Yes that is stupid gibberish. Some of it is taken from real yearbook grad writeups. I think I'll post a few real ones some time so we can point and mock.
Many grad writeups are great--sentimental messages directed at family, friends, or teachers, while others make witty observations about life or humorous predictions for the future. But then there are the wannabe gangstas who feel that lots of "izzle" words, interspersed with long lists of friends' initials and occasional internet abbreviations "ROTFL" or "LOL" make them look witty. pLuS AlwaYz mEsS arOuNd wIt' cApiTaL lEtTeRz, yo.
News flash--when your kids pick up that yearbook some day in the future, they're going to ask "Dad, were you on drugs a lot in high school?" "Mom, were you in the 'special' class?"
Nobody, including you, is likely to remember what all those initials stand for, and when people dig the book out just before their reunions every ten years, your stupidity will be once again recalled.
I rant about this for two reasons. First, we got our yearbooks on Monday, and quite a few did the same old crap I hate. Second, my last couple of posts have been kind of "inside" posts--posts about a specific situation that has meaning to a very limited number of people who are in the know.
I don't want to turn everyone else off, just like the losers who write all the inside code words and initials. (BTW--News flash--we all know what 4/20 is about as well)
I do like to write parables, though. I can come out and give my opinion on someone's problem and likely annoy or offend them, or I can tell a story and hope they get the message. That's what I chose to do for the last blog.
But now we return to our regularly scheduled programming. Close captioning will be unnecessary.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Friday, June 17, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Peace Activist
Hi--c'mon in. Peace Activist? Yeah, I guess I could offer some ideas along that line. Just a question--is everything you own tie-dyed? I mean, the shirts I can see, and maybe even the pants--but how the hell did you manage the sneakers? Nevermind--I think you can expect something like this:
You're starting out okay trying this line in high school, but you won't really get going until you hit university. You'll need to go somewhere that's suitably left wing--my advice is don't go to any college where the agriculture faculty is bigger than the women's studies department. Eventually you'll take your message to the world, but you'll need a relatively friendly incubator to develop it first.
You'll take a few courses to justify being there, such as sociology, or global studies--things that don't really take up much of your time. If you can get into upper level courses like "The Marxist Dialectic as it informs German Expressionist Cinema" I'd say go for it. You need classrooms where you can practice being painfully earnest in discussions that no one in the real world would care about, but which stir up such passion in your soul that you physically threaten classmates who vociferously defend opposing viewpoints.
No doubt there'll be several "peace groups" already on campus--you'll infiltrate them subtly, but remain noncommital as you look for places where they stray from your particular brand of peacenik orthodoxy. Perhaps they'll be soft on CIA crimes in the Latin American political sphere, or they'll fail to jump quickly enough to support the politically-corrrect side of the latest Sri Lankan hostilities. Once you find their soft underbelly, make yourself the voice crying in the wilderness. It helps if any of their leadership is male--you can regularly use add the words "male-dominated" or "anti-feminist" to your diatribes about the "military-industrial complex". Ironic that one comes from a general, isn't it?
Over time you'll wear down the leadership of one of the groups, since senior students actually have to worry about things like writing thesis papers and eventually graduating, and you will happily take control and begin shifting the group's direction to gain more notoriety off campus. Your nude sit-in at an army recruiting center makes newcasts nationwide, and it's only a matter of time before you're being interviewed by television and radio personalities from all over the country.
Sadly though, universities don't go full speed all year, and the four months downtime in the summer erases the progress of your publicity campaign. Many of your key helpers don't return the following year, either having graduated or simply run out of tuition money because their focus on activism dropped their grades and ended their scholarships. You try to forge onwards, but you lack the drive to take it to the next level. It's then your knight in shining armor comes to the rescue.
He'll be a refugee from an Ivy League college--possibly old money, but without the banal passivity that characterizes so many of his ilk. Instead, he'll drop in on your weekly coffeehouse meeting and quote some passages from a Helen Caldicott book from memory--you'll be entranced by the smoothness and sincerity of his delivery. It becomes clear quite quickly he's interested in both your group and in you personally, and soon the two of you are a team, working to spread your message against militarism while sharing the joy of your newfound love in his loft apartment--saving the cost of rent by moving in together allows you that much more to spend on leaflet printing.
It's Neville--you can't quite get used to his old money moniker--who plans some of your more successful publicity stunts. He skydives into a local wine tasting festival and convinces you and your friends to pose for a fundraising calendar wearing nothing but the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Soon you're no longer heading just a campus group, but something spreading throughout your city, and to cities nearby. You rent office space and buy a listing in the Yellow Pages. Your greatest publicity coup comes when your group heads a protest at an air show, and while the police are trying to quell a few skirmishes in their riot gear, you take a night stick to the head and wake up the next day in a hospital bed, surrounded by get well wishes from peaceniks around the world.
The video footage of your attack is damning, and the police begin an investigation, but the actual identity of the officer who assaulted you is unknown, though you can remember his face clearly. In a few days you are released from the hospital, and rather than trouble Neville, you take a cab home. As you enter your apartment building, you are shocked to see your assailant leaving your apartment. When you question Neville he admits paying an acquaintance to impersonate a police officer and strike you. You are shocked and run out of the apartment and back to your parents' home. He phones you and tries to explain that he did it for the greater good, but you refuse to talk to him. A few days later he vanishes, and his signing authority for the organization allows him to steal the huge windfall of donations your injuries brought in. You are too heartbroken to go to the police.
The police investigation eventually uncovers the fraud, and the story breaks at the same time as some of your colleagues are quoted as saying that the Allies shouldn't have gone to war against Hitler and that the Holocaust was exaggerated to allow warmongering leaders to send young men to their death to fatten the bank accounts of arms merchants.
You are soon facing the possibility of fraud charges, and each day as you leave your home to testify at an investigation of your organization's tactics and fundraising, you push through a gamut of hostile protesters who label you an anti-semetic Holocaust denier.
After taking a one-semester leave, you transfer to a quiet university 300 miles away and get a degree in communications. By your 25th birthday you're working in the public relations department of large oil company. You do donate a small portion of your monthly income to Amnesty International, though, and maybe you'll wear the tie-dye stuff on weekends around the house.
Hi--c'mon in. Peace Activist? Yeah, I guess I could offer some ideas along that line. Just a question--is everything you own tie-dyed? I mean, the shirts I can see, and maybe even the pants--but how the hell did you manage the sneakers? Nevermind--I think you can expect something like this:
You're starting out okay trying this line in high school, but you won't really get going until you hit university. You'll need to go somewhere that's suitably left wing--my advice is don't go to any college where the agriculture faculty is bigger than the women's studies department. Eventually you'll take your message to the world, but you'll need a relatively friendly incubator to develop it first.
You'll take a few courses to justify being there, such as sociology, or global studies--things that don't really take up much of your time. If you can get into upper level courses like "The Marxist Dialectic as it informs German Expressionist Cinema" I'd say go for it. You need classrooms where you can practice being painfully earnest in discussions that no one in the real world would care about, but which stir up such passion in your soul that you physically threaten classmates who vociferously defend opposing viewpoints.
No doubt there'll be several "peace groups" already on campus--you'll infiltrate them subtly, but remain noncommital as you look for places where they stray from your particular brand of peacenik orthodoxy. Perhaps they'll be soft on CIA crimes in the Latin American political sphere, or they'll fail to jump quickly enough to support the politically-corrrect side of the latest Sri Lankan hostilities. Once you find their soft underbelly, make yourself the voice crying in the wilderness. It helps if any of their leadership is male--you can regularly use add the words "male-dominated" or "anti-feminist" to your diatribes about the "military-industrial complex". Ironic that one comes from a general, isn't it?
Over time you'll wear down the leadership of one of the groups, since senior students actually have to worry about things like writing thesis papers and eventually graduating, and you will happily take control and begin shifting the group's direction to gain more notoriety off campus. Your nude sit-in at an army recruiting center makes newcasts nationwide, and it's only a matter of time before you're being interviewed by television and radio personalities from all over the country.
Sadly though, universities don't go full speed all year, and the four months downtime in the summer erases the progress of your publicity campaign. Many of your key helpers don't return the following year, either having graduated or simply run out of tuition money because their focus on activism dropped their grades and ended their scholarships. You try to forge onwards, but you lack the drive to take it to the next level. It's then your knight in shining armor comes to the rescue.
He'll be a refugee from an Ivy League college--possibly old money, but without the banal passivity that characterizes so many of his ilk. Instead, he'll drop in on your weekly coffeehouse meeting and quote some passages from a Helen Caldicott book from memory--you'll be entranced by the smoothness and sincerity of his delivery. It becomes clear quite quickly he's interested in both your group and in you personally, and soon the two of you are a team, working to spread your message against militarism while sharing the joy of your newfound love in his loft apartment--saving the cost of rent by moving in together allows you that much more to spend on leaflet printing.
It's Neville--you can't quite get used to his old money moniker--who plans some of your more successful publicity stunts. He skydives into a local wine tasting festival and convinces you and your friends to pose for a fundraising calendar wearing nothing but the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Soon you're no longer heading just a campus group, but something spreading throughout your city, and to cities nearby. You rent office space and buy a listing in the Yellow Pages. Your greatest publicity coup comes when your group heads a protest at an air show, and while the police are trying to quell a few skirmishes in their riot gear, you take a night stick to the head and wake up the next day in a hospital bed, surrounded by get well wishes from peaceniks around the world.
The video footage of your attack is damning, and the police begin an investigation, but the actual identity of the officer who assaulted you is unknown, though you can remember his face clearly. In a few days you are released from the hospital, and rather than trouble Neville, you take a cab home. As you enter your apartment building, you are shocked to see your assailant leaving your apartment. When you question Neville he admits paying an acquaintance to impersonate a police officer and strike you. You are shocked and run out of the apartment and back to your parents' home. He phones you and tries to explain that he did it for the greater good, but you refuse to talk to him. A few days later he vanishes, and his signing authority for the organization allows him to steal the huge windfall of donations your injuries brought in. You are too heartbroken to go to the police.
The police investigation eventually uncovers the fraud, and the story breaks at the same time as some of your colleagues are quoted as saying that the Allies shouldn't have gone to war against Hitler and that the Holocaust was exaggerated to allow warmongering leaders to send young men to their death to fatten the bank accounts of arms merchants.
You are soon facing the possibility of fraud charges, and each day as you leave your home to testify at an investigation of your organization's tactics and fundraising, you push through a gamut of hostile protesters who label you an anti-semetic Holocaust denier.
After taking a one-semester leave, you transfer to a quiet university 300 miles away and get a degree in communications. By your 25th birthday you're working in the public relations department of large oil company. You do donate a small portion of your monthly income to Amnesty International, though, and maybe you'll wear the tie-dye stuff on weekends around the house.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As A
Therapist (by request)
Hi--I remember you--you're the girl that ran "Rainbow Week" and "Diversity Camp". Yeah--you're also the assistant manager of the cheerleading squad, right? You'd probably make a pretty good therapist; I overheard Tiffany saying how you were "so there for her" when the football captain dumped her and you had her over to watch that ya-ya sisterhood movie and give each other pedicures... What? I am not smirking. Whatever--so let's think about what a therapist's career has to offer:
It's not the same as psychiatry--let's be honest, you don't have the marks for med school--and one of the benefits of that is that you won't have to carry a pager around at all hours so a dozen psychos can call you before they plan to jump. Really, you just have to get some sort of relevant-sounding degree, set up an office somewhere, and learn these few simple phrases:
How does that make you feel?
What was your relationship with your father like?
What was your relationship with your mother like?
Do you think you can really love someone else if you can't love yourself?
What do you think you should do?
Yes, I am listening.
No, I don't accept post-dated cheques.
and if you want to be a "neo-Freudian":
Were you breast or bottle fed?
How did toilet training go for you?
Once you get these down, you'll master the therapist's art of double-think--pretending to be engrossed by the self-absorbed whiner in your office while planning your next trip to Cabo.
It will work nicely for you--for a while. Then you'll meet "the one"--that unique patient who is so beautiful, fragile and genuine, that you find yourself actually listening rather than calculating your taxes in your head. You'll ache as she describes her psychopathic ex, and you'll break the cardinal rule of therapists--you'll talk about your own tortured past.
You see, the last thing your patients need to know is that part of the reason therapists and counsellors get into talking about their problems is that they themselves have deep-seated fears and insecurities about the very same things... What the hell are you smirking at? Career counselling is not the same thing at all! Anyway, to continue:
Your special patient will be given your home phone number--again, the violation of another taboo, and it seems only natural when you end up going for supper more and more frequently after her sessions, since she always seems to get the appointments at the end of the day. Your office assistant becomes colder and you catch her glaring at you when she thinks you're not looking, but you're not sure if she just disapproves of your inappropriate therapist-client friendship, or if she's still carrying around the crush on you she drunkenly confessed to the previous christmas.
The "incidents" that start occuring are so minor as to escape your conscious notice at first--your car mirror is smashed, you get just breathing on the phone line when you answer those late-night calls--but then the signs become clearer. Someone chases away a hooded stranger before they cut your brake line in the office parkade, and when you weed your flower bed you notice a pile of cigarette butts outside your bedroom window.
You decide it's time to relocate, and you invite your patient friend--with whom you've crossed the friend line so badly your license should be revoked, but as a self-styled therapist you don't need a license--but she's been taking a few psychology courses at the local community college and she's learned about "transference", and realizes her feelings for you are artificial and that you are scum for taking advantage of them, so she cuts off all contact with you.
You are heartbroken, and take a leave for three months, and rent a villa in Tuscany. (I never said this gig wouldn't pay well.) You're amazed at how distance, fine wine and relaxation time heal your pain. You're almost ready to come home when the psychotic ex finds you. The local police find two bodies--your killer is the one which hasn't been ritually dismembered, and the subsequent investigation finds letters in your murderer's room which put your assistant in prison for 18 months for passing along your wherabouts--it seems she was the jealous type after all...
What do you mean "why don't we have a female career counsellor"? I am not homophobic! I signed your stupid "definition of marriage" petition didn't I? Wait a minute, come back--let's talk about this.
Crap. This isn't going to be good.
The other 37 Career Counsellor posts can be found here.
Hi--I remember you--you're the girl that ran "Rainbow Week" and "Diversity Camp". Yeah--you're also the assistant manager of the cheerleading squad, right? You'd probably make a pretty good therapist; I overheard Tiffany saying how you were "so there for her" when the football captain dumped her and you had her over to watch that ya-ya sisterhood movie and give each other pedicures... What? I am not smirking. Whatever--so let's think about what a therapist's career has to offer:
It's not the same as psychiatry--let's be honest, you don't have the marks for med school--and one of the benefits of that is that you won't have to carry a pager around at all hours so a dozen psychos can call you before they plan to jump. Really, you just have to get some sort of relevant-sounding degree, set up an office somewhere, and learn these few simple phrases:
How does that make you feel?
What was your relationship with your father like?
What was your relationship with your mother like?
Do you think you can really love someone else if you can't love yourself?
What do you think you should do?
Yes, I am listening.
No, I don't accept post-dated cheques.
and if you want to be a "neo-Freudian":
Were you breast or bottle fed?
How did toilet training go for you?
Once you get these down, you'll master the therapist's art of double-think--pretending to be engrossed by the self-absorbed whiner in your office while planning your next trip to Cabo.
It will work nicely for you--for a while. Then you'll meet "the one"--that unique patient who is so beautiful, fragile and genuine, that you find yourself actually listening rather than calculating your taxes in your head. You'll ache as she describes her psychopathic ex, and you'll break the cardinal rule of therapists--you'll talk about your own tortured past.
You see, the last thing your patients need to know is that part of the reason therapists and counsellors get into talking about their problems is that they themselves have deep-seated fears and insecurities about the very same things... What the hell are you smirking at? Career counselling is not the same thing at all! Anyway, to continue:
Your special patient will be given your home phone number--again, the violation of another taboo, and it seems only natural when you end up going for supper more and more frequently after her sessions, since she always seems to get the appointments at the end of the day. Your office assistant becomes colder and you catch her glaring at you when she thinks you're not looking, but you're not sure if she just disapproves of your inappropriate therapist-client friendship, or if she's still carrying around the crush on you she drunkenly confessed to the previous christmas.
The "incidents" that start occuring are so minor as to escape your conscious notice at first--your car mirror is smashed, you get just breathing on the phone line when you answer those late-night calls--but then the signs become clearer. Someone chases away a hooded stranger before they cut your brake line in the office parkade, and when you weed your flower bed you notice a pile of cigarette butts outside your bedroom window.
You decide it's time to relocate, and you invite your patient friend--with whom you've crossed the friend line so badly your license should be revoked, but as a self-styled therapist you don't need a license--but she's been taking a few psychology courses at the local community college and she's learned about "transference", and realizes her feelings for you are artificial and that you are scum for taking advantage of them, so she cuts off all contact with you.
You are heartbroken, and take a leave for three months, and rent a villa in Tuscany. (I never said this gig wouldn't pay well.) You're amazed at how distance, fine wine and relaxation time heal your pain. You're almost ready to come home when the psychotic ex finds you. The local police find two bodies--your killer is the one which hasn't been ritually dismembered, and the subsequent investigation finds letters in your murderer's room which put your assistant in prison for 18 months for passing along your wherabouts--it seems she was the jealous type after all...
What do you mean "why don't we have a female career counsellor"? I am not homophobic! I signed your stupid "definition of marriage" petition didn't I? Wait a minute, come back--let's talk about this.
Crap. This isn't going to be good.
The other 37 Career Counsellor posts can be found here.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Paramedic
So, you going to ride in the ambulance, huh? Well, I hope you've got a strong stomach and a lot of patience, because you're going to need both.
Here's the deal--you'll go to school for a couple years and learn all the extreme first aid you need--the whole piling doughnut bandages like a ring toss game to stabilize the screwdriver sticking out of some guy's eye socket, or looking for missing digits after one of those Japanese "cook it at your table" guys gets a little too enthusiastic while chopping the beef.
You think you'll be able to handle it, but when they tour you through the pediatric burn unit, your resolve will wither away to the point you consider dropping the whole thing. Eventually, though, you steel yourself for the worst you can imagine and you jump into the game. You'll quickly recognize the unique combination of adrenalin rush and sickening dread each time you get called out to an accident. It won't take you long to accumulate enough nightmarish dismemberment stories to supply a hundred pre-graduation safety presentations.
Of course, there will be the other frustrations of the job to keep your mind off the memories of the most horrible scenes--frustrations like the people who call repeatedly for no good reason, or your anger at not being able to throttle the crackhead father who claims his youngster "keeps on fallin' down the stairs". You cross the line the day that father overdoses and you treat him just slowly enough to ensure he'll never hurt the kid again--it's your own brand of justice and you never doubt you did the right thing--until eight years later you treat the same kid for wounds at the hands of an angry john.
The hospitals annoy you too--some of the emergency doctors don't accept your triage advice, and you resent the fact that you do the same work in the back of a swerving vehicle that they do in a hospital but they get to drive home a Lexus or a BMW, while you'll be lucky if you can ever get rid of the ten year old rustbucket pickup truck you drive. It will also gall you that even though you're the senior paramedic on your team, everyone talks to your partner first because you're female.
When you get assigned to the downtown station, you quickly become another redneck who wants to toughen up drug laws to help keep you from having to avoid needle sticks from the same junkies every weekend. You contemplate carrying an air rifle to shoot out the windows of the jerks who hear your siren but don't bother to pull over--it doesn't help your career when your boss calls you in to ask why you gave the mayor the finger...
My best suggestion--keep the liquor cabinet full until you've got enough seniority for a good stress leave arrangement. Just don't drink and drive--you wouldn't want to have your colleagues hose you off the pavement, after all.
So, you going to ride in the ambulance, huh? Well, I hope you've got a strong stomach and a lot of patience, because you're going to need both.
Here's the deal--you'll go to school for a couple years and learn all the extreme first aid you need--the whole piling doughnut bandages like a ring toss game to stabilize the screwdriver sticking out of some guy's eye socket, or looking for missing digits after one of those Japanese "cook it at your table" guys gets a little too enthusiastic while chopping the beef.
You think you'll be able to handle it, but when they tour you through the pediatric burn unit, your resolve will wither away to the point you consider dropping the whole thing. Eventually, though, you steel yourself for the worst you can imagine and you jump into the game. You'll quickly recognize the unique combination of adrenalin rush and sickening dread each time you get called out to an accident. It won't take you long to accumulate enough nightmarish dismemberment stories to supply a hundred pre-graduation safety presentations.
Of course, there will be the other frustrations of the job to keep your mind off the memories of the most horrible scenes--frustrations like the people who call repeatedly for no good reason, or your anger at not being able to throttle the crackhead father who claims his youngster "keeps on fallin' down the stairs". You cross the line the day that father overdoses and you treat him just slowly enough to ensure he'll never hurt the kid again--it's your own brand of justice and you never doubt you did the right thing--until eight years later you treat the same kid for wounds at the hands of an angry john.
The hospitals annoy you too--some of the emergency doctors don't accept your triage advice, and you resent the fact that you do the same work in the back of a swerving vehicle that they do in a hospital but they get to drive home a Lexus or a BMW, while you'll be lucky if you can ever get rid of the ten year old rustbucket pickup truck you drive. It will also gall you that even though you're the senior paramedic on your team, everyone talks to your partner first because you're female.
When you get assigned to the downtown station, you quickly become another redneck who wants to toughen up drug laws to help keep you from having to avoid needle sticks from the same junkies every weekend. You contemplate carrying an air rifle to shoot out the windows of the jerks who hear your siren but don't bother to pull over--it doesn't help your career when your boss calls you in to ask why you gave the mayor the finger...
My best suggestion--keep the liquor cabinet full until you've got enough seniority for a good stress leave arrangement. Just don't drink and drive--you wouldn't want to have your colleagues hose you off the pavement, after all.
Monday, June 06, 2005
A Sonnet in Lieu of a Post. (with apologies to Camila)
Yeah, well it wasn't really a haiku, was it? Here goes:
I sit and type while youngsters sit nearby
Their videos they're trying to perfect
While they take shots--I just get no respect
And some sad attempts at acting make me cry
Some only do enough to just get by
While others worry 'bout each small defect
And struggle--"What transition to select?"
And panic as their deadline draweth nigh.
I'd like to just go home--vacate this place
Forget about the stresses of today
Sit back and maybe open up a beer
And problems from my thoughts I can erase
I head outside to join my kids in play
And hap'ly think we're almost done the year.
(Petrarchan sonnets are tougher than the Elizabethan
ones, kids)
I sit and type while youngsters sit nearby
Their videos they're trying to perfect
While they take shots--I just get no respect
And some sad attempts at acting make me cry
Some only do enough to just get by
While others worry 'bout each small defect
And struggle--"What transition to select?"
And panic as their deadline draweth nigh.
I'd like to just go home--vacate this place
Forget about the stresses of today
Sit back and maybe open up a beer
And problems from my thoughts I can erase
I head outside to join my kids in play
And hap'ly think we're almost done the year.
(Petrarchan sonnets are tougher than the Elizabethan
ones, kids)
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Photographer
Sounds good, doesn't it kid? You get to go buy a nice camera or two, a few lights and tripods, maybe put a darkroom in your parents' basement, and voilá--beautiful girls are begging you to take photos of them in their bathing suits or less. It's only a matter of time before Hugh Hefner calls and between shoots in exotic locales and jetting back to the Playboy Mansion for parties with the bunnies you have barely got time to spend half the money you'll be raking in. Yeah, right. Let me set your sights a little more firmly on what really lies ahead:
First of all, digital photography is fast relegating darkroom photographers to the same status as those audiophile snobs at the quaint "record" store downtown--you can pretend all you want, but you're really just a living museum piece if you don't move with the times. You'll need a high-end computer workstation if you're going to compete in this business, and some expensive software to go along with it. Unfortunately, it's getting more and more difficult to convince the average layperson that your high-priced prints are significantly better than what comes off their printer at home.
So it comes down to how well you can "capture" the perfect shot. Your job opportunities will be limited:
First, you could do freelance work for magazines. "Freelance" is a nice word for "no benefits and no regular income" or "you'd better marry rich". Sure, you could score a tidy sum for being lucky enough to be in the right spot at the right time, but even then, it's no guarantee there'll be any more after that.
Second, there's the photo studio. Problem is, the high end studios are dying out. People go to places like Walmart now for family portraits--don't expect to get much in pay or benefits if you end up there. There are also the specialty studios--trying to get both ears in the passport photo or retouch the fat, pockmarked realtor's publicity shots so he looks less like a diseased troll.
Finally, there's the photo lab. You see, a few of them still like the snob appeal of having a real photographer on staff, plus you'll know enough to work the camera sales counter as well. There you'll learn to despise all sunsets and pictures of dogs and grandchildren--after all, it's only the over 60 crowd who won't be using digital cameras soon. Once in a while, a sicko will turn in a film for processing, thinking it's done by machine so know one sees it--at best you'll be disgusted by the fetish activities depicted, at worst you'll testify in court about the horrible underage photos you saw, only to realize an underground network of perverts will have marked you for death, and you'll have to move to some hick town where you're the one photographing the blessed unions of first cousins.
Have fun.
Sounds good, doesn't it kid? You get to go buy a nice camera or two, a few lights and tripods, maybe put a darkroom in your parents' basement, and voilá--beautiful girls are begging you to take photos of them in their bathing suits or less. It's only a matter of time before Hugh Hefner calls and between shoots in exotic locales and jetting back to the Playboy Mansion for parties with the bunnies you have barely got time to spend half the money you'll be raking in. Yeah, right. Let me set your sights a little more firmly on what really lies ahead:
First of all, digital photography is fast relegating darkroom photographers to the same status as those audiophile snobs at the quaint "record" store downtown--you can pretend all you want, but you're really just a living museum piece if you don't move with the times. You'll need a high-end computer workstation if you're going to compete in this business, and some expensive software to go along with it. Unfortunately, it's getting more and more difficult to convince the average layperson that your high-priced prints are significantly better than what comes off their printer at home.
So it comes down to how well you can "capture" the perfect shot. Your job opportunities will be limited:
First, you could do freelance work for magazines. "Freelance" is a nice word for "no benefits and no regular income" or "you'd better marry rich". Sure, you could score a tidy sum for being lucky enough to be in the right spot at the right time, but even then, it's no guarantee there'll be any more after that.
Second, there's the photo studio. Problem is, the high end studios are dying out. People go to places like Walmart now for family portraits--don't expect to get much in pay or benefits if you end up there. There are also the specialty studios--trying to get both ears in the passport photo or retouch the fat, pockmarked realtor's publicity shots so he looks less like a diseased troll.
Finally, there's the photo lab. You see, a few of them still like the snob appeal of having a real photographer on staff, plus you'll know enough to work the camera sales counter as well. There you'll learn to despise all sunsets and pictures of dogs and grandchildren--after all, it's only the over 60 crowd who won't be using digital cameras soon. Once in a while, a sicko will turn in a film for processing, thinking it's done by machine so know one sees it--at best you'll be disgusted by the fetish activities depicted, at worst you'll testify in court about the horrible underage photos you saw, only to realize an underground network of perverts will have marked you for death, and you'll have to move to some hick town where you're the one photographing the blessed unions of first cousins.
Have fun.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As A
Professional Baseball Player
Crap--You want to be a professional ball player? I HATE baseball. Oh right, you're the kid that got kicked off the school team when your dad beat up that umpire in the exhibition game against the special needs school--Hmm--I guess I can come up with something...
You obviously won't want to waste your time playing ball for some nothing college in the middle of nowhere when you can wander from town to town trying out for semipro ball teams in the middle of nowhere. You've got a decent bat, and you can cover some ground in the outfield, so you'll get picked up on a ten day contract by some podunk town in the midwest somewhere. That's where you'll meet Sparky--the old has-been manager who claims he once worked as a base coach for the Oakland A's in the mid-70s. When your team has a layover in a town which actually has a library with internet access, you'll check out his story and confirm that he's full of crap. Still, he'll teach you some important lessons.
First he'll show you how to wear baggy shirts to increase your chance of getting hit by a pitch--then he'll teach you the art of spitting your chewing tobacco juice on rival teams' mascots. You'll be kind of sad to lose his folksy wisdom when you get picked up by a semi-respectable double-A club, but you'll be a little relieved, since he kept offering to come to your room and give you a rubdown after games.
Your learning will continue at this new level, and you'll be introduced to the wonder of steroids. It's only natural that a league with most of its teams in farm country has access to some of the best horse hormones anywhere. Soon you're bulking up, and you find yourself enjoying a little alfalfa each morning on your wheaties.
At 21, you're offered a contract by a major league team, and they send you to their Triple-A affiliate. It's a better class of hotel and bus; and sometimes you even fly to road games. Here they really prepare you for the big games--they warn you that the league is serious about cracking down on steroids and illegal bats, and then their trainers show you a new, undetectable hormone that can only be extracted from the pituitary gland of adolescent males. It's only on a dark layover in Topeka that you find out that the adolescent males are south american street kids who are killed to provide you with your extra hitting boost. Out of guilt, you start secretly dedicating your home runs to their memory.
You also take advantage of the next generation of corked bats, which have a special transmitter inside that broadcasts a fake image of wood to throw off X-ray machines.
At 25, you crack the big leagues, though you don't get a lot of playing time, and just when you get your big break and a regular spot as a left fielder, you are diagnosed with jaw cancer from years of tobacco chewing.
Fortunately, by this time, you are aware that the secret signs of the base coaches have nothing to do with the game, and everything to do with relaying information about secret hormone shipments between teams. You signal back your problem, and within ten days, a replacement jaw is shipped to you in an unmarked cooler--it's almost the same size as yours and after the surgery you hit 20 home runs that season that you dedicate to the memory of "Guillermo".
By the way, don't tell your dad you came here, okay?
The rest of the Cynical Career Counsellor posts can be found here.
Crap--You want to be a professional ball player? I HATE baseball. Oh right, you're the kid that got kicked off the school team when your dad beat up that umpire in the exhibition game against the special needs school--Hmm--I guess I can come up with something...
You obviously won't want to waste your time playing ball for some nothing college in the middle of nowhere when you can wander from town to town trying out for semipro ball teams in the middle of nowhere. You've got a decent bat, and you can cover some ground in the outfield, so you'll get picked up on a ten day contract by some podunk town in the midwest somewhere. That's where you'll meet Sparky--the old has-been manager who claims he once worked as a base coach for the Oakland A's in the mid-70s. When your team has a layover in a town which actually has a library with internet access, you'll check out his story and confirm that he's full of crap. Still, he'll teach you some important lessons.
First he'll show you how to wear baggy shirts to increase your chance of getting hit by a pitch--then he'll teach you the art of spitting your chewing tobacco juice on rival teams' mascots. You'll be kind of sad to lose his folksy wisdom when you get picked up by a semi-respectable double-A club, but you'll be a little relieved, since he kept offering to come to your room and give you a rubdown after games.
Your learning will continue at this new level, and you'll be introduced to the wonder of steroids. It's only natural that a league with most of its teams in farm country has access to some of the best horse hormones anywhere. Soon you're bulking up, and you find yourself enjoying a little alfalfa each morning on your wheaties.
At 21, you're offered a contract by a major league team, and they send you to their Triple-A affiliate. It's a better class of hotel and bus; and sometimes you even fly to road games. Here they really prepare you for the big games--they warn you that the league is serious about cracking down on steroids and illegal bats, and then their trainers show you a new, undetectable hormone that can only be extracted from the pituitary gland of adolescent males. It's only on a dark layover in Topeka that you find out that the adolescent males are south american street kids who are killed to provide you with your extra hitting boost. Out of guilt, you start secretly dedicating your home runs to their memory.
You also take advantage of the next generation of corked bats, which have a special transmitter inside that broadcasts a fake image of wood to throw off X-ray machines.
At 25, you crack the big leagues, though you don't get a lot of playing time, and just when you get your big break and a regular spot as a left fielder, you are diagnosed with jaw cancer from years of tobacco chewing.
Fortunately, by this time, you are aware that the secret signs of the base coaches have nothing to do with the game, and everything to do with relaying information about secret hormone shipments between teams. You signal back your problem, and within ten days, a replacement jaw is shipped to you in an unmarked cooler--it's almost the same size as yours and after the surgery you hit 20 home runs that season that you dedicate to the memory of "Guillermo".
By the way, don't tell your dad you came here, okay?
The rest of the Cynical Career Counsellor posts can be found here.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As An
Advertising Copywriter
Ah, yes--you're the kid who wants to get into advertising. You wrote the poems for the bakesale posters last week--how did it go again? "They've had enough abuse, Had all that they can take, Help support the women's shelter, buy some cookies and a cake". Lovely--socially responsible and catchy.
So--it won't all be bake sales and battered wives. No, you're going to end up probably working for some two-bit "alternative" radio station which doesn't get all its commercials from a network feed. Maybe you'll write little ditties for ethicially-grown coffee for the "Lesbian Poet's Corner" or a catchy jingle about safe sex for "Percussion Only". Whatever they give you to work on, you'll be gratified to know that the 20 people listening probably appreciate it, and your below-minimum wage paycheque will pay for the stamps you use to apply for real jobs.
You see, you won't have a minimum wage because you're self-employed. If you actually owned any assets, like a car, you would be able to depreciate them for tax purposes. All you'll have is an outdated computer that you use to ghostwrite 1st-year university papers for a little extra cash.
Still, hard work may pay off, and after a few years of poverty, if you don't quit, you might get a job at a small newspaper or a commercially-successful radio or television station. There you can leave behind the socially-responsible angst accompanied by chanting goddesses, and move into more traditional jingles for used car dealers and real estate agents. The trick will be keeping them fresh. There are only so many words that rhyme with "sale", after all. You'll also become well versed in other copywriting techniques, such as the "booming echo": THIS SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAY! EVERY USED CAR MUST GO BEFORE MONTH END INVENTORY--AMAZING SAVINGS! SAVINGS! SAVINGS!
Your work will be fulfilling only in that it pays you enough to get by--you won't brag about your masterpieces in most social circles. One day you'll meet the girl of your dreams, and your packaged charm will come in handy. You'll sweep her off her feet with love poems and songs, but a few weeks after you announce your engagement she'll discover a digital archive of all your old commercial ditties. The confrontation won't be pretty:
"Hey Dan," (your name is Dan, right kid?) she'll say, "Those things you said in your proposal--you said the exact same thing about a self-cleaning oven at Sears two years ago. 'Warm and secure' my ass," she'll mutter and then go on a rant about how she can't trust your praises of her worth when you've called lime cola "the greatest innovation since the printing press".
That sad episode will prove to you that you've lost your soul to advertising--and even when you do find a lesser mortal who will agree to marry you, you still will have to go through life being doubted by friends, your children and your workmates. Nobody believes a schill, my friend.
Good luck with it, though. I think there's another bake sale coming up next week--this time for the homeless shelter--want a bit of help? Twinkie and stinky rhyme. Think about it.
The rest of the Cynical Career Counsellor posts can be found here.
Ah, yes--you're the kid who wants to get into advertising. You wrote the poems for the bakesale posters last week--how did it go again? "They've had enough abuse, Had all that they can take, Help support the women's shelter, buy some cookies and a cake". Lovely--socially responsible and catchy.
So--it won't all be bake sales and battered wives. No, you're going to end up probably working for some two-bit "alternative" radio station which doesn't get all its commercials from a network feed. Maybe you'll write little ditties for ethicially-grown coffee for the "Lesbian Poet's Corner" or a catchy jingle about safe sex for "Percussion Only". Whatever they give you to work on, you'll be gratified to know that the 20 people listening probably appreciate it, and your below-minimum wage paycheque will pay for the stamps you use to apply for real jobs.
You see, you won't have a minimum wage because you're self-employed. If you actually owned any assets, like a car, you would be able to depreciate them for tax purposes. All you'll have is an outdated computer that you use to ghostwrite 1st-year university papers for a little extra cash.
Still, hard work may pay off, and after a few years of poverty, if you don't quit, you might get a job at a small newspaper or a commercially-successful radio or television station. There you can leave behind the socially-responsible angst accompanied by chanting goddesses, and move into more traditional jingles for used car dealers and real estate agents. The trick will be keeping them fresh. There are only so many words that rhyme with "sale", after all. You'll also become well versed in other copywriting techniques, such as the "booming echo": THIS SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAY! EVERY USED CAR MUST GO BEFORE MONTH END INVENTORY--AMAZING SAVINGS! SAVINGS! SAVINGS!
Your work will be fulfilling only in that it pays you enough to get by--you won't brag about your masterpieces in most social circles. One day you'll meet the girl of your dreams, and your packaged charm will come in handy. You'll sweep her off her feet with love poems and songs, but a few weeks after you announce your engagement she'll discover a digital archive of all your old commercial ditties. The confrontation won't be pretty:
"Hey Dan," (your name is Dan, right kid?) she'll say, "Those things you said in your proposal--you said the exact same thing about a self-cleaning oven at Sears two years ago. 'Warm and secure' my ass," she'll mutter and then go on a rant about how she can't trust your praises of her worth when you've called lime cola "the greatest innovation since the printing press".
That sad episode will prove to you that you've lost your soul to advertising--and even when you do find a lesser mortal who will agree to marry you, you still will have to go through life being doubted by friends, your children and your workmates. Nobody believes a schill, my friend.
Good luck with it, though. I think there's another bake sale coming up next week--this time for the homeless shelter--want a bit of help? Twinkie and stinky rhyme. Think about it.
The rest of the Cynical Career Counsellor posts can be found here.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
The Kid Who Sits Behind You and One Seat to the Left Explains Jane Eyre
You'll need to go here to see this. Alex, my hat is off to you. I don't know the protocol we're working out here, but I don't feel I can just upload it here without discussing it, but I'd like to put it on the other page--with all due authorship credit, as you choose it.
Well done.
Well done.
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
Sense and Sensibility
So, this Jane Austen chick wrote a bunch of books because her life all sucked and she died young but she could have romance in her imagination and stuff--kind of like that girl in the library club who's always looking at me funny and it creeps me out so I don't stay in the library when she's there. Anway, she wrote this book called Sense and Sensibility, but it doesn't seem to make much sense and all the people aren't very sensible so i guess she was being all ironical when she titled it.
Anyway, there's this family and the dad dies and the half brother says "bugger off" to his stepmom and stepsisters and they go live somewhere else and life sucks and they try to get hooked up with these guys but it's all about who's rich or not 'cause on account of if your family was poor and you were kinda hot your family could marry you off to a rich dude and everybody'd be okay but if you were fuglified and you had bucks you could get married too because it was all about the cash.
The people doubletalk all the time too--so if they're saying "what a lovely cozy cottage you have here" they really mean "nice trailer, Cletus, when's the tornado comin'?".
I tried to read to the end. I really did, but these people are sooo stupid but instead I think I'll just get that girl in the library to explain it to me. Yeah, I suck.
Oh, and by the way--I'm hitting the beach a lot now summer's pretty much here so my friend who sits beside me in class is gonna help write some of these. She's cool, if you don't mind the acid flashbacks that whack her brain out sometimes.
So, this Jane Austen chick wrote a bunch of books because her life all sucked and she died young but she could have romance in her imagination and stuff--kind of like that girl in the library club who's always looking at me funny and it creeps me out so I don't stay in the library when she's there. Anway, she wrote this book called Sense and Sensibility, but it doesn't seem to make much sense and all the people aren't very sensible so i guess she was being all ironical when she titled it.
Anyway, there's this family and the dad dies and the half brother says "bugger off" to his stepmom and stepsisters and they go live somewhere else and life sucks and they try to get hooked up with these guys but it's all about who's rich or not 'cause on account of if your family was poor and you were kinda hot your family could marry you off to a rich dude and everybody'd be okay but if you were fuglified and you had bucks you could get married too because it was all about the cash.
The people doubletalk all the time too--so if they're saying "what a lovely cozy cottage you have here" they really mean "nice trailer, Cletus, when's the tornado comin'?".
I tried to read to the end. I really did, but these people are sooo stupid but instead I think I'll just get that girl in the library to explain it to me. Yeah, I suck.
Oh, and by the way--I'm hitting the beach a lot now summer's pretty much here so my friend who sits beside me in class is gonna help write some of these. She's cool, if you don't mind the acid flashbacks that whack her brain out sometimes.
Friday, May 06, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
A Gardener
Hi--so, you're the kid who wants to be a gardener. Well, I hope you're ready for what's ahead:
You should try to apprentice with another gardener, and learn all about the chemicals that make things look natural--of course, then you'll have to learn how to pretend you don't use chemicals so the enviro-hippies think their apartment building grows organic daisies.
Once you're ready to go on your own, you'll need a truck--choose a comfortable one, even if the payments mean living in your parents' basement for a few years--after all, day after dreary day, it's likely the cab of your truck where you will be spending all your coffee and lunch breaks. Oh, you may dream of somehow becoming head gardener at the Arlington National Cemetary, or Kew Gardens, but the fact is, you're going to be the grubby guy pruning the hedge to most people. You think you're going to stomp across their carpet to go pee? Even with your boots off, it just isn't right, so you'll perfect the art of urinating in an old peanut butter jar in your vehicle.
It's at times like that you'll realize you inhabit a plane a little lower than your customers, and it will be reinforced when your wife asks you to hide your hands at your kids' parent-teacher interviews--the ground in dirt on your fingers is a little too embarassingly blue collar on occasion. You won't make enough money, either, because if you charge what your work is really worth, your customers are free to go to the next guy who's got a truck, a wheelbarrow and a rake and who's happy just to make enough to get by while his refugee status is sorted out.
The weather won't be your friend, either. If you end up in a northern clime, then your knees, followed by other joints, will be arthritic from the damp and the constant kneeling--don't think those little strap-on kneepads will help. If you work further south, you'll have regular trips to the plastic surgeon to get those bothersome melanomas excised from your forehead. With the damage your skin will take, coupled with the arthritis, people who meet you at 35 will swear you're 15 years older.
If you work in a city, perhaps doing apartments and strip malls, you'll encounter the twin biohazards of used condoms and hypodermic needles. And eventually--it's only a matter of time--a news report on a murder investigation will link your name and the words "grisly discovery", which at least will mean the forensics team will cultivate the rest of the soil around those rhododendrons for you...
The rest of the Cynical Career Counsellor posts can be found here.
Hi--so, you're the kid who wants to be a gardener. Well, I hope you're ready for what's ahead:
You should try to apprentice with another gardener, and learn all about the chemicals that make things look natural--of course, then you'll have to learn how to pretend you don't use chemicals so the enviro-hippies think their apartment building grows organic daisies.
Once you're ready to go on your own, you'll need a truck--choose a comfortable one, even if the payments mean living in your parents' basement for a few years--after all, day after dreary day, it's likely the cab of your truck where you will be spending all your coffee and lunch breaks. Oh, you may dream of somehow becoming head gardener at the Arlington National Cemetary, or Kew Gardens, but the fact is, you're going to be the grubby guy pruning the hedge to most people. You think you're going to stomp across their carpet to go pee? Even with your boots off, it just isn't right, so you'll perfect the art of urinating in an old peanut butter jar in your vehicle.
It's at times like that you'll realize you inhabit a plane a little lower than your customers, and it will be reinforced when your wife asks you to hide your hands at your kids' parent-teacher interviews--the ground in dirt on your fingers is a little too embarassingly blue collar on occasion. You won't make enough money, either, because if you charge what your work is really worth, your customers are free to go to the next guy who's got a truck, a wheelbarrow and a rake and who's happy just to make enough to get by while his refugee status is sorted out.
The weather won't be your friend, either. If you end up in a northern clime, then your knees, followed by other joints, will be arthritic from the damp and the constant kneeling--don't think those little strap-on kneepads will help. If you work further south, you'll have regular trips to the plastic surgeon to get those bothersome melanomas excised from your forehead. With the damage your skin will take, coupled with the arthritis, people who meet you at 35 will swear you're 15 years older.
If you work in a city, perhaps doing apartments and strip malls, you'll encounter the twin biohazards of used condoms and hypodermic needles. And eventually--it's only a matter of time--a news report on a murder investigation will link your name and the words "grisly discovery", which at least will mean the forensics team will cultivate the rest of the soil around those rhododendrons for you...
The rest of the Cynical Career Counsellor posts can be found here.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Politician
Hi kid--yeah, congrats on that student council election thing. Lucky those mysterious photos of your opponent sacrificing chickens to Beelzebub surfaced just before the election, eh? Yeah, that photoshop is an amazing program...
Let me guess--the politics bug's bitten you, right? Well, making a career of it is a popularity contest on a much grander scale than you won here. I hope you've got what it takes:
First, you'll likely come to it with some ideals. You'll go to work for the candidate who shares your viewpoint on whatever topic is near and dear to your heart--your viewpoint on abortion, same-sex marriage, gun control--whatever. You'll learn the first skill of climbing the political ladder--pretending to listen. I can tell right now by the way you're nodding your head and doing the whole "eye contact" thing that you'll be good at this. You'll listen to halfwits pronounce their take on the ills of society and you'll pretend to be blown away by their insights. Your only wish, you'll assure them, is that you could somehow find a way to make the great vision they articulate somehow come to fruition. (But don't put it in those words if you're politicking south of the Mason-Dixon or anywhere more than 20 miles from a university campus.)
You'll party hard with others of your political ilk, and only under the influence of whatever fuels your parties will you admit that most of what you believe is rooted in fundamentally flawed ideology, but what the hell--it's the lesser of the evils you see all around you. Of course, bright-eyed and sincere on Monday mornings you pretend those discussions never happened.
You'll go through college honing your skills as a political organizer, and also put yourself out there as a university senate candidate, and you'll jump into the youth wing of whatever party you're most comfortable with.
After college, you go to grad school, and continue to devote your spare time to campaigns and causes. Your resumé is impressive, and it's no surprise when a candidate for your party is suddenly unable to run--perhaps another mysterious photoshop victim--and you are tapped as the replacement candidate. You have the advantage of being younger, fresher and more attractive than your opponent, but you quickly realize that as a newcomer, the political back room crowd isn't eager to shove piles of money your way. Meanwhile, your opponent's campaign is flush with cash, and is going to spend you into the ground. You have no choice--you have to quickly learn to whore yourself out to the people who matter.
This is final defeat of your conscience and integrity--you bargain away your personal beliefs in return for promises of financing and support--and realize that you're becoming one of the established hacks you always despised. It is only the sweet taste of your first victory that takes away the bitter shame.
The honeymoon won't last long though--there are political debts to pay, and as you continue up the ladder, it will get easier and easier to ignore the big issues and focus on the stupid, mundane bickering that gives you more public relations mileage. Why worry about children starving by the millions in an African draught when there are issues like banning pitbulls or protecting the flag to worry about?
Unfortunately, you'll succumb to the same delusion as most politicians--that of your own invincibility. You will almost flaunt your mistresses while playing the devoted family man, and you'll spend your weekends sampling drugs from the same dealers who you paint as the threat to all that is good about our society when spewing your political rhetoric for the cameras.
It's only a matter of time before the kid you shafted back here in high school, or someone like him, gets back at you with photos or other documentation of your hypocrisy. When the heat gets bad enough, you'll bow out, and go into seclusion for a year or so--buy a sailboat with the money fed you by drug companies or arms manufacturers and explore the South Pacific for a while. When you come back you'll quickly be hired by one of these same firms as a lobbyist, and you'll go to work corrupting others you've worked and partied with in government--it saves a lot of time already knowing their tastes in narcotics or perversions, and you'll have a better expense account than you've ever imagined...
Hi kid--yeah, congrats on that student council election thing. Lucky those mysterious photos of your opponent sacrificing chickens to Beelzebub surfaced just before the election, eh? Yeah, that photoshop is an amazing program...
Let me guess--the politics bug's bitten you, right? Well, making a career of it is a popularity contest on a much grander scale than you won here. I hope you've got what it takes:
First, you'll likely come to it with some ideals. You'll go to work for the candidate who shares your viewpoint on whatever topic is near and dear to your heart--your viewpoint on abortion, same-sex marriage, gun control--whatever. You'll learn the first skill of climbing the political ladder--pretending to listen. I can tell right now by the way you're nodding your head and doing the whole "eye contact" thing that you'll be good at this. You'll listen to halfwits pronounce their take on the ills of society and you'll pretend to be blown away by their insights. Your only wish, you'll assure them, is that you could somehow find a way to make the great vision they articulate somehow come to fruition. (But don't put it in those words if you're politicking south of the Mason-Dixon or anywhere more than 20 miles from a university campus.)
You'll party hard with others of your political ilk, and only under the influence of whatever fuels your parties will you admit that most of what you believe is rooted in fundamentally flawed ideology, but what the hell--it's the lesser of the evils you see all around you. Of course, bright-eyed and sincere on Monday mornings you pretend those discussions never happened.
You'll go through college honing your skills as a political organizer, and also put yourself out there as a university senate candidate, and you'll jump into the youth wing of whatever party you're most comfortable with.
After college, you go to grad school, and continue to devote your spare time to campaigns and causes. Your resumé is impressive, and it's no surprise when a candidate for your party is suddenly unable to run--perhaps another mysterious photoshop victim--and you are tapped as the replacement candidate. You have the advantage of being younger, fresher and more attractive than your opponent, but you quickly realize that as a newcomer, the political back room crowd isn't eager to shove piles of money your way. Meanwhile, your opponent's campaign is flush with cash, and is going to spend you into the ground. You have no choice--you have to quickly learn to whore yourself out to the people who matter.
This is final defeat of your conscience and integrity--you bargain away your personal beliefs in return for promises of financing and support--and realize that you're becoming one of the established hacks you always despised. It is only the sweet taste of your first victory that takes away the bitter shame.
The honeymoon won't last long though--there are political debts to pay, and as you continue up the ladder, it will get easier and easier to ignore the big issues and focus on the stupid, mundane bickering that gives you more public relations mileage. Why worry about children starving by the millions in an African draught when there are issues like banning pitbulls or protecting the flag to worry about?
Unfortunately, you'll succumb to the same delusion as most politicians--that of your own invincibility. You will almost flaunt your mistresses while playing the devoted family man, and you'll spend your weekends sampling drugs from the same dealers who you paint as the threat to all that is good about our society when spewing your political rhetoric for the cameras.
It's only a matter of time before the kid you shafted back here in high school, or someone like him, gets back at you with photos or other documentation of your hypocrisy. When the heat gets bad enough, you'll bow out, and go into seclusion for a year or so--buy a sailboat with the money fed you by drug companies or arms manufacturers and explore the South Pacific for a while. When you come back you'll quickly be hired by one of these same firms as a lobbyist, and you'll go to work corrupting others you've worked and partied with in government--it saves a lot of time already knowing their tastes in narcotics or perversions, and you'll have a better expense account than you've ever imagined...
Saturday, April 23, 2005
another rite of passage
Piano lessons, trumpet, his soccer game this Monday--all on hold. My son broke his arm tonight. He's being a trooper about it, though. It had to be his right arm, unfortunately.
At least he has something cool to show the kids on Monday. The next four weeks won't be much fun for him, though.
At least he has something cool to show the kids on Monday. The next four weeks won't be much fun for him, though.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As A
Telemarketer
Look kid, I'm trying to eat lunch here... Okay--if you don't mind me spittin' pastrami on you. Telemarketer--figures you come at mealtime. Hey--you want to make 3 bucks? I just remembered my cupboard key dropped in the urinal and wondered if you'd go get it... No wait--sit down. I was just checking to see if you have the right mindset for telemarketing.
There's a special kind of preparation needed for telemarketing, but since you're already in the country and I understand at least 50% of what you say, you're way ahead of the curve. Still, the really big telemarketing operations will want to take you through some special training before they give you your cubicle, phone and diaper and turn you loose on... Oh--well you see, they can't afford to have you wasting time on bathroom breaks.
So, they'll take you to somewhere secret, and you'll get your training. First thing you'll do when you get there is meet some shady guy in a black trenchcoat with his hat pulled down low--he'll want you to sign some things in blood. Don't worry--a soul would just get in the way in your line of work anyway.
Once you're in there, you'll go through a series of role-playing exercises designed to give you no shame. You'll simulate phone calls to houses where people tell you to get off the line so they can call 911 and save their baby--and soon you'll realize that they're just pulling another tired sales-avoidance technique--you never hang up until you've read the whole card. Don't worry--they'll keep hanging up until they realize you're still there every time they pick up the phone, and rather than have you keep starting again, they're wiser to let you finish.
Of course, you'll have to become immune to insults and abuse. Their psychologists will walk you through every rejection and humiliation of your childhood and adolescence--you'll even cry all over again when Mary Sue laughs at your prom invitation. Scary, large men will come and scream at you--threatening your life and punching you every so often just to be convincing. When you can ignore them and finish reading the card, you'll have proven yourself ready.
It won't be easy--your targets will be warned by the telltale noise of the call centre for those few seconds before you pick up from the autodialer, and they'll have their best insults and threats prepared. Don't worry, by that time you'll have learned that every householder who screams his desire to dig up your grandmother's bones and urinate on them, or promises to burn the homes of you and all your family so your DNA can be justly wiped from the planet, is just another future satisfied customer who will give thanks for the day you brightened their life.
Now get out of my office--I gotta make some calls.
More career advice can be found here.
Look kid, I'm trying to eat lunch here... Okay--if you don't mind me spittin' pastrami on you. Telemarketer--figures you come at mealtime. Hey--you want to make 3 bucks? I just remembered my cupboard key dropped in the urinal and wondered if you'd go get it... No wait--sit down. I was just checking to see if you have the right mindset for telemarketing.
There's a special kind of preparation needed for telemarketing, but since you're already in the country and I understand at least 50% of what you say, you're way ahead of the curve. Still, the really big telemarketing operations will want to take you through some special training before they give you your cubicle, phone and diaper and turn you loose on... Oh--well you see, they can't afford to have you wasting time on bathroom breaks.
So, they'll take you to somewhere secret, and you'll get your training. First thing you'll do when you get there is meet some shady guy in a black trenchcoat with his hat pulled down low--he'll want you to sign some things in blood. Don't worry--a soul would just get in the way in your line of work anyway.
Once you're in there, you'll go through a series of role-playing exercises designed to give you no shame. You'll simulate phone calls to houses where people tell you to get off the line so they can call 911 and save their baby--and soon you'll realize that they're just pulling another tired sales-avoidance technique--you never hang up until you've read the whole card. Don't worry--they'll keep hanging up until they realize you're still there every time they pick up the phone, and rather than have you keep starting again, they're wiser to let you finish.
Of course, you'll have to become immune to insults and abuse. Their psychologists will walk you through every rejection and humiliation of your childhood and adolescence--you'll even cry all over again when Mary Sue laughs at your prom invitation. Scary, large men will come and scream at you--threatening your life and punching you every so often just to be convincing. When you can ignore them and finish reading the card, you'll have proven yourself ready.
It won't be easy--your targets will be warned by the telltale noise of the call centre for those few seconds before you pick up from the autodialer, and they'll have their best insults and threats prepared. Don't worry, by that time you'll have learned that every householder who screams his desire to dig up your grandmother's bones and urinate on them, or promises to burn the homes of you and all your family so your DNA can be justly wiped from the planet, is just another future satisfied customer who will give thanks for the day you brightened their life.
Now get out of my office--I gotta make some calls.
More career advice can be found here.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
A Talent Agent
So--you want to be an agent? That's not going to be easy--way more people want to do that than there are openings, so you'll probably have to take a shot at starting your own agency and getting lucky. It's maybe a little better odds than the lottery, but not much.
First of all, you'll need to find the ideal location. Big cities, like L.A. or New York, have an overabundance of agents, all struggling to find something for an overabundance of actors. Small cities are often too far away from where the work is happening. You need something in between--somewhere where the shooting locations and tax laws bring in movie business, but where you have an advantage of being able to find local talent quickly.
The big agencies in the big cities will provide all the main talent, of course, but you can help find the small roles--so you'll need a certain type of clientele. Quirky character actors--the ones who can be mumbling shopping cart street people, or concentration camp guards--anyone who's versatile and not too proud will work. You'll also need bimbos. Hollywood, whether at home or shooting away, knows the value of gratuitious nudity and knows that minor, background characters should be attractive--we're so conditioned to see beautiful people filling in the extra roles that anyone unappealing draws our eye and distracts us from the main characters and the plot lines.
Of course, you can't tell the ones you hire that they're destined to remain "filler" for the few projects that wander into town; instead, you'll feed their dreams like a pickup artist at last call. If you actually succeed in getting any work for anyone, this makes you "legitimate", and they'll be beating down your door to get you to look at them.
You'll find your line of sliminess--don't think you'll be able to keep your integrity without ever slipping--you're going to be the target of every 18 year old wannabe starlet in town, and you'd best be careful; when the movie cast and crew leaves town you're still there amid the shattered dreams and crumbling self-esteem. The truly desperate and rejected can be unpredictable...
You'll find your niche--staffing car shows and rich kid's birthday parties will keep a little money rolling in, and you'll figure out the whole "talent search" scam where you charge for your "expenses" in putting together portfolios for aspiring performers. You will work out side deals with small time recording studios to send your clients for demo cds, and a local beauty parlour will give you kickbacks for sending them your customers before you bring them in for their photo shoots.
That comfortable niche is why the end will suprise you. Some "arthouse" film will show up paying little but offering bigger roles than usual, and you'll find yourself in the awkward position of explaining to an ingenue that those risqué and demeaning things they want her to do are part of the "artistic integrity"of the movie--"Think of 'Brown Bunny'" you'll hear yourself say, and then hope you're never part of something like that again.
The predictable happens, and when the film debuts in the local theatre--it played in 30 theatres for an average of 5 days before going to video--her whole extended family dresses up and fills half the movie house. Before the show is over, there will be tears, a minor heart attack, and recriminations which eventually lead to the conclusion that you should be lynched.
You'll be warned by a friend and go to ground for a few weeks until things simmer down. That's why you won't be expecting the sniper shot through your kitchen window a few months later that leaves you hooked up to machines until your savings run out and your family decides to give you a dignified end by switching off the power.
With so many well motivated suspects, they'll never find your killer.
Read the other 29 Career Counsellor posts here
So--you want to be an agent? That's not going to be easy--way more people want to do that than there are openings, so you'll probably have to take a shot at starting your own agency and getting lucky. It's maybe a little better odds than the lottery, but not much.
First of all, you'll need to find the ideal location. Big cities, like L.A. or New York, have an overabundance of agents, all struggling to find something for an overabundance of actors. Small cities are often too far away from where the work is happening. You need something in between--somewhere where the shooting locations and tax laws bring in movie business, but where you have an advantage of being able to find local talent quickly.
The big agencies in the big cities will provide all the main talent, of course, but you can help find the small roles--so you'll need a certain type of clientele. Quirky character actors--the ones who can be mumbling shopping cart street people, or concentration camp guards--anyone who's versatile and not too proud will work. You'll also need bimbos. Hollywood, whether at home or shooting away, knows the value of gratuitious nudity and knows that minor, background characters should be attractive--we're so conditioned to see beautiful people filling in the extra roles that anyone unappealing draws our eye and distracts us from the main characters and the plot lines.
Of course, you can't tell the ones you hire that they're destined to remain "filler" for the few projects that wander into town; instead, you'll feed their dreams like a pickup artist at last call. If you actually succeed in getting any work for anyone, this makes you "legitimate", and they'll be beating down your door to get you to look at them.
You'll find your line of sliminess--don't think you'll be able to keep your integrity without ever slipping--you're going to be the target of every 18 year old wannabe starlet in town, and you'd best be careful; when the movie cast and crew leaves town you're still there amid the shattered dreams and crumbling self-esteem. The truly desperate and rejected can be unpredictable...
You'll find your niche--staffing car shows and rich kid's birthday parties will keep a little money rolling in, and you'll figure out the whole "talent search" scam where you charge for your "expenses" in putting together portfolios for aspiring performers. You will work out side deals with small time recording studios to send your clients for demo cds, and a local beauty parlour will give you kickbacks for sending them your customers before you bring them in for their photo shoots.
That comfortable niche is why the end will suprise you. Some "arthouse" film will show up paying little but offering bigger roles than usual, and you'll find yourself in the awkward position of explaining to an ingenue that those risqué and demeaning things they want her to do are part of the "artistic integrity"of the movie--"Think of 'Brown Bunny'" you'll hear yourself say, and then hope you're never part of something like that again.
The predictable happens, and when the film debuts in the local theatre--it played in 30 theatres for an average of 5 days before going to video--her whole extended family dresses up and fills half the movie house. Before the show is over, there will be tears, a minor heart attack, and recriminations which eventually lead to the conclusion that you should be lynched.
You'll be warned by a friend and go to ground for a few weeks until things simmer down. That's why you won't be expecting the sniper shot through your kitchen window a few months later that leaves you hooked up to machines until your savings run out and your family decides to give you a dignified end by switching off the power.
With so many well motivated suspects, they'll never find your killer.
Read the other 29 Career Counsellor posts here
Sunday, April 10, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
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.
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.
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...
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