The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a

Personal Shopper

Oh hi there--sit down. I remember hearing your name somewhere recently--oh yeah, aren't you the girl who wrote excused herself from her history final because of Lululemon's preferred customer invitation only sale? What kind of job are you interested in? Shopping--for a living? One of those department store purchasers or... Oh, I see. A personal shopper, huh? Well, I think I can figure it out:

First of all, it's not really a job that's easy to train for. It's a small demographic that hires personal shoppers, so you have to kind of seduce someone into it, unless, of course, they've already got one, then you just have to frame that person for theft and steal their job--but either way, you have to cultivate a sort of friendship with the rich person who's in need of someone to do the terribly onerous task of shopping for them.

Fortunately--and I just pulled your grade transcript up on the computer--you will use instinct rather than skills or academic training to pull this off. You'll need to get into a store where the rich shop--rich females, preferably young and connected or married to someone wealthy.

Don't go for the first wife, either. She's likely the one who will actually bear the children and want to raise them herself--so she won't be hiring anyone to buy her playpens or potties. You want to go somewhere the trophy wives prowl--so probably a high end jewelry store or sports car dealership.

You won't get in on selling the cars--high end lots don't hire kids like you right out of high school--but you can catch on as a receptionist or insurance counter girl or something. You see, you will be the one who does the paperwork for leases, rather than sales, because chances are the rich corporate types will be hiding their mistress's cars in a monthly expense account. It's too much money to blow on buying it outright when they're still shifting your assets to hide them from their current wife's future team of divorce attornies.

Of course, the "wives in the wings" will test their sugar daddies by insisting on a new car every few months, so you'll get to know them really well. Soon they're dropping by the lot to scope out their next convertible and taking you out for lunch where they appreciate that you listen without judging them.

The mistress's lot is often a lonely one--probably their family isn't fully aware of their less than savoury pursuit of some married executive twice their age, and it isn't something that they're all that proud of, if they stop shopping long enough to do a little self-examination. I guess that's why they rarely stop shopping.

Lunches turn to invitations to the spa or the tanning salon, and that's when you'll hone in on the one or two prospects who have the right qualities to help you realize your career dream. The woman you want to work for should be close to your size, and utterly selfish.

Then the field narrows down to one. She--your new "best friend"--even invites you to her wedding. You've wisely made it clear that you have no social life--even if you do--and she doesn't wonder why an attractive girl like you can't get dates. She's so self-absorbed, she just assumes everyone else's life is a pathetic shell compared to hers. She even arranges a date for you to bring to the wedding.

Don't argue that point. You see, the guy she assigns you for the wedding is her 'boy on the side', and you'll be the convenient cover for her to bring him to all manner of social gatherings. You'll pretend not to notice it, of course, until you're so immersed in it that it becomes an unspoken understanding.

Julie, your boss, won't find married life all that happy or fulfilling, so she'll try to silence the voice of her self-doubts in an orgy of spending. She suggests you go on her payroll full time, and the two of you settle on 'personal shopper' as a title--her wealthy husband is busy with the demands of his high powered career, and since he can't give her much time--or at least he doesn't seem to want to--he happily hires you as someone to keep her out of the house.

She begins sneaking off to meet Ricardo, her boyfriend, a couple of afternoons a week, and you provide an invaluable cover--she meets you just before she heads home to provide her with the bags of high-end clothing and the time-stamped receipts that seem to verify her alibis.

You know her tastes, and soon you're deliberately buying a few things she won't quite like, but you love, knowing she'll toss them your way--things you'd never be able to afford even though she's paying you twice what your job at the car dealership did.

After a year of this shallow but fast-paced career, you begin to suffer from stirrings of your long-dormant conscience. You arrive at her home one afternoon to drop off the latest purchases, and you find her husband unexpectedly at home, quietly weeping in the breakfast nook. You try to sneak out, but he's heard you and calls you over.

The next hour he pours out the sorrow that has overwhelmed him almost from the first moment of his loveless marriage. He has been aware of the affair for months, and has chosen to ignore it, but Julie's increasing brazenness in her illicit relationship with Ricardo has destroyed his self-esteem and driven him to the verge of suicide. He confesses to you that he feels he has made a mess of his life, and somehow your feeble words of support encourage him.

He invites you to meet for coffee the next day, and you worry at first that he's simply playing you into the the role of his next mistress, but to your almost disappointment, you discover he just needs an sympathetic ear, particularly one who understands the wife who is causing him so much pain. You, in turn, find yourself growing more protective of him and find it more and more difficult not to blast Julie for her callous behavior.

Julie is oblivious to the fact that her infidelity is known to her husband, but she senses that he is less enamoured of her company--you've begun to displace her as he shares all his intimate thoughts with you and begins to protectively distance himself from the wife he knows he must lose. Julie, though, can't understand the coolness in her husband, and rather than believe he might know of her affair, she assumes it is because she has gained six pounds since the wedding.

She notches up her already manic diet and exercise regime, and as her 'best friend' and lackey, forces you to join with her in five mile runs and brutal pilates sessions. When you lag behind, she laughs at you and when she drops a dress size, she gives you dozens of outfits which she rejects as her 'fat clothes'.

You lose it at the end of a particularly gruelling mountain run, and after throwing up your low-carb breakfast, essentially ask her how she can live with herself.

This first example of backbone in your relationship with her is not received well. She explodes at you--in reality shrieking a rebuttal to her own conscience--and fires you on the spot. Three hours after you get home, she calls you and begs you to come back to work for her--perhaps fearing that your knowledge of the details of her affair is more dangerous without her having you under control as an employee.

You mumble something about feeling hurt by what she says, and she immediately responds with a 20% raise, which you grudgingly accept.

Still, something has changed in your relationship, and this new dynamic includes her watching you more closely. She arranges one day to have you called to the phone over a complicated dress alteration problem just as you have logged into your email. While you're out of the room she finds a poignant message from her husband thanking you for being his 'rock', and concludes you are either having an affair with him, or very close to doing so.

You aren't so sure she is entirely wrong. She confronts you, but not in anger--there is some sense of evil delight in the discovery. Soon you've withered under her barrage of questions, confessing the truth of your friendship with her husband, and his knowledge of her affair. She begins to cry--perhaps for real, you can't tell--and asks you to leave. You know she's up to something.

The next day she shows up at your place with a creepy lawyer and a private detective. She wants to wire you with a microphone and have you throw yourself at her husband. She believes he'll confess his love back, and with some judicious editing, that will be all she needs to ensure freedom and financial security for her and Ricardo. She promises you a large lump some of money, and hopes that she won't need to use the photos she has. She shoves some still shots from your favorite coffee shop's security video--seems they keep the tapes for a month, after some problems with employee theft, and on a couple of very heartbreaking occasions you had held her husband's hand across the table of the coffee shop as he shared his pain with you.

You agree to go along, but then in the washroom use your blackberry to message the husband about the scheme. When you arrive at their home and go into his office, he asks you to sit down. You both know that Julie is listening to everything, so you have the surreal feeling that you are in some sort of a movie. You listen to Julie's husband explain how much he loved his wife and how sad he is that their marriage is a failure, but that he won't hold her back, and she can have anything she wants.

Then, without warning, he pulls a gun from his desk and puts a bullet into his temple. As you scream, covered in blood, Julie and the detective run in. She runs over to you and hugs you, and the two of you just hold each other for a moment, while the detective checks the husband and informs you of the obvious fact of his death.

When you finally step back, still shaking, from Julie's embrace, you see her staring at her husband's body. She looks over to you, a strange gleam in her eye.

"I thought I could trap him into 40% of the marital assets, tops. This is amazing--Ricardo and I won't even have to move." You gasp at her words. You always knew she was cold-hearted and calculating, but this even boggles your mind. Then she turns to you and tries to reassure:

"Don't worry--you'll always have a job with me." She looks at you blankly as you grab the gun from the desk and point it at her head.

"I quit." The sound of the gun seems even louder this time. Too late the detective turns round, and in an instant his firearm is in his hand and he squeezes the trigger.

The mortician will have a great selection of dresses for your funeral.

Pics from last week and a challenge

Well, it's actually pics from Wednesday last week, and then Sunday.

Wednesday we ended up just enjoying some time downtown and then people watching from the old sphagetti factory--great place to see the thousands of tourists wandering downtown. Here are a few pics:

















The provincial legislature building



















Nearby flowers



















My better half at lunch


















Yet another big hotel downtown--seems there are always new hotels and condos being built.


















One of many old school vehicles at the Forestry Museum in Duncan

The next few pics are also from there:

























































































I'll probably post the whole set of pics in my family photobucket. Email me if you want the password.


Now for the challenge. If you aren't familiar with Nanowrimo, it's the short name of "National Novel Writing Month". It's almost upon us once more--it's November--and while I failed to complete the 50,000 word minimum in 2005, I am going to take another shot at it. This time I shouldn't have any university stuff to compete for my time. (Just all my crazy school stuff)

I was directed towards it the first time by Camila, and she's planning to take up the gauntlet once more. I don't know if Bayley ever reads this still, but I will challenge her to try it again this year.

I'm tossing the challenge out to the rest of you if you feel up to it. I know you're all busy people, but still--think of it as a chance to be creative and competitive at the same time...

I think Milly would be great for this were she not leaving the continent and traveling then. But the rest of you--why not think about it?

Poetry by Dythandra

Coloring My World

The rumors of
My anticipated romance
Were greatly exaggerated.

I went from smitten
To potential smiter
In less than a week.

Seems our little friend from halfway round the globe
Plays mind games just as well
As local variants of her type--
The ones who adopt an orientation
When the camera flashes
And later claim they were "out of it"
After that half a belini.

Makes me wonder once more
If picking teams is premature just yet.

She spent the last week of her visit
Sleeping in the basement
Where my friends, the spiders
Wreaked my vicarious vengeance.

I needed to make a statement
And, after ensuring the safety of the tape of my parental's agreement
That camp would earn my right
To unfettered access to dermal coloration
I head to a nearby tattoo salon.

While the parentals had agreed weeks ago
I prefer my fake I.D.
To throwing my plans
Into their sea of doubts.

The tattoo place is busy,
So I wait.
All the good magazines--
(Dark, alternative, troubling)
Are taken.

I am left with the comic section
From the local paper.

I glance through them with disdain;
Marmaduke--no wonder the scribbles
Look like they were done by a crackhead
Desperate for a fix.
My hand might shake a bit too
With guilt for taking money for that crap.

Then there's "Peanuts"
Ancient memories from when I watched
Holiday shows that weren't created by Tim Burton.
How is it that Charles Schultz's signature
Still appears on new entries?
Forget Tupac--here's the man
Who cheated death.

Garfield makes me angry.
How stupid do they think we are?
The same half dozen cartoons
For a couple of decades.

Then there's Dilbert.
More an industry than a comic
Must be true to life
Since my father weeps a little,
When he reads it over breakfast.

Then it's my turn.
I get Dmitri--lucky, since I know
His work is always good.

He sits me down, pauses a little
Over my I.D., then smiles
I pass muster.

He pulls out some books and sheets of designs,
But I shake my head,
And offer a sheet--my own design.

It's simple really:
A wound on my wrist,
"Down the street, not across the road"
As the saying goes.

Emerging from the cut, a head
A bleeding "Hello Kitty"
Then just to the right, an arm, extended
Wearing a uniform, gestapo, perhaps
But Golden Arches,
Where the swastika should be.

The arm has a pistol, pointed
Finger tightened on the trigger,
About to end the kitty's pathetic life.

He looks thoughtfully at my creation,
Then shakes his head and sighs.
"No--can't do it."
What? He can't be serious.

"Here's the thing:
First of all, I think your I.D.'s fake.
Not something that I usually lose much sleep over, though.
Then there's the design--
Looks like something done in anger quickly,
Then regretted for years."

He looks briefly into my eyes,
And recognizes in a moment
He is right.

"Plus there's something else;
That's a lot of ink, and not enough canvas
On those little wrists of yours."

"I don't have an eating disorder."
I've blurted that out so many times
It's become a reflex.

"I never said you did."
"Oh, so I'm just too skinny, is that it?"

He pauses, then smiles
"Just for this much art--
Otherwise, I'd say you're pretty much perfect."
Then he winks,
And hands me back my design.

I take it back, and find it tough
To look at him for a moment.
Like I said before
Maybe it's premature to pick teams.

As I turn to leave, his voice pulls me back
"Hey--wait a sec.
Who did the art on that design?"
I quietly claim it as my own
Still contemplating my shoelaces.

"It's good--really good."
Then as I look at him, he gestures broadly,
Sweeping his hand across the room.

"You think you could do this?
Would you like to learn?"
I pause, confounded for a moment
By this sudden turn of fate.
Then I nod manically.

"Good--come back tomorrow and sign some papers,
And bring a parent if you can--we'll need your real I.D.
It will only pay minimum wage while you're training,
And you'll have to clean up and answer phones as well."

I visualize my parents' reaction,
But I'm not concerned
When I really want something
There are always ways to bend them to my will.

I manage a smile, a quiet "thanks"
And turn to leave.

"One more thing--about your tatoo
We'll get you something soon--don't worry.
And you'll love it, I promise."

I think I will. I really think I will.

nice place to live if you can afford it...

There's never been a time in my lifetime that I can recall there being so much demand for employees in all different lines of work. Even places that used to be tough to break into, like the high-paying union jobs with the transit buses, are now posting signs recruiting new employees.

Fast food places are offering better wages in many cases--and medical and dental benefits.

Problem is, you have to live somewhere. Real estate is insane right now, and of course that also then drives rent up.

Recently, the local paper has been publishing several stories about this situation. A week or so ago, the front page showed the cheapest single family home for sale in the area--325 thousand for an 860 square foot house--one bathroom, two bedrooms in a sketchy part of town backing onto a railway.

Then a story that the average price last month for a single family home was 570 thousand for the second month in a row--and yes, our dollar isn't worth as much as the american, but at about 94 cents U.S., it's still pricey.

It's not just a few overpriced millionaire's houses that are driving the average up; the "median" price last month was well over 500 grand as well.

Then this weekend a story that the two highest-priced houses currently on the market in the whole country are here in Victoria, at 28.5 and 20 milllion respectively.

I guess my kids will either be living with us until they're 35 or moving to Saskatchewan...

I'm back

Well, at least I'm probably more likely to be posting regularly for a bit. I'm not entirely finished the masters work, but I just submitted the last chapter of the thesis project, and that means I just need to put together the appendices, write an abstract and acknowledgements, and then do the edits on the last three chapter...

"Just"? Well, the edits are the scary thing. I got the edits for the first two chapters and there was a lot of stuff to look over. A lot of it is minor, which I'm fine with. Where I am a little scared is if I get back something like "No, you need to completely revamp this--it needs another dozen pages or so here, and a bunch more there..."

*shudders*

So, until I get the edits back from my prof on chapters 3-5, I'm actually sort of able to catch my breath for a few days. The end is in sight.

Thanks to all who left kind comments on the last two posts. I'll probably delete the freevote one soon. You may have already noticed I deleted about 30 posts recently--going through one of my "kill off all the ones that give too much information or just simply suck" phases.

As for Dythandra, I don't actually have a predetermined direction for her--she has just kind of evolved to who she is. I think if you look back over the oldest ones, in addition to me starting her off more "emo" (more just a mis-label) and at one point I think mentioning a sibling (she's much better as a only child) I think she's kind of progressing into some sort of logical direction.

It's becoming clearer, for instance, that she truly seems to prefer girls, but I don't think we should carve that in stone just yet.

Meanwhile, I've got another CCCounselor post waiting in the wings, and as soon as I get the masters stuff cleared up, I've got a huge reading list to tackle. Some of those may make the "Kid Who Sits Behind You" return.

Actually, I have been still reading a fair bit. I'm just over halfway through this amazing biography of John Belushi I was given recently--it's a great read.

Oh, one programming note--Ella has euthenized her blog ("Occasionally Glamorous..." from the links on the left) and I don't feel I can share any information I might get about a new location, as I think that she wants to avoid being tracked there. Still, if you were/are a regular reader of her blog, drop me a note and I'll forward it to her and you can ask for the new link.

How many days 'til I have to have an answer to "what show are we doing this year?"

Poetry by Dythandra

Homecoming

My summer job--my parents' hope,
My nightmare
Crashes suddenly to an end.

I'd found the 4th of July fireworks,
Borrowed a box, hidden under my bunk, until...

Later, when Herr Kampwarden was showering
A rather unexpected treat
And only a quick trip to the infirmary required.

My "friends" were weak,
No thumbscrews needed
To eke my name from smug lips

But I had accomplices, though none were named.
Not out of loyalty,
As much as disinterest.

Only four weeks left, no great loss
Office staff rather frightened of me
(or at least that one who kept crossing herself
every time I was nearby)
So they offered to pay out my summer
If I'd go quietly.

Trying not to giggle, I concede,
And even manage to look a little downcast
When they pay for the cab to take me to the train.

I left a home invaded by my mother's horrid sister
But I know she will be gone,
And my domain returned.

Then, awkwardness, when I turn up
Unexpected, at home and hearth.

I drag my gear in, and they cluck as I explain:
"That nasty camp manager... he kept...
...Looking at me"
Then, a meaningful pause, as I pretend to struggle
To hold back some tears.

They are doubtful, I sense,
So I drop my cheque on the table
Full pay for my early dismissal
Implies my tormentor's guilt.

"I should go up there and give him what for!"
My father blusters.
I smile to myself at his bravado
A man who put up with wet papers for weeks
Rather than confront the newsboy
Who tossed them in the birdbath.

My mother chimes in--full of support.
I glance at the clock--just about right
She's two drinks into her day.

There's no mystery there:
Two drinks--always agreeable
Four drinks--combative
Six drinks--maudlin
Eight...
Well, I'm always downtown by then.

Then the awkwardness returns
"About your room, dear...
It's sort of... occupied."

How can this be?
I've watched the calendar at camp,
Knowing full well, I couldn't be banished
Before Auntie had left my abode.
Besides, I'd have heard her canine rat
Were she still nearby.

"What?" I look at each of them slowly
They should know better.

"Her name is Sun; she's from Korea..."
I'm already halfway up the stairs,
As my mother blathers something
About her only staying a couple weeks.

How could they? My room--
Tarred with their epithets:
"The Pit" "The Dungeon"
and my personal favorite:
"That girl's own little corner of Hell".

What misplaced foreign girl could stand
A room like that?

I fling open the door--she's not there
But I see on the walls--K-pop posters over my Lovecraft,
And agony beyond all measure--
Hello Kitty!

I hear the bathroom door--I turn,
She's wearing the robe I've shunned since Christmas
And toweling dry her hair.

She sees me, a pause, and then a twinkle
In the deepest brown eyes I've ever seen.

"Oh, you are home"
A charming accent lilts the obvious
"I love your room, do you like my little... touches?"
She brushes by and steps into the room,
I glance again, and notice something else

One Hello Kitty is impaled on a gargoyle's talon
Another vomits blood,
While a third lies decapitated,
Its lifeless eyes frozen in fear.

I look slowly back at her; she smiles.

This summer just got a whole lot better.

Poetry by Dythandra

My Summer Job

The parentals keep secrets so badly
The brochures, laid under only a couple of newspapers
Hiding on my father's desk.

Tuesday nights--the routine never changes.
They bowl
I prowl.

"Summer Camp Jobs--Good Pay, Great Times!"
I'd rather stick needles in my eyes.

Still, forewarned is forearmed.
I look over each one--the first two are religious camps,
I laugh out loud.
The Baptists and Jews would love me.

Then the next--a cheerleading camp.
I could push the progress of humanity 100 years ahead
As an arsenic-laden kitchen lackey.

I scan the rest--equestrian, swimming, tennis...
Not likely.

Then I see the one they've underlined.
"Lake Akinokee Arts Retreat"
They are clever--they've spotted the only camp
With the potential for me to warm
From loathing to apathy.

They drop hints over the next few days:
"What do you plan for the summer, dear?"
and
"Wouldn't you like to have some money for the fall sales
At that lovely new corset shop that opened in the fetish district?"

Like they've ever even shopped there.

I play dumb.
"I just thought I'd stay here,
Cherishing the people I love."

That was overkill. They realize I know the truth.

I could probably have worn them down,
Pointed out my intolerance for sunlight,
Reminded them of my tendency to sleepwalk.

But they have a trump card, and play it well:
Aunt Mabel.

A battleship of a woman, she always arrives
Prepared for war.
Her handbag laden with pamphlets,
Explaining why rock music is a tool of the devil
And gay marriage a sign of the apocalypse.

I might stay and clash with her,
But for her pair of endlessly yapping chihuahuas,
Which she calls her "children".

I extract a few concessions before I concede;
My room locked, forbidden,
And no questions asked next fall
When I spend my summer earnings
On my long awaited dermal ink.

The camp is all I feared--trees and a lake
And no "personal music devices" allowed.
Apparently we make our own music
Voices of the damned, no doubt.

I am, as new staff, assigned to a team.
My leader is perkier than a coked-up cocker spaniel
And she shows me my bunk, beneath hers,
Surrounded by a dozen more of her ilk.

"We'll have such fun!" she exclaims.
I stare at her, wondering,
How long it would take them to find her body.

After the first few days, I find my niche,
Or at least a job assignment,
That allows me the least amount of human contact.

The "painting cabin"--little more than a greenhouse with easels,
But it's far removed from everything else
And buys me brief moments of solitude.

Turns out it's also near the aptly named "makeout rock"
Where my digital camera captures
Useful leverage for later bargaining.

I scowl through the endless "fireside evenings"
Where we sing tacky, politically-incorrect songs.
Passed down from generations of campers previous,
With refrains including "the red man our brother".

Then another exercise to loathe,
We're all assigned a "secret friend"--
Someone to buy special presents for
During our twice-monthly escape to an actual town.

Had I been blessed to draw the name of some stepford in training,
My task would have been simple.
Laxative chocolates or something slimy.
But such was not to be.

I unfold a paper to read "Philip".
I sigh. He's the life guard who tries a little too hard,
Perhaps oblivious that his ectomorphic physique and unfortunate complexion
Seal his fate in this shallow pond.

I've heard stories through my less than satisfactory earplugs,
Giggled after lights out in my cabin.
Seems Philip has courted a half dozen of my roommates,
And each sends him to the next target--their goal:
To each have a chance to skewer his hopes before Labor Day.

Against my natural predilections
I surreptitiously gather information.
Seems he likes toffee, and tries to charm with card tricks.
Unfortunately, one of the female lifeguards,
"Accidentally" dropped his deck of cards into the lake.

I make the purchases, then steathily sneak them to his mailslot.
He is clearly pleased the next day,
Demonstrating for all, his legerdomain.

It would be heartwarming,
Had I not left my heart elsewhere for safekeeping
Before condescending to waste eight weeks of my life
In this fresh-faced hell.

Meanwhile I receive my "gifts":
A "Girl's guide to cosmetics" and
"Chicken Soup for the Adolescent Soul".

Unfortunately for my secret benefactor,
Carrying cash is not her practice,
And I easily discover the secret friend
By checking out debit receipts
In our cabin's wastebasket,
And matching to the offending card
When all others are asleep.

The benefactor of my largesse, meanwhile,
Has managed to figure out my identity.
Seems the rest had already proven
Their lack of compassion sufficiently.

He sought me out, quietly, thanked me.
I shrugged it off--no point in denial.
Nonetheless, an..."acquaintanceship" blossomed.
He knew not to presume more.

We had one bond--our loathing of the others.
My time alone cleaning and setting up the art cabin,
His standing watch for hours at the swimming dock,
It was natural our imaginations had free reign.

We took our revenge patiently on the entire camp.
Seems an old science camp that once occupied this place
Left some supplies around--we find a length of tubing
Perfect to cover the ceiling vent the bats use,
And reroute them into my cabin.

We steal the square dance cds,
And replace them with death metal
I purchased on another trip to town

And the printer that makes the poster-sized copies of student art work?
Seems it also does a lovely job
On those photos I took so surreptitiously
Of antics at Makeout Rock.
The most graphic ones posted everywhere--
Of the girl who provided my self-help books.

Revenge is a dish best served 24 hours a day
It helps to kill the hours--'til it's time to collect
My well-earned tattoo.

The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a

Caricature Portrait Artist

Oh hi--I should've expected this; you're the kid who got suspended for doing that picture of the principal on the tennis backboard, aren't you? If you ask me, he should've been flattered.

S0--portraits? You mean those funny cartoon ones, right? Yeah, that should be worth tuition at art school... I mean, uhm, you probably don't have to go straight to art school; it might go something like this, instead:

You'll have to find some sort of town where tacky tourists go--make sure it has places where you'll see Texans in flowered shirts and such. Avoid Mexican and most Carribean resorts where the local kids will be pestering you all the time, plus it's too hot for the tourists to sit still for the entire 90 seconds it takes you to draw them. You might think somewhere like Paris is too upscale for this kind of work, but you're not trying to appeal to the locals; your clientele are the same people who think by yelling at foreigners or speaking in a fake accent that they'll somehow be more easily understood.

Plus, you can avoid the 8 seconds it takes to draw their hairstyle and just put berets on everyone. And how tough is it to throw the Eiffel tower in behind them?

The trick will be to find somewhere you don't have to pay outlandish busker/artist fees just for the privilege of working. That's why I suspect most regular tourist traps like the Santa Monica Pier won't work--but if you hang around near the sketchy sellers of fake rolexs in places like Battery Park in Manhattan, you're probably safe from too much harassment.

It won't be too challenging to learn the craft--first of all, almost every annoying tourist type who's paid for one of these sketches then comes home and uploads it to their internet holiday albums, so you can see plenty of samples to get the basic idea. If you need to, wander down to where any local caricature artist is working; treat them like they actually have some talent and they'll be glad to show you what they do--it's not like it ever happens to them.

The basic principle is simple--two-thirds head, one-third body.

You'll set up shop in some tourist town, and it won't take long until you learn the fundamental problem with your career--it's seasonal. In most places, you've got maybe a four-month window to ply your trade. You could try to move to other places to catch their tourist seasons, but you don't make enough to pay high-season rent in any of these locales.

Fortunately, after about four or five years of struggling through off-seasons doing horrible menial jobs you'll pray to forget, you'll sketch another typical rich tourist kid holidaying with her friends on daddy's credit card, but this one will be different. She's almost the same age as you, and while not exactly a looker, there's some little bit of chemistry there--though maybe it's just when she offers to buy you lunch you realize you won't have to make the difficult choice between sustenance and the two packs a day you smoke to get you through the boredom of the down time between customers.

You have a whirlwind romance, and soon you're engaged. Her parents fly you up to their estate to check you out, and it's clear they don't approve--but the suitors have been rare up to this point, so they feign a shallow cordiality that does little to mask their true hostility.

Her father is that type of eccentric that would be labelled crazy if he didn't have money, and your hope of wedded bliss comes crashing down when you sketch him one day. Seems he had a hydrocephalic twin who died shortly after birth and the gigantic head on your caricature convinces him you knew of the family's tragic secret and this is your way of mocking him and his pain. He orders you out of the house and forbids his daughter to see you again.

You exchange emails with her for a few weeks, but it's clear she's not willing to sacrifice her lifestyle to be with you. You go back to your spot on the tourist stroll, but in your absence, a new couple has shown up--she does sketches wearing little more than a bikini at one end of the boardwalk, while her good looking tattoed boyfriend does his at the other. They charge twice what you did and still have lineups of eager customers. You simply cannot compete.

You move back here, to your hometown, where you first try your hand at editorial cartooning. Unfortunately, while other kids were learning about politics and current events, you were skipping class, creating your graffiti masterpieces, and you simply are too ill-informed for your art work to grace the third page of the local newspaper.

Then you go to the local "party time entertainers" office. You think you're offering them something novel, but the owner's eyes just glaze over when you show him your samples of girls riding unicorns and boys in superhero capes. Still, he adds you to his stable of employees, and you go out to various birthday parties, as well as the occasional bat or bar mitzvah.

Your self-esteem is dashed when you realize most kids are disappointed when you arrive--you're a couple rungs of the entertainment ladder below both the clown and the birthday magician. Even the annoying "craft lady" who forces kids to glue stars to clay plant pots is better received than you are.

Desperate, you finally escape the humiliation of your home town--most of your classmates have been getting degrees and building successful careers while you've wasted the post-high school years trying to find some way to live off your modicum of drawing skill. You're lucky enough to score a job doing caricatures on a cruise ship.

You're so happy to get the gig you find out too late it's a non-smoking ship, so you spend half your earnings bribing the crew to let you sneak cigaretttes in the boiler room. You're making next to nothing, and your accomodations are terrible--you share a small stateroom with three dishwashers who speak little English and who spend all their free time playing some card game you don't fully comprehend, although they teach you enough one night to take most of your small stash of cash you've managed to squirrel away during the voyage.

Just before the trip ends, a rather mysterious asian man approaches you and hands you his business card, with a Hong Kong number and address. He tells you he has work for someone with your talents. You are desperate for any thread of hope so you don't check it out; you just dump your remaing cash on the counter of a discount travel agent and get a one-way ticket to chase yet another dream.

He explains that there is a market that his company meets that isn't entirely legal. He explains that in Asia there simply isn't enough of certain kinds of merchandise to meet demands, so that's where creative entrepeneurs step in.

Next thing you know, you're in a tiny, humid room in some southeast asian country with a government corrupt enough to look the other way while you and your other underpaid colleagues churn out the art work that is printed on all manner of counterfeit Disney merchandise--from t-shirts to training potties.

While your new country might be willing to accept bribe money from your employer to ignore the copyright treaties they've signed, they're also willing to take cash to look the other way when Disney's secret mercenary death squad shows up to wipe your little operation out. You and your colleagues are buried in a mass, unmarked grave, but somehow your passport surfaces a few months later, along with a story that you were killed in a drug deal gone wrong.

The dark circumstances of your demise make your easily recognizable signature on your old caricatures a hot commodity, and savvy collectors are soon scouring garage sales for your work--your posthumous fame may last months.

Conversation with my Blog

ME: Sorry I'm late--lots going on right now.

BLG: Oh, what's the matter--Facebook temporarily out of service?

ME: What's eating you?

BLG: Just the lame "one post a week" crappy treatment I've been getting.

ME: It's got nothing to do with facebook--really. I mean, I haven't been posting much for a good month or more because of all the busyness in my life.

BLG: So why add Facebook. (pause) I thought so--you're bored of me, aren't you?

ME: No, of course not. I've put my best writing into those posts. Facebook--that's just...

BLG: What? Cheap, meaningless networking? You disgust me. You'll be a Nexopia whore soon.

ME: Hey--that was uncalled for. Look, I'm not like those others--Milly, Murdoch and the rest who quit posting or reading blogs once they got Facebook.

BLG: Sure. What about someone like Camila--she posts, and hers even indicate THOUGHT.

ME: You do know that's a new blog, right. Her old one is rotting, neglected. Is that what you want?

BLG: You already started a new blog. Now it's abandoned. Don't judge.

ME: What do you want from me? How about a nice new layout--maybe something art deco?

BLG: Don't patronize me. It's easy to tell you're just mailing this in. You used to write three cynical career things a week--now what's it been, a month or more? Or that stupid goth poetry or the literature kid--when did you do any of those? I'm not just a weekly diary, you know--nobody cares about the mundane details of your life.

ME: ouch.

BLG: The truth hurts.

ME: Well, there aren't any more high school literature items to explain.

BLG: What about Kite Runner or that Life of Pi book?

ME: I'd have to read them...

BLG: Meh--not like you haven't cheated with internet summaries before.

ME: Oh, now that's going too far...

BLG: And what about the dythandra about her going to work at a summer camp, or the career thing about 'your future as a personal shopper'? That's what we're reduced to now, is it? Empty promises?

ME: What do you want me to do--drop my masters and focus on you?

BLG: Why don't you do something new--be controversial for a change.

ME: What--you want me to go political?

BLG: Look at the other blogs--Berkeley stuck up for Paris Hilton a couple weeks back. Ella snarks at all things popular. That Alex girl pissed off everyone when she posted that Dumbledore dies without a spoiler warning before most people had read the book.

ME: That's not me--I flee controversy.

BLG: Whatever. This conversation bores me--and probably everyone (all 3 of them) reading this blog.

ME: There's more than three. I think. Fine--I have important things to do anyway.

BLG: Yeah right--I saw you just now--counting the numbers of photos in other people's facebook albums that you took. Pathetic.

ME: Look--I'll make you a promise. I'll start looking for interesting things to post as well as writing more of the in role stuff. Maybe post a few videos from time to time.

BLG: Like that pachelbel thing? I liked that.

ME: Sure--why not?

BLG: Okay, I guess. But if you drop the ball this time, I'm posting a "writers wanted" header and you're toast.

hehe

Is it just because I'm tired, or does the front page of today's local paper make anyone else laugh? I couldn't help myself--it was sitting in our family room and every time I walked by and saw it I couldn't help giggling...

















or maybe I'm just overtired.

The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as an

International English Teacher

Hi--wow, is it time for you to be graduating already? I remember when your older brother and sister came through, and now here you are--almost done with high school. So--your brother still doing the nuclear physicist thing? How about your sister? Right--that is an impressive med school she's at.

So--what about you? Law? Commerce? Politics? What's that? Really? No, no--of course there's nothing wrong with it. I mean, I see ex-students drift in here all the time who've finished some sort of four-year degree in some obscure aspect of some social science or literature study and well--it's what they sort of fall back on when they realize their academic qualifications won't get them a real job anywhere.

But of course, you're different. You actually WANT to do this before you even start college. Aim for the stars, I say. Er, no--I wasn't being sarcastic... Look, it will go something like this:

You'll do an undergraduate degree in English--don't go too obscure, though, and make sure you get a good dose of introductory writing and linguistics. Who knows what parsing verbs involves--but the dinosaurs who recruit for some of these agencies--particularly in former brit colonies like Hong Kong--they are stuck in the dark ages and figure you need to know how to diagram sentences and stuff like that.

Once you're done you can go to some local recruitment agency, or contact the schools directly yourself. Most likely you'll choose Japan--the salaries look deceptively good, until you get there and realize that it costs more to live humbly in a tiny closet of an apartment there than it does to own an acreage and drive a luxury car here.

The work won't be fun--most of the kids you teach are motivated, but their friends who could afford it, or whose parents would let them all went to North America or Europe for a year or two to immerse themselves in the language. They're the losers who get stuck with you, and they'll resent you for it.

You will be lonely when you realize after six months that your dating options are limited in a society which wants your language but subtly signals your social inferiority. Just like now, you were in a serious relationship when you left to go to Japan, so you convince your girlfriend to move across the Pacific and join you.

The apartment is small, and it's not long before the two of you start to crowd each other. Meanwhile, she has no desire to teach but she does manage to make some inroads into other work--I hear a girl who's considered a "7" here is given at least a two-point bump up on the attractiveness scale there, so she'll be pretty much treated like a movie star by some people there, especially if she's blond.

She'll enjoy the attention, and your long hours won't help solidify your relationship. Soon she's working somewhere that pays well for girls to hang around and look pretty--maybe she'll serve drinks in a karaoke place, or learn Japanese etiquette in some tea room.

One day you come home and notice she's got some new jewelry you didn't buy her. She'll be embarassed, but eventually you'll get the story out of her--some wealthy industrialist or financier has become a sort of "patron" to her. She'll try to explain it's not like it is back home--it's the whole 'geisha' tradition or something like it, she'll say. You'll be obstinate and insist she give it back, but she'll stomp out and later some sort of deferential bodyguard/lackey type will come to pick up her things.

You won't hear from her for a few days, but when you do she'll invite you to her new place. It will be twice as big as the one she shared with you, and when you ask how she pays for it, she'll explain it's a gift from a friend. Now you're sure she's become someone's mistress, and she slaps you when you say so.

You throw yourself into your teaching, but it makes little difference--in fact, some of the students seem to sense your desperation and begin subtly mocking or taunting you. One seems to feel sorry for you, and he quietly gives you a present one day--a t-shirt. You wear it on the subway--the front has writing in some Japanese characters you don't understand--and almost get beaten by angry commuters. Apparently your generous student was just more clever; the shirt boldly proclaimed some rather nasty things about the emperor's personal hygiene habits and you suddenly have to find a new commuting route to work.

A month or two later, your girlfriend calls--seems all the gifts weren't entirely without strings, and she doesn't like the pressure and possessiveness of one or two of her new friends. That night she shows up at your door and you quickly forgive everything--you are simply glad to have a friendly face around again.

The next day when you get home, two men are waiting on your stairwell--one of them is the same guy who picked up your girlfriend's stuff before. This time there's no pretence of respect--they administer a quick but effective beating and tell you "the girl must be returned".

She feels terrible when she sees your battered face, but you do the noble thing and give her the money you'd been putting aside for a vacation back home, and tell her to fly back to her family. It pains you to do it--you want to go back with her, but you have a binding contract and with the high cost of living, it took some pretty painful scrimping just to save her plane fare.

Luckily, her leaving seems to end the interest of the thugs in rearranging your face, and you are left alone. You finish out the year and decide to leave Japan. Still, you're not prepared to face your family and admit you're once again the loser of the brood. Instead, you decide to try your luck elsewhere.

You think about Hong Kong, but there's that whole British prep-school prejudice plus the cost of living there is just as outrageous as Japan.

Then you're offered something promising in Seoul, so you sign on with a Korean school and soon you're doing the late afternoon shift for high school kids who hate you because their parents force them to do 14-hour school days--regular school and then your monotonous lessons--followed by several hours of homework after that.

You begin hitting the bar late after your evening class is done--fortunately your late starts allow you to lose most of the hangover before you face the kids again the next day. One bar becomes your regular haunt, and you find a bit of a social life--you play cards over the mindless soundtrack of k-pop and dig out the offensive shirt from Japan--everyone at the bar laughed at the story of how your shirt angered the Japanese, and a few even get the emperor-bashing slogan copied for shirts of their own.

You meet a Korean girl who speaks excellent English. She too teaches at the school, and you're shocked someone as pretty and graceful as her could want you. (Did I mention your self esteem will have become pretty battered by now?)

Six months and your friendship has evolved into a romance and then an engagement. You secretly breathe a sigh of relief when she tells you her parents are both dead, and she has no immediate family--you've heard horror stories of girls whose families rejected the idea of their marrying a westerner.

She insists, though, on the two of you travelling back to America to meet your family--she says since they will become her only real family, besides you, she wants to get to know them. You don't mind--you kind of want to show her off to a family who you feel has always kind of measured you and found you to be wanting. Also, it doesn't hurt that she can pay her share of the cost.

You tell her all about your family as you fly home, and you notice she seems most interested in your older brother, the physicist. You try not to dwell on it, but when you get home and your family gathers to see you, it's almost embarassing how she fawns over him. As a workaholic overachiever, he is a little vulnerable at the time because of his recent divorce, so sadly you will wake up one night to find she's nowhere in your parents' house, and when you drive to his place you'll catch her sneaking out to a waiting cab.

She'll beg your forgiveness and as always, you'll relent. You stay another week, and try not to worry when she goes off on her "private shopping trips to buy something for you" that maybe she's meeting up with your brother again.

You are relieved when it's time to head back to Seoul, but it's shortlived because there at the airport waiting for you are both American and South Korean agents who find secret nuclear information stashed in the lining of one of your suitcases.

After you're subject to intense grilling for several days, word comes down that the authorities have identified your fiance as a deep-cover North Korean agent.

You're devasted, but feel no sympathy when you hear your brother is arrested back home and sentenced to five years in prison. Unfortunately, your parents blame you for the fate of their favorite child, and cut off all contact with you.

Despondent, you drift into a relationship with the first woman who'll have you--a widowed cat groomer ten years your senior who shares a small hovel 50 miles south of the city with her child--a 30 year old drug dealing small time street thug. She though, is a very devout woman--a card carrying member of the Unification Church or the Moonies or whatever they're called now.

She'll take you to a mass marriage one day; you'll have pretty much lost the will to live by this point--and in some sort of trick of weird Moonie bureaucracy, you'll end up marrying her older sister who regrets the marriage within weeks and arranges to have her thug nephew kill you for the insurance money. Trust me, when the time comes, it will seem like a blessing.

Oh--say hi to your brother and sister for me next time you talk to them.

SPF Factor 30

It's going to be hot again. It's rare when I come into my workspace around 7:45 a.m. and find it already kind of stuffy, but that's this week. My daughter's 3-day school camping trip ends today, and their weather has been unbelievably good.

For your perusal, two stories:

Man eats dog in protest

and since it's almost yearbook time once more...

thoughts?

Poetry by Dythandra

Faint Praise

The letter arrived like others before it,
School letterhead, wisely hidden
In a plain envelope.

My mother was home that day, unexpectedly
And found it before I had the chance
To feed my friend, the shredder.

"You are cordially invited..."
Odd. Usually they begin:
"We would like to discuss some concerns..."
Is it a trick?
Like those who are invited for lottery winnings,
But find only traffic court awaits.

No such... luck.
To my mother's hardly concealed glee,
She and paternal parental
Are invited to
"A celebration of excellence".

She finishes, triumphantly, and glances at us
Across the remains of my favorite dinner.
You'd think it was her achievement
This epistle arrived to proclaim.

My father was more circumspect
He glanced at me, awaiting a cue
Some clue to guide
His "spontaneous" reaction.

I searched quickly through the catalogue
Of all my best expressions
And settled on disdain.

The queen of this moment was not disheartened
By my lack of enthusiasm--she hardly could have expected any.

It was her moment--a small vindication
That my existence, traumatic
From the moment my arrival on stage
Destroyed her body's chances
To reproduce again...

...through the dozen meetings with school counselors,
Those "paraprofessionals" with little more to offer
Than platitudes punctuated with nods
And worried clucking.

But this--some small allowance by the system
That I was worthy of more
Than tired phone calls from frightened adults
Afraid to meet my glare.

In best award show tradition, there was no hint
Of what kudos I had won.
This, of course, allowed my mother's imagination
The freedom to run rampant
Through fields of academic glory.

I knew in an instant
The source of the situation.

My art teacher--young, "offbeat"
As I once heard an older staffer prattle,
Had chosen to name me
For some token award.

Clearly nouveau nihilism
Is in this season.

The evening of the ceremony
My "wardrobe" was there, laid out on my bed.
I can still be surprised at times
By the poor woman's naivete.

Still, a proper fashion statement
Would be difficult to pull off--
Any disciple of the "offbeat"
Only panders to expectations
When seeking to offend.

Finally, annoyed, I settled for my traditional
"What the hell are you looking at"
Combination of black eye accentuation
Accompanied by the rhythm
Of the heaviest boots in my closet.

Just as we began to pull out of the driveway,
I made some excuse about needing my gum
And ran back into the the house.

The jar with the snakes I captured in the garden
Was easily concealed under my jacket.

I shall justify my acclaim
With a little demonstration
Of spontaneous "performance art."

I hope my mother's brought her migraine pills.

And in the search for next year's musical...

...I came across this:

http://www.nodanw.com/shows_j/jerryspringer.htm

uhm... no.

The Cynical Career Counselor Predicts Your Future as a

Curator

Hi kid--sit down. Wow--an authentic 1974 Pink Floyd Tour jacket? Oh sorry--yeah, I guess you wouldn't want people to touch it--I wouldn't wear it in this crowded dirty building myself.

So--what do you want to know? Curator? Like in museums? Sure, I can figure that one out.

I assume you hang around museums now, so that's a good start. Get used to that stale, humidity-controlled air where the clatter of heels on marble is the only sound louder than hushed whispers. You're not going to have to worry much about sunscreen for the next few decades.

You'll do an undergraduate degree in something like the classics--relevant to museum work but not likely to help you in most other careers. You'd better do the honors program and get good marks, since you want to break into a very small niche career market, and they can afford to be picky.

You'll look to go to a more prestigious university for your graduate work; be prepared to brown nose for all you're worth to get good recommendations from your undergraduate professors, and hope for some sort of work study fellowship or something to make your grad school less financially back-breaking.

I'm glossing over this, but we're now about seven years into your academic game plan. By this time you've already lost a half-dozen relationships because girls might be impressed by authentic tour jackets, but they don't want to live in a one-room sub-cellar until they're 35.

Graduate school over, you apply all over to various postgraduate schools, and if you still have your cultlike devotion to the whole museum gig you will ideally qualify for one of those programs that puts you into some prestigious museum at least part of the time.

That will be heaven for you--you get to be behind the scenes, seeing the new acquisitions before the maddening crowd even has an inkling they're there. You won't mind the ridiculous hours and the constant lung problems from breathing 500 year old mould--it's all worth it to be part of the excitement--well, maybe excitement isn't the word most normal people would use, but you get the idea--part of the inner circle of geeks who think museums are cooler than say, eating, drinking and having normal human interactions.

Eventually you'll graduate, and toil thanklessly in some underpaid staff position in the same museum where you did your advanced degree studies. In the few moments of free time you have, you put out feelers to most major museums in the world, and after a few years of soul-crushing drudgery, you finally get the call you've dreamed of--a museum in a decent-sized midwestern city, and you're actually surprised you made the cut.

Once you get there, though, you understand the situation a bit better. Seems that while the museum had a pretty decent reputation during the 70s and 80s, it's been the site of bitter infighting between museum administration and the board of directors for over a decade. Your predecessor was just another casualty in that ongoing war, and most give you a shelf life of less than a year.

You, however, have made it this far by managing to be as inoffensive as possible when dealing with people in authority. You surprise everyone by sucking up just enough to various board members to win grudging acceptance from most of them.

The flip side, though, is that the tension of being a spineless lackey with the board makes you an unbearable tyrant to your underlings. Still, you bring a sense of order to the building that is most welcome that after the chaos of the previous regimes.

You begin working to get more prestigious exhibits to visit your museum, and the resulting publicity helps bring in more donations--including new, generous corporate sponsors who want to be associated with the positive energy so in contrast with the museum's previously stagnant atmosphere.

For the first time in your life you have a decent income, and you are able to put a down payment on a nice condo in a trendy part of downtown that is only a few blocks from where you work. The only problem is that the convenience makes it easier for you to spend all your waking hours in the museum, but you don't really mind that much.

After a while you realize the extent of the problems you've inherited. While corporations are eager to sponsor popular exhibits, basic building maintenance isn't so sexy, and you are constantly given new examples of how decrepit the building is. First it's termites in the Mayan exhibit, then it's the toxic black mould that accompanied a Mongolian warrior's tomb artifacts and which has spread throughout the entire Asian wing. Eventually it becomes almost impossible to find employees willing to work in that part of the building.

You also are unable to relax whenever the public comes into the museum--imagine your tour jacket anxiety and multiply it by a million. You flinch every time you see a camera flash go off, and make a point of berating offending visitors. You cringe every time a school group come in, knowing that "Do Not Touch" signs have little power when it comes to kids who spent the bus ride to the museum washing down candy with quart-sized carbonated caffeine infusions.

Your staff is coldly polite to you, but you eventually find a website that feature videos secretly taped of you haranging asian schoolgirls who dared snap photos in the Egyptian room. You despise the seniors who man the volunteer posts to lecture class groups and give directions--it's not that their unpaid work isn't valuable, you just tire of the constant bleating about how it used to be under previous curators.

It's not toxic mould, staff hostility or board politics that will be your undoing, though. It's something a little more... primal, I guess.

Your museum, like all such mid-level establishments, has an eclectic mix of exhibits. Ultimately, your budget doesn't allow you to send out teams or compete with facilities like the Met or the British Museum, so you rely on a combination of larger museum's leftovers and the goodwill of local benefactors who provide some of the more interesting artifacts.

One coup during your tenure is the acquisition of a collection of Yoruba artifacts obtained, as always, through questionable means. Some corrupt Nigerian officials--not of Yoruba ancestry--sold them to your benefactor and he sets up a press conference to bask in the acclaim given his largesse. You are merely a prop in his campaign of self-promotion.

Unfortunately, not everyone understand that--especially the Yoruba. They begin agitating for the return of the precious artifacts and they target you with a letter writing campaign, which soon escalates to a media war featuring a daily gauntlet of placard-waving protesters who hurl imprecations at you every day when you try to sneak into work.

Your mind begins playing tricks on you. A large statue of Yemoja, an ocean deity, seems to follow you with its eyes. You hear echoes of words in the wind that whispers down the draughty corridors--words cursing you and warning of dire things ahead.

Your demise, though, will be labeled an "accident". You come to work one morning to find the alarm ringing and the front door wide open. It seems that one of the security guards was a Yoruban plant and he's let in a group to liberate and deface the hated display.

You try to chase them out, but in the confusion, the statue of Yemoja falls on you, knocking you into a coma from which you awaken six months later, able to only remember your locker combination from junior high. The museum's board spearheads a charity campaign to raise funds for you, and they convert a small room in the museum basement into a simple apartment where you can live peacefully in the only place you were ever happy.

Unfortunately the toxic mould will kill you within two years. Can I have that jacket when you're gone?

Sad

There are some forms of blindness that no amount of common sense or illumination will overcome. From Reuters today:

Larry Pratt of Gun Owners of America said the shootings that left 33 people dead, including the assailant, at Virginia Tech on Monday showed gun bans are the problem, not the solution.

"Isn't it interesting that Utah and Oregon are the only two states that allow faculty to carry guns. And isn't it interesting that you haven't read about any school or university shootings in Utah and Oregon," Pratt said.

There are no words...

The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a

Hair Stylist

Hey--nice faux hawk. Let me guess, you want to be a hairdresser. Huh? No? Well, I still call them that. Well, hair care professional, whatever you like--it adds up to pretty much the same game plan.

You'll start off by going to one of those "hair, beauty and esthetics" school--kinda like Frenchy in Grease--who knows if you'll finish high school first? You'll ignore the fact that all the instructors display hairstyles at least 20 years out of date and the school's founder's look can be best described as "bowling alley chic". You'll be amazed at how difficult some of your fellow students seem to find the basics of the curriculum, and grow tired of constant noise of gum popping that surrounds you.

Eventually, you "graduate", only to discover that none of the truly trendy hair places in town consider your training of any worth. You do manage, however, to convince one salon to take you on to do basic "gofer" work--you'll be certain your feet actually wore a discernable path between the salon and the nearby coffee shop as you continually turn the tip jar proceeds into lattés for the rest of the staff.

The manager likes your attitude--you don't whine and complain like the rest of the employees do--and he agrees to take you on as an apprentice of sorts. Your pay is terrible, but you start to learn the basics of coloring and setting hair, and at night you pour over magazines and web sites to develop an instinct to be able to tell which hair style will work with different head shapes and facial features.

Next your mentor starts sending you to the weekend "institutes" to learn more about how to use hair products to best advantage. Of course, the training sessions are all sponsored by hair product companies, so you end up spouting the company's propaganda to all your clients, convinced that the particular brand of color or shampoo you are shilling is the only one that won't destroy their follicles or leave them looking a botched science experiment.

Fortunately, your high-paying clientele will be all too willing to go along with the snob appeal of your hair studio. Unfortunately, as you go through the same routine with each new product line's training sessions--you see your boss is fickle; he'll switch suppliers to whomever gives him the best kickbacks--you begin to realize that it's all really the same stuff with different packaging.

That all changes one day when you encounter "Silk Magic". It's a new hair straightening product that works like nothing you've ever seen. Somehow, without the aid of irons or heat of any kind, this simple spray liquid easily eliminates all curls and tangles from even the most unruly locks.

You go to the Silk Magic training sessions with a newfound enthusiasm for your work. You volunteer to man their product booth for free at various trade fairs, so great is your love for the stuff. Then, when you are asked to drop off unsold bottle back at the supply warehouse after everyone has gone, you happen across a folder on a desk labelled "Extremely Confidential", which of course is too tempting to resist.

You read the true secret of "Silk Magic"--the key ingredient is the urine of a rare mountain goat that resides in the most remote regions of the Himilayas. The secret file explains that despite the recent interest in the media regarding the nature of magic behind Silk Magic, the company fears the public would avoid a product made from goat piss.

You go home that night and lie awake, your mind considering this newfound information. You decide the company is taking the wrong approach. Then next day you jump on a train and head to the head office of Silk Magic, where you present yourself to the chairman's secretary and explain you're going to the media with the goat urine secret unless you're given an audience with the head of the corporation.

After a three hour wait you get your wish. At first the chairman is suspicious you are some sort of extortionist, but after a few moments your fervor for the product is clear, and he decides to listen to your ideas. You explain that your high-end clientele won't be put off by the fact that Silk Magic is made from goat urine; many of them know the drug they take to alleviate symptoms of menopause comes from the urine of pregnant horses, and others are all too eager to spend freely at spas and salons that cover them with mud, or apply leeches to their skin.

The chairman will give your ideas more consideration than one might expect since you are some unknown who blackmailed your way into his office; it doesn't hurt that he's been feeling the pressure of media speculation about the product, and also that he finds you somewhat attractive.

The next month a new campaign is launched that reveals the "ancient beauty secret" of Silk Magic, with flashy commercials which dissolve footage of simple peasants leading their goats past Tibetan temples into scenes of famous actresses receiving awards while cameras flash. The best ad features an ethereally beautiful british actress smiling as her voice more accustomed to pronouncing the words of Shakespeare purrs "what's a little goat pee between friends".

Sales go through the roof, and the chairman is awarded bonuses that more than double his normal salary. He doesn't forget you, and soon he's bought you a Manhattan apartment and made you the manager of an exclusive new Silk Magic salon that immediately has a three-month waiting list and becomes the talk of the Park Avenue set.

Actresses, models and other celebrities soon are courting your favor to win appointments. You begin receiving invitations and tickets to exclusive parties and openings. You hire only the best of the best--you can afford to pay well since you are free to charge almost whatever you wish and people will pay it.

One client who comes to you faithfully for hair straightening is the fifth wife of an infamous NBA "bad boy" who's known for his questionable behavior both on and off the basketball court. Your client tells you enough about her husband's private life to earn you hundreds of thousands of dollars from gossip magazines, but you're a paragon of discretion, so everyone knows their secrets are safe with you.

One day, the basketball player himself shows up unexpectedly. It's the middle of the playoffs and he's been coming under fire in the media for not being a team player. He decides a token gesture like dyeing his hair in the team colors is simpler than actually addressing the problem of his selfish playing style.

You know that his naturally curly african-american hair has been bleached and dyed a half-dozen times in the past six months, and a quick examination tells you that he's putting his follicles at risk if he subjects his hair to this drastic plan. He laughs off your concern, and explains that's why he's "come to the best". Still, as is your practice in such cases, you have him sign a waiver to indicate he understands the problems that can result in this abuse of his scalp.

The procedure goes fairly well, though you're still worried about the final result. He pays you double your normal fee and tosses you a pair of courtside tickets as well. That night you're front row centre to witness the disaster.

The game is nothing short of brutal--more of a war than a game--and the frenzied screaming of the fans almost frightens you. You sit with your latest boyfriend and watch in horror as your client from earlier that afternoon begins rubbing his head--his scalp irritated by the combination of harsh chemicals, bright lights and heavy perspiration. With every scratch a clump of hair falls out--soon the floor crew is having to sweep the court during every t.v. commercial time out.

At first he seems not to notice it, but then it becomes too obvious, and some of his teammates begin mentioning it at the bench. He starts missing shots, and eventually the coach pulls him out of the game for a few minutes to calm him down. While sitting on the bench, he finds a bandanna and wraps it around his head, only to have the refereeing crew order him to remove it--seems such head attire is contrary to the league's anti-gang rules.

You notice just before half-time there are more and more cameras focused on the rapidly-balding star, and just before the intermission one of the team's P.R. staff slips beside you and suggests you might want to leave--apparently your client has been muttering threats on the bench.

After heading to the bar to try to forget the fiasco, you eventually go home and flip on the t.v.--it's headlining all the news shows. Seems the basketball star had decided, back when he was hanging around with Louis Farrakhan and others of his radical black islam ilk, that the route of everything from slavery to segregation was zionism, and so had gotten his head tattoed with two circles--one containing a Star of David with a line through it, the other featuring a swastika.

Even his normal "bad boy" image can't justify this--his endorsement contracts all contained escape clauses for things just like this, and within hours all the companies that previously featured him in commercials are cutting all ties with his sinking career.

Meanwhile, you notice there are more than a dozen messages on your answering machine. The gist of the messages is that your expected lifespan is not one that most would envy. You debate calling the police, but your well-honed instinct for discretion is too strong, plus you figure after a night's sleep the anger will fade and the damage control will take over.

You are surprised, only a couple of hours later, when you wake to see a large angry shadow standing over your bed. You flip on the light to see the now completely bald basketball player glaring at you, a bandage covering the controversial skin art.

"Get up" he growls. He tells you to get dressed and waits in the next room. You go for your phone, but the cord has been cut and your cell is no where to be found. You realize your best bet is to play along, and soon you're getting into his Porsche which is double parked in front of your building.

The next hour is a rambling drive filled with rambling conversation--well, he'll do most of the talking. He talks of his bizarre childhood raised on the rough streets, avoiding a grandmother and her weird cult friends. He admits his fears and tells you of his secret dreams. You keep looking for a way to escape the car as you try to calm him down.

Then suddenly his weaving across the center line attracts the attention of a passing motorcycle cop who begins a pursuit. Instead of pulling over, the basketball player hits the gas and soon the Porsche is squealing on corners and swerving dangerously close to the guardrails overlooking steep drops. You scream and hang on for dear life, and then one corner comes too fast...

You awaken strapped to a bed with various tubes and wires attached to your broken body. You can't move much, nor can you talk, but your mind works fine. You develop communication using a blinking code, and eventually you're moved to a care facility where they try, on limited budget, to increase your almost nonexistent mobility.

You would get better care except the widow of the basketball player sues you for alienation of affection--claiming you were having an affair with her husband and that's why the two of you were out in his car at that hour, both of your blood samples showing evidence of alcohol consumption. Meanwhile, his mother sues you for negligence, claiming your incompetent dye job caused his final destruction. It will turn out, sadly, that your little "waiver" is completely worthless in a serious civil court action.

The final injury will not be physical pain, but having to endure the once a month visit from the local hairdressing school--the clients in the care facility get free haircuts from these amateur hacks, and since you're unable to voice your complaints, they always give the worst student to you.

An embarassment of tickets...

Yes, I'm spoiled. We leave for London on Saturday morning, and the tour company has provided Blue Man Group, which I wasn't all that thrilled with but my son wishes he could see them, and Wicked, which we're thrilled about.

Today I was able to add good seats for Guys and Dolls (which will be interesting considering we just did the show ourselves) and Les Mis.

Then about a week after I get back my family and I are off to Vancouver to see Stomp, and then on the first weekend of May I'm taking a group of 40 to Vancouver to see a touring production of Chicago.

Still have no idea what show I'm doing next year, though--I wish people wouldn't ask me almost every day...

The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a

Fashion Designer

Oh hi there--sorry I'm a little late; I was out on a date kind of late last night and well, this morning I just lost track of the time. Sorry, your name is... Celeste? That's a lovely name--Celeste. Have you ever been to that jazz club downtown, Celeste? Oh right, of course, you have to be old enough to get in. Well trust me, it's amazing. Really, when you're old enough, you should try it--of course, it helps when you're with someone special, I must admit.

So, enough about me, Celeste. What career strikes your fancy? Fashion Design? Hmm--that could be a bit challenging, but I can tell by your taste in clothes you're already on your way to making this dream come... Sorry--normally I don't let calls come through but this morning I told the secretary if one particular person called to ring me. You don't mind? Thanks. No, you can stay here; I'm sure this won't take a moment.

Hi--no, it's okay, I was just chatting with a student. Yeah, I had a wonderful time last night too... Pardon? Oh, that's okay, after all, this Friday was kind of a play it by ear night so we can reschedule--you free on Saturday? Oh? ...But I thought you said your divorce was almost final? Oh... that's great. No really, I understand giving it another shot and all. Yeah, of course we'll keep in touch. I'm... really happy for you. Bye.

What? Oh right. Fashion design. Well, first of all, you're going to have to try to get into some cutthroat design college where one bad project will bounce you out to make room for more Calvin Klein wannabes. You'll work your fingers to the bone trying to meet the insane deadlines for your first runway show, and in the end, even though you'll probably do okay, none of the other students will admit it, because you are just one more obstacle to their ultimate victory.

After college, if you survive, you'll try to catch on with some designer label as some sort of peon--you'll be lucky if you don't have to do anything more demeaning than pour coffee. You won't have a social life--you're straight, right? You will spend your day surrounded by gay males trying to win the same lottery you're after, anorexic models who can barely muster the energy to phone their coke dealers, and predatory bitter ex models who've managed to preserve enough brain cells to become your cruel masters in this abusive indentured servitude you've signed up for.

One day, in a rare fit of apparent kindness, one of the designers asks your opinion on something, and liking your answer offers you a chance to help create a few designs for the next New York show. You've already wasted five years of your life at that company, so you feel you've paid your dues. You put your heart and soul into those three dresses, and you are gratified when the designer gushes over them and tells you he'll be sending a limo to meet you at your apartment to take you to the show.

You'll be stressed, the day of the show, when the limo is half an hour late--you realize you were already cutting the time close. Then, mysteriously, the foreign driver answers some radio queries in a language you don't understand, and then suddenly turns up a street you don't recognize and the next thing you're stuck in road construction in Queens.

You miss the show, but you arrive in time to see a crowd surrounding your recent benefactor, raising their champagne glasses in his honor. You are furious to discover your dresses were a hit, and he took all the credit for them. Everyone looks at you like you're off your head when you yell that you designed them, and the next day you're greeted at your desk by a security officer who helps you box the contents of your filing cabinet and escorts you off the premises.

Despite your anger and disappointment, you realize you were a fool to trust the self-serving designer and realize your best hope lies in starting your own company. You cash in your retirement savings bonds, you hit up friends and relatives for cash, and hock your car for the little money you get back after the bank takes what's still owing.

You throw it into your own company, and although you start small, your intuition was right, and you make a minor splash in a couple of trade publications. A few investors decide to take a gamble on you, and that fall your first full show is a hit. You have been studying the business enough to realize you need to keep control of everything, from the suppliers of your raw cloth to the hiring of the Southeast Asian employees in the relatively enlightened factory you set up offshore.

Soon a few department stores are carrying your label, and even one national news anchor makes you her designer of choice. It will be a heady time--all 10 months or so.

Then, even more quickly than it came to you, it will all disappear. The government will be overthrown in the country where all of your garments are made, and all that bribe money you paid will have to be paid again to new corrupt officials. Then a typhoon will knock out the power supply to your factory and the resulting months of down time will put you in a tight financial bind--too much debt and no income can do that.

The last straw will come when in an effort to get things moving, you relocate some of your factory work to a recently-abandoned Nike plant in a more repressive country. Your onsite lackeys are desperate to get things going, so they aren't fussy who they hire, and soon there's a litany of horrible abuse stories of things that have happened to the workers at the hands of their managers.

Sadly, for you, the factory is in the same town as the orphanage where Angelina Jolie shows up to adopt her 37th child, and when she hears of the disgusting events transpiring at your factory, she and her army of adopted kids begin picketing your New York offices, eventually being joined by all manner of human rights groups and trade unions.

Your photo is on the front cover of time magazine with the caption "The New Face of Corporate Greed" and the IRS goes over the last five years of your tax returns with a fine tooth comb. You'll be lucky if bankruptcy is the worst thing that happens to you.

Our Very Own "Overheard in..."

Many of you are familiar with "Overheard in New York". I know we've wasted a fair amount of time in the booth giggling over some of the entries. Many of them, honestly, are disturbing bordering on disgusting--others are just sort of... surreal.

Back in the fall, I think it was, R and I started paying attention to some things we were hearing in our little domain. We made a list, and added a few to it every so often. Here, for your viewing pleasure, I offer real things heard by myself or R during a typical weekday:

“You guys and all your drama. It should be a novel. I wouldn’t read it, though”
- M in Serious Coffee

“So it’s vogue, vogue, adopt an African child, vogue”
- morning dance class in theatre

“What’s that--a comic? I thought French people only read Tin Tin and Asterix and Obelix” - to an exchange student from France on way into theatre

I should join the lesbian separatists--I’ve got the boots for it.

“Cute in like an 85 year old way?”

“They found this salt patch that was from before the earth exploded and killed all the dinosaurs”

The amoebas have special powers--like special dinosaur powers”

Sitting in a sauna with seven layer dip--that’s like my dream.
--the booth

Student: Would you like a slinky?
Principal: Do you have several?
- hallway

Since you left the group, you’re the girl

I have two more lesbians that I never even had lined up before

“I remember what the poem’s about because I think of the circle of life that’s a song and it’s called song and …oh, I don’t want to talk anymore. You’re writing that aren’t you; I hate you.”
-R

Why won’t your mom let us give him aids?
-Alix

His present’s cool--I want polio.

I didn’t know you could get that from giving head--but it’s weird that your mom told you.

I have SDS--Severe Dumbass Syndrome

“I was in festival--I had a hiphop solo, and the audience intimidated me because they weren’t jews”
-H

ME: “That ‘no intoxicants’ rule means no smoking dope on the trip.”
Student: “That’s okay--I’m going cold turkey for two weeks before the trip and buying some new clothes.”
Me and T (discussing the London trip)

So very tired...

First of all, I edited the preceding CCC post a little bit. On reflection it seemed to pick on the asthma aspect a little too much.

The show opens a week Monday! This is crazy stressful time kids.

If you live in the vicinity and want to see some talented young folk, get your Guys and Dolls tickets soon.

Most who read this don't follow hockey even a little bit, but as a longsuffering Canucks fan, I am enjoying their current run. Looks like they'll be in the playoffs, and the first round will begin JUST AROUND THE TIME I'M OFF TO LONDON. *sigh*

I remember my parents were in England during one of the few decent playoff runs they had in the early 80s and my dad managed to see tiny bits of a couple games on random televisions there. I wonder if I had the games taped if I could avoid hearing anything at all about the results before I got home to watch them?