is his wealthy relatives coming in and buying five high-end cars from him on the last two days of the month.
It boils down to you and Jenny for two days--she isn't in danger of being fired, but she's never finished last, either. Bob steps aside to run an office pool on the two of you, and you work without rest--pulling out all the stops and cutting your commissions to nothing, and you are about to close the month safely when Jenny comes in to congratulate you. You chat in the break room, then she leaves--where you see her outside the window crying on the shoulder of your boss. He storms in and fires you for sexual harassment--she pleads for leniency between the tears, and your protests are dashed when she shows him emails she sent herself from your email address when you left your mailbox open on the breakroom computer.
You're furious, but there's nothing you can do. Reputable dealerships aren't hiring, and your ex-boss has blacklisted you with them anyway. You suck it up and head to the strip, where soon you're lying about crash histories and coming in at night to set back odometers. When you can't fake the VIN numbers of cars with dubious ownership histories, you sell them to your new connections in area "chop shops", and overall, you're soon pulling in more money than at your former job.
You're taken down in a sting operation and sentenced to 18 months--you get off in 6 with good behaviour, and move to somewhere like Red Deer or Oklahoma where you spend the rest of your life selling RVs...
More Cynical Career advice here
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
And it's on TWICE a week
American Idol. My family watches it. Not me. You see, I direct musicals, so each year, I get to sit through four or five days of that.
So the thrill of sitting in front of the t.v. for the first several weeks while they show over and over the very worst possible performances that they reject--it ain't so much like entertainment as it is reliving what I have come to dread a bit. Thankfully, most of what I see is pretty good.
Then of course, there's all the obligatory trash talk about why it's a travesty (usually mispronounced, of course) that such amazing talent was rejected. Thing is, the whole thing smacks of phoniness now anyways. Most of the really awful people know that decently talented never gets on t.v., but William Hung wannabes will stand a better chance at a few seconds of fame.
Then there's Canadian Idol. More of the same, but with cheesier production values. I think the trick to success is to find a small enough country and take up citizenship there and win their "Idol" show. I believe, were I younger, I could make a good "Icelandic Idol".
I think this was a British show first, wasn't it--like Who Wants to be a Millionaire and Weakest Link.
The Brits have a lot to answer for, methinks.
So the thrill of sitting in front of the t.v. for the first several weeks while they show over and over the very worst possible performances that they reject--it ain't so much like entertainment as it is reliving what I have come to dread a bit. Thankfully, most of what I see is pretty good.
Then of course, there's all the obligatory trash talk about why it's a travesty (usually mispronounced, of course) that such amazing talent was rejected. Thing is, the whole thing smacks of phoniness now anyways. Most of the really awful people know that decently talented never gets on t.v., but William Hung wannabes will stand a better chance at a few seconds of fame.
Then there's Canadian Idol. More of the same, but with cheesier production values. I think the trick to success is to find a small enough country and take up citizenship there and win their "Idol" show. I believe, were I younger, I could make a good "Icelandic Idol".
I think this was a British show first, wasn't it--like Who Wants to be a Millionaire and Weakest Link.
The Brits have a lot to answer for, methinks.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
A Cabdriver
Oh hello. No, he's not here right now, but I'm substituting for him. I'm Ms. Pauly, but you can call me by my first name, Anna. So, I understand that normally this is the office where people come to get advice on what to do for a living. What would you... Oh, a taxi driver? How wonderful! Let me see, I think I can come up with something for you.
You look like the type of person who's a really careful driver--am I right? Oh, really? Well, I'm sure it was a misunderstanding and you'll get your license back very soon. So, once you do, and you walk out of here with your diploma, you will have to take some imporant defensive driving courses, so you know the best way to handle the roads, to protect the precious lives entrusted to you each day.
Taxi driving will be an exciting life, so you should go downtown now, while you're still in high school, and make friends with the drivers who are waiting for fares down there. Tell them your dreams; I'm sure they'll be just as excited as you are. You'll see the romantic side of life when you're cabdriving--important politicians, successful business people, and young newlyweds all will grace your clean, shiny taxicab, made all that sweeter by the fresh cut flowers you place each day in the little holder on the dashboard. People will share...
Wait, who's that at the.... er, Mr. Jamison, you don't look, er well, should you be... what? You've been listening in? I'm going to have to go talk to the principal about... excuse me.
Whatever--don't roll your eyes at me, you psychotic Mary Kay reject. Ugh---look kid, I'm sick as a dog and I've been drinking since noon, but I came here to pick up the bottle I left... er, some important papers, and I heard that load of crap. I don't have much time... I'll give it to you simple:
You'll hate driving cab, you'll hate the people who ride it--they'll either look down on you or they'll puke in your car. Nobody will tip you enough, and everybody will think you're trying to rip them off. You'll be robbed an average of once every 10 weeks. People will run off without paying about four times a week. You'll get fat, and you won't get dates. You won't be able to afford a nice place, so you'll live over the taxistand. On your days off you'll eventually start working the dispatch, since that's where they deal the drugs from, so at least you can finally make a little bit of money.
Look--I gotta hit the can. Lock up, wouldya? Drop in next week and I'll try to find you some brochures or somethin'.
Oh hello. No, he's not here right now, but I'm substituting for him. I'm Ms. Pauly, but you can call me by my first name, Anna. So, I understand that normally this is the office where people come to get advice on what to do for a living. What would you... Oh, a taxi driver? How wonderful! Let me see, I think I can come up with something for you.
You look like the type of person who's a really careful driver--am I right? Oh, really? Well, I'm sure it was a misunderstanding and you'll get your license back very soon. So, once you do, and you walk out of here with your diploma, you will have to take some imporant defensive driving courses, so you know the best way to handle the roads, to protect the precious lives entrusted to you each day.
Taxi driving will be an exciting life, so you should go downtown now, while you're still in high school, and make friends with the drivers who are waiting for fares down there. Tell them your dreams; I'm sure they'll be just as excited as you are. You'll see the romantic side of life when you're cabdriving--important politicians, successful business people, and young newlyweds all will grace your clean, shiny taxicab, made all that sweeter by the fresh cut flowers you place each day in the little holder on the dashboard. People will share...
Wait, who's that at the.... er, Mr. Jamison, you don't look, er well, should you be... what? You've been listening in? I'm going to have to go talk to the principal about... excuse me.
Whatever--don't roll your eyes at me, you psychotic Mary Kay reject. Ugh---look kid, I'm sick as a dog and I've been drinking since noon, but I came here to pick up the bottle I left... er, some important papers, and I heard that load of crap. I don't have much time... I'll give it to you simple:
You'll hate driving cab, you'll hate the people who ride it--they'll either look down on you or they'll puke in your car. Nobody will tip you enough, and everybody will think you're trying to rip them off. You'll be robbed an average of once every 10 weeks. People will run off without paying about four times a week. You'll get fat, and you won't get dates. You won't be able to afford a nice place, so you'll live over the taxistand. On your days off you'll eventually start working the dispatch, since that's where they deal the drugs from, so at least you can finally make a little bit of money.
Look--I gotta hit the can. Lock up, wouldya? Drop in next week and I'll try to find you some brochures or somethin'.
Friday, February 04, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
An Elementary School Playground Supervisor
Hi--are you sure you're in the right place? Oh, you do? Then come in. No, don't touch that. Just sit down, okay? All right--what is it you want to talk about? What's a "duty"? Uh-huh... Oh, you mean one of those playground monitors. As a career? You realize that you'd need some sort of real job; that doesn't pay... Now wait a minute, don't get upset. You already get money? Plate in your head? okay then... It would probably go something like this:
You will finish high school, I guess, and then you'll get some sort of job training, and eventually you'll indicate that... huh? Oh, indicate means you tell somebody. Look, I'm just going to smoke while we do this, okay--don't tell anybody though. Right--don't "indicate" about it.
So, you'll say "I wanna be a duty", and some nice person will teach you about being one. And then you will. Great, see you later. What? Whattya mean, there should be more? Well that's because those kids are talking about real... all right, but not too long.
You'll get a nice orange vest, and a shiny whistle, and you get to yell at the bad kids. Some of the bad kids might make fun of how you talk, but you don't worry about that. When they go back inside, you just let the air out of their bike tires, or smear the dog poop from the sandbox on their seats. Whenever the principal comes to talk to you, listen real carefully and then ask him why you don't have a pension plan or dental benefits. Here, I'll write it down for you.
Make sure when November rolls around you ask all the teachers when the Christmas party is and tell them you want to have it at your place. If the principal or one of the other staff asks you to do something you don't want to, like sweep up the glass on the playground, say "my head hurts" and go lie down in the nurse's room for a while. Make sure you blow the whistle at least once every lunchtime or they'll take it away from you.
There, is that enough? Good. Yes, I like you too. No, you can't have a cigarette--you can smoke lots when you're a duty, though.
Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here
Hi--are you sure you're in the right place? Oh, you do? Then come in. No, don't touch that. Just sit down, okay? All right--what is it you want to talk about? What's a "duty"? Uh-huh... Oh, you mean one of those playground monitors. As a career? You realize that you'd need some sort of real job; that doesn't pay... Now wait a minute, don't get upset. You already get money? Plate in your head? okay then... It would probably go something like this:
You will finish high school, I guess, and then you'll get some sort of job training, and eventually you'll indicate that... huh? Oh, indicate means you tell somebody. Look, I'm just going to smoke while we do this, okay--don't tell anybody though. Right--don't "indicate" about it.
So, you'll say "I wanna be a duty", and some nice person will teach you about being one. And then you will. Great, see you later. What? Whattya mean, there should be more? Well that's because those kids are talking about real... all right, but not too long.
You'll get a nice orange vest, and a shiny whistle, and you get to yell at the bad kids. Some of the bad kids might make fun of how you talk, but you don't worry about that. When they go back inside, you just let the air out of their bike tires, or smear the dog poop from the sandbox on their seats. Whenever the principal comes to talk to you, listen real carefully and then ask him why you don't have a pension plan or dental benefits. Here, I'll write it down for you.
Make sure when November rolls around you ask all the teachers when the Christmas party is and tell them you want to have it at your place. If the principal or one of the other staff asks you to do something you don't want to, like sweep up the glass on the playground, say "my head hurts" and go lie down in the nurse's room for a while. Make sure you blow the whistle at least once every lunchtime or they'll take it away from you.
There, is that enough? Good. Yes, I like you too. No, you can't have a cigarette--you can smoke lots when you're a duty, though.
Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
don't look in the china cabinet
Transcript of conversation mentioned yesterday (more or less)
Judy: So if we buy this warranty it covers all the things on this list? (looks at list)
Furniture Girl: Yes--and if you buy it we don't charge you GST on your purchase.
Moi: Stains from bodily fluids? Ewwwww....
Furniture Girl: Well that's more for fabric of course...
Moi: (pointing) See--it's listed for the wood furniture too.
Judy: Couldn't you just clean it?
Furniture Girl: It would be like if a kid maybe threw up on it
Moi: You could clean that--I think they mean bloodstains
Furniture Girl: Yeah--of course, if you were going to murder someone in your home, you wouldn't want people to find the bloodstains
Moi: But wouldn't the people who who replaced the furniture know?
Furniture Girl: (looks around surreptitiously) They might not tell...
Moi: But with all the CSI stuff now, I bet they could still tell
Judy: So this lasts for seven years?
Furniture Girl: Yeah--so if after five years you want new furniture, you just "arrange" to have a child drop something heavy on it. Of course, it would have to be (looks around again) "an accident".
She didn't make air quotes with her fingers, but they were clearly implied. I think I would shop there again, even if the furniture is kind of crappy.
J.
Judy: So if we buy this warranty it covers all the things on this list? (looks at list)
Furniture Girl: Yes--and if you buy it we don't charge you GST on your purchase.
Moi: Stains from bodily fluids? Ewwwww....
Furniture Girl: Well that's more for fabric of course...
Moi: (pointing) See--it's listed for the wood furniture too.
Judy: Couldn't you just clean it?
Furniture Girl: It would be like if a kid maybe threw up on it
Moi: You could clean that--I think they mean bloodstains
Furniture Girl: Yeah--of course, if you were going to murder someone in your home, you wouldn't want people to find the bloodstains
Moi: But wouldn't the people who who replaced the furniture know?
Furniture Girl: (looks around surreptitiously) They might not tell...
Moi: But with all the CSI stuff now, I bet they could still tell
Judy: So this lasts for seven years?
Furniture Girl: Yeah--so if after five years you want new furniture, you just "arrange" to have a child drop something heavy on it. Of course, it would have to be (looks around again) "an accident".
She didn't make air quotes with her fingers, but they were clearly implied. I think I would shop there again, even if the furniture is kind of crappy.
J.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Career in
Radio
So you want a career in radio… well, I think you should know a few things about it first. Oh, you’ve got experience on the school’s lunchtime “radio” show that broadcasts on the p.a. system, do you? Maybe you don’t need me to… oh, you think so? Good—then listen up.
You’ll go to one of those colleges that prepare you for “an exciting career in broadcasting”—funny how that ad hasn’t changed in so many decades, yet nobody’s bothered to shoot or sue enough to stop it. You’ll learn how to run the sound equipment and record commercials and all the stuff that will keep you in a stuffy little room that smells like the last guy’s b.o. and onion-filled sandwiches. When you “graduate”—not that there’s any cap and gown ceremony from this institution, you’ll take your “certificate of completion” and the list of radio stations they gave you from some internet site, and you’ll cold call your way to depression and low self-esteem.
After a long time living in your parents' basement delivering sales fliers and phone books, some hick town station hires you to work in their run-down 1000 watt station broadcasting live from the cattle fair and the tractor shows, and you’ll pretend that you’re not embarassed when you cash your tiny paycheques at the only bank in town. After six-months of rejection letters you’ll begin to fictionalize your resume, paying an acquiantance to pose as all manner of former employers should someone actually call to check your references.
Eventually, after two years of learning more about alfafa then you ever cared to, you manage to score a job in a larger community, where you get to cover the local special events, like beer league baseball tournaments and the annual shriner’s fair. As you become better known, you continue to hone your skills. You learn that smoking a pack a day and drinking whisky late at night help give you the deep resonant tones that eventually command you the coveted morning slot on a station that still only pays you what the night manager at Mcdonalds earns.
After 10 years of moving from one market to another slightly larger market, you finally catch a break. You get afternoon drive-time in a metropolitan market, where they disregard your proud Polish heritage and christen you “Ace Daniels” or “Rocking Rick Shepherd” or some other generic handle that all the other afternoon personalities go by in all their other major market stations. Everything is dictated to you—your jokes, your personality, even the clothes you wear when “on location”.
Of course, moving from town to town while earning poverty-level wages has helped keep you poor and single. With the new job, you aren’t getting rich, but at least you can afford to ditch the bike and get your old MG back on the road. As for relationships—well, the girls who are impressed by your radio “fame” are all a half-dozen years too young to join you in the bar that is your second home. Still, your voice can charm the occasional bitter, drunken divorcee into thinking she’s getting close to some sort of pseudo-celebrity, and who knows, maybe Suzie the traffic girl will dump her drug-dealing boyfriend if the cops can finally make this one stick... You can always hope.
Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here
So you want a career in radio… well, I think you should know a few things about it first. Oh, you’ve got experience on the school’s lunchtime “radio” show that broadcasts on the p.a. system, do you? Maybe you don’t need me to… oh, you think so? Good—then listen up.
You’ll go to one of those colleges that prepare you for “an exciting career in broadcasting”—funny how that ad hasn’t changed in so many decades, yet nobody’s bothered to shoot or sue enough to stop it. You’ll learn how to run the sound equipment and record commercials and all the stuff that will keep you in a stuffy little room that smells like the last guy’s b.o. and onion-filled sandwiches. When you “graduate”—not that there’s any cap and gown ceremony from this institution, you’ll take your “certificate of completion” and the list of radio stations they gave you from some internet site, and you’ll cold call your way to depression and low self-esteem.
After a long time living in your parents' basement delivering sales fliers and phone books, some hick town station hires you to work in their run-down 1000 watt station broadcasting live from the cattle fair and the tractor shows, and you’ll pretend that you’re not embarassed when you cash your tiny paycheques at the only bank in town. After six-months of rejection letters you’ll begin to fictionalize your resume, paying an acquiantance to pose as all manner of former employers should someone actually call to check your references.
Eventually, after two years of learning more about alfafa then you ever cared to, you manage to score a job in a larger community, where you get to cover the local special events, like beer league baseball tournaments and the annual shriner’s fair. As you become better known, you continue to hone your skills. You learn that smoking a pack a day and drinking whisky late at night help give you the deep resonant tones that eventually command you the coveted morning slot on a station that still only pays you what the night manager at Mcdonalds earns.
After 10 years of moving from one market to another slightly larger market, you finally catch a break. You get afternoon drive-time in a metropolitan market, where they disregard your proud Polish heritage and christen you “Ace Daniels” or “Rocking Rick Shepherd” or some other generic handle that all the other afternoon personalities go by in all their other major market stations. Everything is dictated to you—your jokes, your personality, even the clothes you wear when “on location”.
Of course, moving from town to town while earning poverty-level wages has helped keep you poor and single. With the new job, you aren’t getting rich, but at least you can afford to ditch the bike and get your old MG back on the road. As for relationships—well, the girls who are impressed by your radio “fame” are all a half-dozen years too young to join you in the bar that is your second home. Still, your voice can charm the occasional bitter, drunken divorcee into thinking she’s getting close to some sort of pseudo-celebrity, and who knows, maybe Suzie the traffic girl will dump her drug-dealing boyfriend if the cops can finally make this one stick... You can always hope.
Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
R.I.P.
They go by the book value of cars when they write them off. Sadly, that won't do justice in this case--this pic was taken back in June, and there's no way I'd have sold it for less than 2200 or so--yet I'll be offered probably less than half that. Grrr.... I just put new speakers in it two weeks ago, and the stereo is about six months old.
And don't laugh, but I think, as much as I have griped about driving an old car at times, there's the sentimental value. I've had this car longer than I've known my wife or worked for my current school district. I bought it in Vancouver when I still lived up in Prince Rupert.
At least the rental I get to drive for a few days is nice, though.
J.
Monday, January 17, 2005
I thought 2004 was over...
That biotch of a year, I was glad to see it done. What's going on here--looks like my little adventure this morning is going to cost me my car. Despite my complaints, it's served me well for the past 16 years--yes, I bought it before I even met my wife, moved to this town, etc.
Sadly, its loyal service, efficient performance and overall reliability aren't figured into the formula, so I'll get bugger all for it. The details, 'cause I know a couple of my regulars will have heard and want to know:
Just driving to work this morning, stopped because the cars in front of me were stopped, and a large van pushed me along until I was accordian-ized between it and an SUV. Seems the driver behind me was hitting the gas and the brake at the same time, and so the harder he pushed down to stop, the more his vehicle pushed my little car forward. Not fun. Busted my driver's seat in the impact, so i guess that's partly why my neck hurts. I feel like such a stereotypical "accident victim" crying whiplash.... but it's damned annoying and hurts, so I guess maybe there's something to it.
Can't afford to be out of action right now either. grrrr...
At least the guy who hit me was a class act about the whole thing, which helps.
J.
Sadly, its loyal service, efficient performance and overall reliability aren't figured into the formula, so I'll get bugger all for it. The details, 'cause I know a couple of my regulars will have heard and want to know:
Just driving to work this morning, stopped because the cars in front of me were stopped, and a large van pushed me along until I was accordian-ized between it and an SUV. Seems the driver behind me was hitting the gas and the brake at the same time, and so the harder he pushed down to stop, the more his vehicle pushed my little car forward. Not fun. Busted my driver's seat in the impact, so i guess that's partly why my neck hurts. I feel like such a stereotypical "accident victim" crying whiplash.... but it's damned annoying and hurts, so I guess maybe there's something to it.
Can't afford to be out of action right now either. grrrr...
At least the guy who hit me was a class act about the whole thing, which helps.
J.
Sunday, January 16, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Spy
Oh, hey kid, I didn't know you were there. Yeah, I guess you're pretty stealthy. A spy, eh? Well, I think you'd better forget about all the Bond movies, because your career path is going to be a little different...
First of all, because you indicate that you want to work for them, you'll immediately come under suspicion. You've probably figured out you have to work for some sort of other security force or agency first, maybe military police or mall security, I'm not sure, but when they finally finish vetting you--at first they won't believe that you haven't had any real girlfriends or boyfriends by age 23 that they can investigate--it will be clear that you're simply a pathetic loner, and therefore a prime candidate to work with them.
They'll send you to be trained in things more mundane than jumping out of helicoptors or dodging ninja throwing stars--looking at sales records of fertilizer companies to catch potential bomb makers or figuring out which motorcade route will lessen the chance of eggs being tossed at a visiting despot's vehicle will be the puzzles that challenge your sedentary ass.
No "Q" will design deadly pens for you, nor will any Pussy Galore challenge your libidinal limits--in fact, you will eventually yearn for some eastern block siren to try charming you out of the building parking code--but alas, your chances of romance in this job are slim--the few naive girls you could charm with your title as "spy" can never be told because of the limits described in the 30-page security agreement you swore to uphold.
Eventually you settle into a comfortable routine with the I.T. girl--you don't comment on her overbite, and she doesn't tell your superiors about the web sites you visit after hours--and at the end of a torturously boring day, the two of you enjoy role playing with others from the office the imagined exploits of real spies.
After 15 undistinguished years of service, you get a commendation when your followup of a routine email alert helps avert a potentially embarassing exposure of photos revealing the youthful indiscretions of a certain high-level political figure--of course you never know how the person with the photos is actually dealt with, but suffice to say he never gets the five thousand you promise him in your undercover role as the online representative of a tabloid newsmagazine. Your reward for this small coup is to be given a minor bump in pay, and a chance to finally get out of the office and try some field work, something you requested years earlier but had long since given up on.
You are finally given a firearm--not because they expect you to use it, but you need at least one gun to fit in with the right wing survivalist nuts you are sent to infiltrate out in a wilderness commune. Their zealot prophet-leader is suspected of a variety of terroristic intentions, and your task is to win his trust.
Unfortunately, his words cut to the very depths of your jaded soul, and his free-spirited daughter wins your heart. Soon you confess all to them, and they use you to feed your masters a wide range of misinformation. You are happier and more alive for those three months than anytime in your previously pathetic existence. You won't quite know when the government realizes you've been trying to mislead them, but their discovery will move forward the date when they raid the compound, and you will have had no warning that anything is coming.
You will either die in a hail of bullets or trapped in a burning barn. At least that part will be exciting.
Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here
Oh, hey kid, I didn't know you were there. Yeah, I guess you're pretty stealthy. A spy, eh? Well, I think you'd better forget about all the Bond movies, because your career path is going to be a little different...
First of all, because you indicate that you want to work for them, you'll immediately come under suspicion. You've probably figured out you have to work for some sort of other security force or agency first, maybe military police or mall security, I'm not sure, but when they finally finish vetting you--at first they won't believe that you haven't had any real girlfriends or boyfriends by age 23 that they can investigate--it will be clear that you're simply a pathetic loner, and therefore a prime candidate to work with them.
They'll send you to be trained in things more mundane than jumping out of helicoptors or dodging ninja throwing stars--looking at sales records of fertilizer companies to catch potential bomb makers or figuring out which motorcade route will lessen the chance of eggs being tossed at a visiting despot's vehicle will be the puzzles that challenge your sedentary ass.
No "Q" will design deadly pens for you, nor will any Pussy Galore challenge your libidinal limits--in fact, you will eventually yearn for some eastern block siren to try charming you out of the building parking code--but alas, your chances of romance in this job are slim--the few naive girls you could charm with your title as "spy" can never be told because of the limits described in the 30-page security agreement you swore to uphold.
Eventually you settle into a comfortable routine with the I.T. girl--you don't comment on her overbite, and she doesn't tell your superiors about the web sites you visit after hours--and at the end of a torturously boring day, the two of you enjoy role playing with others from the office the imagined exploits of real spies.
After 15 undistinguished years of service, you get a commendation when your followup of a routine email alert helps avert a potentially embarassing exposure of photos revealing the youthful indiscretions of a certain high-level political figure--of course you never know how the person with the photos is actually dealt with, but suffice to say he never gets the five thousand you promise him in your undercover role as the online representative of a tabloid newsmagazine. Your reward for this small coup is to be given a minor bump in pay, and a chance to finally get out of the office and try some field work, something you requested years earlier but had long since given up on.
You are finally given a firearm--not because they expect you to use it, but you need at least one gun to fit in with the right wing survivalist nuts you are sent to infiltrate out in a wilderness commune. Their zealot prophet-leader is suspected of a variety of terroristic intentions, and your task is to win his trust.
Unfortunately, his words cut to the very depths of your jaded soul, and his free-spirited daughter wins your heart. Soon you confess all to them, and they use you to feed your masters a wide range of misinformation. You are happier and more alive for those three months than anytime in your previously pathetic existence. You won't quite know when the government realizes you've been trying to mislead them, but their discovery will move forward the date when they raid the compound, and you will have had no warning that anything is coming.
You will either die in a hail of bullets or trapped in a burning barn. At least that part will be exciting.
Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Oliver Twist
So there's this kid, Oliver, and his mom is unwed and she dies and he goes to an orphanage and asks for more gruel and gets sold and coulda been an undertaker maybe but then he got all buddies with this guy who was like some sorta batboy for the L.A. Dodgers and... crap--this book goes on like forever on account of Dickens got paid by how long it was.
It got printed a few chapters at a time in the newspaper, so like you'd read a bit and then be all "now what?" so it was kinda like a soap opera except without the babes. Anway, Dickens was all "kids' lives suck unless they're rich" but I don't think Oliver Twist had it so bad--I mean, my dad is all on my case about cleaning up the garage and most of the stuff in there is his...oh, yeah, sorry.
So Oliver gets all hooked up with these criminals, then he gets rescued by a family then he gets kidnapped and hooked up with the criminals again, then he gets shot, then he gets back with the rich people and he keeps on being little mister goody-goody and then his enemies get offed.
But Dickens, he needs like, hundreds of pages to tell you all this. I guess I get that whole "what the dickens are you talking about" now. If they'd had x-boxes back then, or even cable, Dickens woulda been history. Don't even get me started on Nicholas Nickelby...
So there's this kid, Oliver, and his mom is unwed and she dies and he goes to an orphanage and asks for more gruel and gets sold and coulda been an undertaker maybe but then he got all buddies with this guy who was like some sorta batboy for the L.A. Dodgers and... crap--this book goes on like forever on account of Dickens got paid by how long it was.
It got printed a few chapters at a time in the newspaper, so like you'd read a bit and then be all "now what?" so it was kinda like a soap opera except without the babes. Anway, Dickens was all "kids' lives suck unless they're rich" but I don't think Oliver Twist had it so bad--I mean, my dad is all on my case about cleaning up the garage and most of the stuff in there is his...oh, yeah, sorry.
So Oliver gets all hooked up with these criminals, then he gets rescued by a family then he gets kidnapped and hooked up with the criminals again, then he gets shot, then he gets back with the rich people and he keeps on being little mister goody-goody and then his enemies get offed.
But Dickens, he needs like, hundreds of pages to tell you all this. I guess I get that whole "what the dickens are you talking about" now. If they'd had x-boxes back then, or even cable, Dickens woulda been history. Don't even get me started on Nicholas Nickelby...
Sunday, January 09, 2005
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Romeo and Juliet
So there's this Romeo dude--he's a Montague--and he's all "I love Rosalind" and his friends are all "Dude, you got it bad; come and party with us" and he's all "Life sucks" but he goes to the party at the house of the Capulets. By the way, if you're like, all confused about the names, remember that Juliet and Capulet end with the "et" thing.
So he goes to this party, and they're all like, masked, but this guy Tybalt, who's kinda like some hired bodyguard/protection guy for the Capulets, he sees Romeo and he wants to take him out right there, but the Old Capulet guy says back off cause Romeo's a good guy and besides, a party sucks after someone is offed in the middle of the dance floor. So Romeo stays and sees Juliet and he's all "Rosalind who?" and then he's all makkin' on her even though she's like 13 and he's like one of those creepy sophmores that the middle school phones up our principal about and says they're gonna get the cops after them if they keep going over there at lunch.
So Romeo arranges to marry Juliet--cause on account of in Shakespeare's time by 25 a chick had already lost her teeth and gotten all haglike from raising 8 kids and then she probably dies giving birth to number 9, so it was like "party when you're 13 cause life will suck when you're 20" and this Friar guy who's like some church dude is going to help them but then Romeo runs into Tybalt and he's all "step up" and Romeo's all whipped and then Mercutio says "Damn, Romeo if you're going to wuss out I'll step up" and then Romeo tries to go all hockey linesman and stop it but then when Romeo's in the way holding Mercutio back Tybalt kills Mercutio, but it's like one of those long cartoon deaths where the guy talks for like half an hour and twitches and stuff and then says "a plague on both your houses" which I think means he wanted a bunch of grasshopper/locust things to come and eat them. Now that woulda been a cool way to end it--like these bitchin' killer grasshoppers come in and start chomping on everyone and Romeo has to steal a horse and go rescue Juliet...
Well, anyway, it hits the fan pretty bad on account of how the Prince said there was a truce between the Montagues and the Capulets and now Romeo went and killed Tybalt after Tybalt killed Mercutio, so the Prince says that Romeo has to get out of town. Meanwhile, Juliet's family decides she should marry this Paris dude before she becomes some old maid at 14, and it's gonna happen right away. So this Friar dude makes a plan with some fakey poison that makes Juliet all zombie-like and then sends some dude to tell Romeo it's all a trick, but this plague thing happens--but not with the killer grasshoppers--and so the messenger dude can't go, so Romeo hears she's dead and he's all upset and gets poison and heads back to go see her tomb.
So this Paris dude is already at the tomb when he gets there, and he's all "she's my dead chick" and Romeo's all "no, she's my dead chick" and then Romeo kills him and then he offs himself and then Juliet wakes up and she's all "damn--this sucks" and she offs herself and then the grownups all say "wow, we all suck and now they're dead" and so they all make up and that's pretty much it. Oh, and there was this stalker balcony scene when Romeo was all trying to peeping tom it outside Juliet's house, but it's not important.
More Literary Summaries here...
So there's this Romeo dude--he's a Montague--and he's all "I love Rosalind" and his friends are all "Dude, you got it bad; come and party with us" and he's all "Life sucks" but he goes to the party at the house of the Capulets. By the way, if you're like, all confused about the names, remember that Juliet and Capulet end with the "et" thing.
So he goes to this party, and they're all like, masked, but this guy Tybalt, who's kinda like some hired bodyguard/protection guy for the Capulets, he sees Romeo and he wants to take him out right there, but the Old Capulet guy says back off cause Romeo's a good guy and besides, a party sucks after someone is offed in the middle of the dance floor. So Romeo stays and sees Juliet and he's all "Rosalind who?" and then he's all makkin' on her even though she's like 13 and he's like one of those creepy sophmores that the middle school phones up our principal about and says they're gonna get the cops after them if they keep going over there at lunch.
So Romeo arranges to marry Juliet--cause on account of in Shakespeare's time by 25 a chick had already lost her teeth and gotten all haglike from raising 8 kids and then she probably dies giving birth to number 9, so it was like "party when you're 13 cause life will suck when you're 20" and this Friar guy who's like some church dude is going to help them but then Romeo runs into Tybalt and he's all "step up" and Romeo's all whipped and then Mercutio says "Damn, Romeo if you're going to wuss out I'll step up" and then Romeo tries to go all hockey linesman and stop it but then when Romeo's in the way holding Mercutio back Tybalt kills Mercutio, but it's like one of those long cartoon deaths where the guy talks for like half an hour and twitches and stuff and then says "a plague on both your houses" which I think means he wanted a bunch of grasshopper/locust things to come and eat them. Now that woulda been a cool way to end it--like these bitchin' killer grasshoppers come in and start chomping on everyone and Romeo has to steal a horse and go rescue Juliet...
Well, anyway, it hits the fan pretty bad on account of how the Prince said there was a truce between the Montagues and the Capulets and now Romeo went and killed Tybalt after Tybalt killed Mercutio, so the Prince says that Romeo has to get out of town. Meanwhile, Juliet's family decides she should marry this Paris dude before she becomes some old maid at 14, and it's gonna happen right away. So this Friar dude makes a plan with some fakey poison that makes Juliet all zombie-like and then sends some dude to tell Romeo it's all a trick, but this plague thing happens--but not with the killer grasshoppers--and so the messenger dude can't go, so Romeo hears she's dead and he's all upset and gets poison and heads back to go see her tomb.
So this Paris dude is already at the tomb when he gets there, and he's all "she's my dead chick" and Romeo's all "no, she's my dead chick" and then Romeo kills him and then he offs himself and then Juliet wakes up and she's all "damn--this sucks" and she offs herself and then the grownups all say "wow, we all suck and now they're dead" and so they all make up and that's pretty much it. Oh, and there was this stalker balcony scene when Romeo was all trying to peeping tom it outside Juliet's house, but it's not important.
More Literary Summaries here...
Sunday, January 02, 2005
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
The Great Gatsby
So there's this dude, Nick, and he's all "I live in a crappy house between the rich people" and there's these two eggs, and he lives on the one that's kind of a dump--so that's where the whole "bad egg" thing probably came from, and he's got this ditzy cousin named Daisy and she's all "I'm bored", and he likes this chick named Jordan, and she's all "I'm bored" and all they ever do is party and buy stuff. (Kinda like Paris Hilton, I think.) Nick sees Jordan and parties with her at his rich neighbor--the "Great" Gatsby (but the "great" part is kind of all sarcastic, like my teacher when she reads my essays sometimes) and he goes to visit his cousin in her fancy house on the good egg.
Anyway, his cousin's husband, Tom is all "Shut up" to his girlfriend on the side and he breaks her nose, and later she gets run over and so things pretty much sucked for her, and then she died. But Gatsby was all "I love Daisy" and Daisy was all "Whatever" and then they partied some more and then Myrtle's husband (the broken nose roadkill chick) shot Gatsby at the end and then killed himself, and no one came to the funeral, and Nick was all "You people all suck" and went back to the midwest, but little did he know that the depression was coming and being on a farm would soon be a bad career move.
But there were lots of cool cars.
So there's this dude, Nick, and he's all "I live in a crappy house between the rich people" and there's these two eggs, and he lives on the one that's kind of a dump--so that's where the whole "bad egg" thing probably came from, and he's got this ditzy cousin named Daisy and she's all "I'm bored", and he likes this chick named Jordan, and she's all "I'm bored" and all they ever do is party and buy stuff. (Kinda like Paris Hilton, I think.) Nick sees Jordan and parties with her at his rich neighbor--the "Great" Gatsby (but the "great" part is kind of all sarcastic, like my teacher when she reads my essays sometimes) and he goes to visit his cousin in her fancy house on the good egg.
Anyway, his cousin's husband, Tom is all "Shut up" to his girlfriend on the side and he breaks her nose, and later she gets run over and so things pretty much sucked for her, and then she died. But Gatsby was all "I love Daisy" and Daisy was all "Whatever" and then they partied some more and then Myrtle's husband (the broken nose roadkill chick) shot Gatsby at the end and then killed himself, and no one came to the funeral, and Nick was all "You people all suck" and went back to the midwest, but little did he know that the depression was coming and being on a farm would soon be a bad career move.
But there were lots of cool cars.
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
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
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...
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...
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...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)