Rest in Peace

Ginger, faithful golden retriever
April 5, 1996-May 24, 2006

She was a good dog.

And even when your hope is gone...

In spite of egregious grammatical errors in my cover letter, the editor-in-need-of-a-new-assistant wants me to come in for an interview next week.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm disgusted by my own exuberance. (I'm on your side.)

It's that old familiar feeling. (Food & Wine, Part Two?)

I'll have to hit it hard tonight (...while I've still got something to celebrate.)

Incidentally, this is my centennial post. (Here's to 100 more under more favorable circumstances!)

Notice how boring the blog has been lately? ("Lately?" you say. "Try always.")

Tomorrow will be my last day polling for Qpac. (Praise to the Creator.)

Shout out to my compatriots--and loyal blog lurkers--who are coming down to New Haven for the weekend. (Parenthetical comment.)

I'm (so) moving on

A comment writer posed the question of why most of the AmeriCorps destination I'd listed were outside of the northeast. Here's the response I've been working on for a while (it's a little murky, get over it):

You probably can't take the Southern New England out of the boy, but maybe it's time to take the boy out of Southern New England.

Where I am now is where I've always been. Living at home means complacency and the status quo. It's easy, it's safe, and it's chewing my insides up and spitting them out. It's long been obvious that moving on and moving up means moving out.

I've known a lot of people who have been in the same place for their entire lives. And I've known a lot of people who aren't hindered by geography (or really anything), and whose motivation has propelled them to extraordinary accomplishments. Of the two outcomes, I'll take the second.

For most of my life, I had a single goal. I knew what it was going to take to accomplish that goal; I was driven and focused and, ultimately, I was damn lucky to have achieved that goal.

But all of that has come and gone, and now I'm in a much soggier place. There's no finish line anymore, there's no checklist of things to get done. I'm lost. My shoes are untied.

All of the effort I put in, all of the potential I was supposed to have--irrelevant, missing in action. I've got a $120,000 car in the garage, but I can't afford to put gas in it.

I'm probably capable of taking control of my life in a lot of different ways. Somewhere in me there's got to be an "ambition" switch (I used to know where it was), a "work ethic" button (that one's always been a little more elusive), a "self-pity" lever (that's one I need to turn off, if I can ever find it). There are questions that I'm perfectly capable of answering: Who? What? Why?

But the easiest question to answer--the easiest way to take control of my situation, it would seem--is Where?

The farther away a place is, the more it seems like someplace else, the more I'll feel like I've accomplished something. It's impossible to know for sure how much things will improve with a change of scenery. But it's the best I've got.

I haven't started studying for the LSAT yet.

I haven't applied to any AmeriCorps jobs yet.

I'm probably going to quit Qpac this week.

I haven't written anything creative in a long time.

I've got cash flow, but no mojo.

Last night I was stood up for a dinner date (band prez, SY '04) and fell asleep on the couch in front of "Anchorman" at 10 pm.

Most of the songs I listen to are starting to sound dead.

I bought two new polo shirts from Old Navy. They're pretty nice.

Faking a smile with the coffee to go

Polls completed this evening: 6
Calls made: ~190
Hours clocked between both jobs today: 8.75

Don't worry. I won't let the blog turn into a catalogue of statistics. Wouldn't want to go all Bridget Jones on you.

Bizarre encounter of the day:

I'm driving home from polling (my favorite time of day) with the stereo blasting (I'll tell you that it wasn't the Beatles or CCR, but in the interest of maintaining a little credibility I won't divulge what embarassing pop trifle I was howling to). Halfway down the mostly dark, mostly deserted road between Qpac and home, I see a youngish, fratish looking guy jogging, with a cell phone clenched uselessly in one hand, down the middle of the road. He's wearing a white t-shirt that says something about booze--"Booze Hound" or "Booze Jockey" or something like that. I slow down as I get closer, and he changes direction toward my car. The following conversation ensues as he approaches:

ME: You're not going to mug me, are you?
DUDE: What? Haha, no. Looks at me quizzically. Squints in the darkness, leaning forward to get a better look.
ME: Is everything OK?
DUDE with sudden recognition: Oh, whoa. I thought you were a friend of mine. Is this the way back to Qpac? gestures in the direction from which I came.
ME: Yeah, it is. Do you need a ride?
DUDE: Nah, nah, man, I'm cool.
ME: You're kind of scaring me.
DUDE: Hahaha. Pats me jovially on the shoulder; I flinch. Thanks a lot, buddy. Have a good one.
ME: No problem. You too.
Exeunt omnes.

I'm coming up against a few deadlines in the weeks ahead. The most sinister is the LSAT, which I've registered to take on June 12. I'm past the point of no return, so I need to start studying. Yikes. 167-170, here I come (I hope).

The other deadline, which is actually more of an ethereal set of deadlines, is AmeriCorps. I cleared a major hurdle today by securing my two references. All that's left to do is actually sift through the listings on the website and apply to the placements I'm interested in. I hope to apply all over the country--I've seen a lot of jobs around Seattle, and around Burlington, VT that I've liked. I'd like to browse the California listings, and maybe Philly and Minneapolis and the Rockies and the Southeast. It's a daunting task, especially since the website isn't the most user-friendly. But I'm determined to nail something fulfilling down ASAP, and by mid-summer at the latest, and AmeriCorps is my best hope.

Speaking of hopes, no word on the editorial assistant gig. Maybe it's because my cover letter was riddled with grammatical errors. Pretty brilliant of me, eh? It's like I'm trying to shoot myself in the foot.

And that's what's what.

PS-Though I've been listening to that lousy Daniel Powter song a lot lately (cf. the title of this post), that wasn't what was playing in the car on the way home.

What I did today

It took me a lo(ooooo)ng time to get down to the task I had set before myself today. I won't bore you (or gross you out) with all of my procrastination tactics. What's relevant was that I found myself almost completely incapable of doing what I'd spent so much time doing for all those many, many miserable months of summer and fall '05 and winter '06: applying to a job.

Yesterday, I got a tip from a friend who (among other things) used to work at an NYC literary agency. Here are a few excerpts (sterilized for bloggability):

I'm in the market for a new assistant...

Responsibilities include:

Reading and reporting on manuscripts
Writing flap, catalog and promotional copy and preparing fact sheets
Preparing contract requests and processing payments
Communicating with authors and agents about queries, payments, etc.
Trafficking manuscripts through Production, Copyediting, and Marketing, and securing appropriate approvals
Preparing cost specifications for titles
Coordinating meetings and events, including Sales Conference
Performing administrative duties, including: photocopying, sorting mail; preparing packages for shipment; filing, directing/responding to phone calls, etc.
Coordinate special projects as assigned

REQUIREMENTS: Excellent organizational, oral and written communication and administrative skills; Bachelor’s degree in English preferred; Minimum of 1 year of publishing experience preferred (internships accepted); an ability to attend to details and juggle multiple priorities in a fast-paced environment; solid computer skills, including MS Word and Excel.

In the interest of your valuable time, I'll cut straight to my cover letter (again, devoid of anything potentially incriminating):

Dear Editor-

I am writing to you in order to express my interest in the editorial assistant position that has become available at ______. I was informed of this opening by ____ at the ____ Agency.

As I apply to this position, I am keenly aware of how fierce the competition can be for jobs in the publishing industry. However, I am confident that I am exceptionally qualified for this position, and I know that I would make a valuable addition to the staff of ____.

Through a combination of academic, extracurricular and professional pursuits, I have gained extensive experience as a writer and editor, as well as with administrative and organizational tasks. But if I had to list a single reason why I am an excellent candidate for this position, it would simply be my eagerness to work in publishing. To have the opportunity to work in book production would be the fulfillment of a longtime ambition, and my commitment to excelling in all aspects of this position would be unmatched.

My skills and experience are squarely in line with the requirements that you have described. My academic background includes of four years of undergraduate study in the English department at [you know where]. I am confident that my knowledge and appreciation of English language and literature is as strong as any applicant you will encounter, and that my written and oral communication skills are of the highest caliber. Additionally, I am an avid reader, and I consider myself to be highly-attuned to popular culture. I would find it a pleasure to work with authors and manuscripts spanning such a diverse array of topics as your list includes.

Beyond my academic background and interests, I have a significant amount of experience working in an administrative capacity. I have worked as [&c, &c, &c]. In each of these positions, I was responsible for numerous administrative tasks--from copying and filing to answering phones and completing tasks in Word and Excel--and I was often required to manage multiple assignments at once. I was enormously successful in each of these positions and earned high praise from my employers for my ability to manage time and complete assignments with precision.

I have often been told that one of my greatest strengths is my ability to learn new skills and adapt to new situations quickly and efficiently. I am highly motivated, and I am a very fast learner. I'm confident that I will be able to respond successfully to all of the demands and challenges that I may face as an editorial assistant at ___ and that I will rapidly become an indispensable member of your staff.

You will find my résumé attached to this email, formatted as a Word document. Please let me know if I can provide you with any additional information about my experience and qualifications.

Thank you for your consideration, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely,

ME

I'm probably more ambivalent to this gig than I've been to anything else I've applied to. Not because I don't think I'd like it--more because I know how these things go (i.e., I won't get it). Feel free to diagnose my defense mechanism. Oops, beat you to it.

Stuck in Lodi again

Hey kids.

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. I'm sorry^8(on its side). I've been checking the blog every day from my desk at work, wondering, "When is this jackass going to post something new for God's sake? Oh right, this jackass is me."

I could say that I was waiting for a couple of comments before writing another post, but that would be a lie. (Seriously, though. Write comments. Even to mock me.) (Actually, don't mock me.)

[This is the part where I say that things have been very boring lately and that I don't have anything interesting to say.]

[And this is the part where I commence a long post on a plethora of disparate topics which one might construe as indicating that I do, in fact, have a lot to say.]

Listen, it's only been a week and already the Qpac polling gig is wearing me down. It only took a week.

The problem lies in the very nature of the work. Essentially, I sit in front of a computer screen for hours on end facing an interminable series of rejections. There are plenty of variations--different flavors of rejection, if you will--but the end result is always the same sharp icy blade in my heart. A few examples:

-Ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...
-Ring...ring...ring...ring...ring..."Hello, you have reached...please leave a message."
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is Mike and I'm calling from the Q-- U-- Poll, located in..." CLICK.
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is Mike and I'm calling from the Q-- U-- Poll, located in H--, CT. We're interested in your opinions about some issues in the news...spiel...speil...would you like to begin the poll?" CLICK.
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is Mike and I'm calling from the Q-- U-- Poll..." "HOW DID YOU GET THIS NUMBER!? PLEASE TAKE ME OFF YOUR LIST!!"
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is..." "NOT INTERESTED!"
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is..." "DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS!? I'VE GOT YOUNG CHILDREN [hysterical sobbing in the background] WHO ARE NOW WIDE AWAKE THANKS TO YOU! DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TAKES ME TO GET THEM DOWN AT NIGHT!?" "Thank you for your time ma'am." "WHY DON'T YOU GO SHOVE..." CLICK (this time on my end).

And that's only a sampling.

I'm left to wonder whether it's something that I'm doing to make so many people so vehemently disinclined to participate in the poll. Is there something about my voice that's unappealing? (Remember when I thought so fondly of my own voice? Those hours spent listening to my voicemail message at my other job?) Don't I sound legitimate? Do I sound like a huckster?

I glance around at the end of every shift to see how many polls other people have been able to complete. The sweet little old lady sitting behind me did 14 tonight; I only got through 7.

I suppose it's in my nature to view my stats as a personal failure. But it's insanely demoralizing. With each passing ring I feel the dread rising thickly from the pit of my stomach into the back of my throat--it's a wonder I can manage to croak out the first few lines of the script when someone actually picks up the phone.

And then there are the real heartbreakers: when I get part-way into the administration of a poll and the person decides to stop, or starts being a jackass.

A vignette from today's shift:

ME: And do you have any children under the age of 18?
GUY ON OTHER END: Huh huh, yeah, three.
ME: And do you have any children who attend public school?
GUY ON OTHER END: Yeah, five.
ME: And do you own or rent your apartment or house?
GUY ON OTHER END: I live in a garbage can.
ME: Thank you for your time, sir.

Fortunately most of my shifts have gone by pretty quickly. Obviously the more polls I complete, the faster it goes. It's really not that bad. It's cash, and it's something, and it's very very temporary.

Speaking of temporary, I've got to keep reminding myself that these are only hold-over positions that I've taken. I can feel myself sinking into a routine, and it scares me. How many weeks have gone by since I started at BNH? Almost four, I think. The weeks have flown by (even though, paradoxically, my shifts at the magazine seem to stretch on into eternity).

It's far too easy to get comfortable with the daily grind, I can tell. Wake up; shower; go to work; get home; read something; watch some television; go out for a drink; go to bed; start over. Living such a compartmentalized existence will make your life disappear.

The worst part, for me, is that this new routine of mine seems to have snuffed out all of my creativity. It's hard to schedule something like writing, or even something like creative thought, into a day packed with so many mundane activities. And it horrifies me. I can see the death of my creativity--of writing, of reading, of appreciating the intricacy and subtlety of things--staring me in the face. I don't want to let it happen, but it's hard to avoid. When I had plenty of time on my hands, it was easy to spend two hours writing a blog post, or piecing together the plot of a short story. Now I find that after working a nine-hour day (poor me), all I want to fill my free time is a beer and maybe an hour of mindless television. This must be how artists die.

These past few weeks have provided proof of a fact that I've always known to be true: I'm not going to find what I want in the workaday world. Even though I don't really know what I want, I know that it's not behind a desk or on the other end of a phone line or glaring at me from a computer screen.

One of my favorite times of day lately has been the fifteen-minute ride home from Qpac. After four hours of soul-deadening rejection, I roll down all the windows in my '98 Maxima (beige, leather interior), crank up the Beatles or CCR, and race the wind down the serpentine wooded roads between the campus and my (dad's) house. I almost forget that I'm driving through nondescript suburban southern Connecticut and not somewhere special like the Green Mountains or an Appalacian hollow.

At this point in my life, at this moment right now, I think the one thing I'd like more than any other is a long empty road to drive on--cool air streaming through open windows, stereo cranked up high--with no particular destination in mind and no reason to stop for anything. And maybe somebody interesting (and halfway-decent looking) riding shotgun.

But that's just me.