Look at me, mom. I’m on TV… again. Okay, so it’s TV via the web. And I’m not the main focus of the segment; that honor goes to Ellen Reeves, author of “Can I Wear My Nose Ring to the Interview? A Crash Course in Finding, Landing and Keeping Your First Real Job.” But that is me (the devastatingly handsome, not-looking-a-day-over-27, Skyped-in guy on the left). And that is Katie Couric. Maybe you’ve heard of her, or recognize the face. I didn’t, until someone over at CBS contacted the Jobless and Less press department, prompting the VP, Communications to task a Research Assistant with exploring Ms. Couric’s alleged celebrity. She checked out. So I accepted their request to participate in a piece entitled…

Jobless in America

Luckily for them, I’m both jobless and in America. Strange coincidence, wouldn’t you say? I’d like to rectify the “jobless” part (I rather enjoy the “in America” part). Maybe some plight exposure would help. It certainly couldn’t hurt. Or could it? That was one of my questions… does having an unemployment blog, which sets me up as an expert in being unemployed, create a negative impression among potential employers? I’ve been unemployed quite awhile now, freelance assignments notwithstanding. There is the ever-so-slight possibility that I’m doing something wrong. Take a moment to digest the realization that I’m fallible. I’ll wait.

Ms. Reeves informs me that my blog is, in fact, a good thing. Employers will see it as showing initiative and a willingness to learn new skills. They’ll also recognize my attempts to stay active and help other people. The success I’ve had attracting visitors and press will probably help too. Now if only someone would hire me, or knight me. That would be cool. But I’d prefer a job. Or a million dollars, I’d take that… just sayin’.

The Katie Couric segment has already led to one positive development. Ms. Reeves is going to help me reinvent myself, hopefully change me from an unemployment expert/online marketing guru into a job-having expert/online marketing guru. This may involve some or all of the following…

• Hair and wardrobe changes
• Resume revamping
• Fantasy job description (Maybe I’ll finally get to be a warlock with a cloak of invisibility.)
• Elevator pitch improvement

This is actually a good opportunity, and despite my usual irreverence, I will take it seriously. Stay tuned, fair readers, for more in the continuing saga that is my unemployment. And enjoy the video segment. Ms. Reeves and the Wall Street Journal guy both know what they’re talking about. May they teach you something, or, at least, confirm what you already know.

You spill my coffee beans. But you also give me a tasty beverage. Do I slap you or hug you? I'll get back to you with my decision. (courtesy of http://www.adamas.com)

I’m a creature of habit. My morning commute to my five-month freelance gig always included a stop for coffee. The project’s long hours made caffeine a necessity. Soon enough, the caffeine headaches made caffeine a necessity. My trip always led me past one of two decent coffee places, depending on the route. The fancy-sounding though utilitarian Pret A Manger – located between the R train and the office – was one. The tasty though overpriced City Bakery – located between the F and V train and the office – was the other. A Pret iced coffee cost me $2.49; a City Bakery iced coffee $3.00 or $3.75, depending on the size. Both were well within my budget while employed.

The freelance gig ended a week and a half ago. The smartphone I was helping to market successfully launched, and is available in a store near you, and 137 stores near me. I won’t say which smartphone it is, though here’s a hint: touching a certain spot with your bare hand won’t hang up your call, unless that spot is the disconnect button. If you need another hint, follow me around and listen. You may catch me inadvertently humming the intro music to one of the videos. It’s forever burned into my temporal lobe.

Another smartphone project may be in my near future. And smaller, unrelated projects are starting to roll in. The last few months of paychecks have bulked up my bank account. But the next few months of paychecks are uncertain. Being essentially unemployed, I’ve reverted to my super, extra frugal ways. No more weekend trips to the south of France . No more summer vacations in the Hamptons. No more chauffeured limousine double-parked out front and ready for my next cookie run. It’s back to life, back to reality.

My first order of business, as someone without a steady income or government handout, was to reexamine my extravagant spending. I brought in executives from PriceWaterhouseCoopers to review my books. They determined that I have no books. But were I to have books, they would be empty, because compared to their usual clients, I’m broke. But were I to have books and money to track in those books, they would contain no extravagant spending. Wifey verified, citing the closet full of toiletries, paper products and breakfast cereal purchased in bulk on sale. I’m one frugal bastard. A raging $3.00-a-day caffeine addiction accounts for most of my discretionary spending.

Cutting back on coffee purchases is every financial advice columnist’s go-to tip. Want to be rich… make your own coffee. Somewhere along the line a Starbucks barista screwed up a freelance writer’s grande double soy mocha-frappu-latte and the company has paid the price in print ever since. Though lazy and cliche, the point is still valid. My coffee purchases add up to $90.00 a month or $1080 a year or $108,000 a century. That’s a lot of money. If I saved for the next 100 years, I could buy a kitchen cabinet or, perhaps, a bathtub in Manhattan. Of course, by then I’d be too dead to enjoy it.

The savings could still come in handy in the shorter term. There was just one problem. I only knew how to make hot coffee. And hot coffee in the New York heat and humidity is about as unappealing as reading job boards. Whatever is a caffeine addict to do? My solution – made possible by a grant from my last full-time employer – was pretty damn ingenious. I would make my own iced coffee. And because I figured out how, you don’t have to. Everyone always says, “that Norm… he’s a giver.” They’re right.

The first step is to buy some decent coffee beans. Wifey (then girlfriendy) taught me once upon a time that coffee doesn’t have to taste like runny tar water. Up to that point in my life, I’d drank it only to stay awake for exams and term papers. Enjoyment never mattered. These days, I’m a bit of a coffee snob. It doesn’t have to be expensive; Dunkin’ Donuts and McDonalds both make a cheap yet respectable cup. It just has to taste like something I want to drink. I went with the NYC blend from Oren’s Daily Roast for $13.49 a pound. Sometimes saving money requires a small upfront investment.

The second step is to brew the coffee really strong. Pouring regular hot coffee over ice cubes doesn’t give you iced coffee. It gives you a watered-down, room-temperature brown liquid. And that’s only enjoyable for people who like hanging out in 12-step meetings and hospital waiting rooms. Most recipes call for two scoops of coffee grounds for every cup of water (hot coffee is generally a 1:1 ratio). That was a little too strong for my refined palate and sensitive constitution. Delicate flower that I am, I had to let the ice melt and water it down. Adding a little more water to the next pot did the trick. Iced coffee, I discovered, reaches perfection at 12 scoops of coffee grounds for every 7 cups of water.

The third step is to add sugar while the coffee is still hot. Sugar doesn’t dissolve in cold coffee; it ends up as a tasty sludge in the bottom of a cup. While a nice little dessert to your beverage, it doesn’t really sweeten it. Four spoonfuls for seven cups proved to to be the right level of sweetness. Wifey would argue that that’s four spoonfuls too many. She would be wrong. It’s the perfect amount to bring out the flavor of the coffee without overwhelming it.

The fourth step is to chill. I put the coffee pot in the fridge. Six hours later, the iced coffee is ready to drink. If nothing else, unemployment has made me good at waiting. Pour it over some ice cubes, add some milk and enjoy. Maybe click away from UselessJobSite.com or NotHiringInc.com for a few minutes. Coffee time should be me time.

One $13.49 bag of coffee beans has given me six days worth of iced coffee so far. And there’s probably another four days worth to go. That’s a savings of $16.51 per bag, or $49.53 per month… not too shabby. If my knowledge of first grade math still holds up, that’s almost $50. I could buy something with that kind of money, besides coffee. Maybe when I find a full-time job, I will.

Host:

Tonight they have another dance… another chance. Only one can take the trophy. Who will move a little closer? Live from Washington, this is “Dancing with the Politicians.”

I’m Norm Elrod. Tonight is the semi-finals. Let’s welcome our first star.

Dancing the Political Two-Step, former Texas Congressman, Tom DeLay and his partner, his own stupidity…

Host:

Let’s hear what the judges have to say.

Judge 1:

I’ve seen some of the legends perform this dance… Kennedy, Nixon, Reagan, Clinton. And let me just say that you nailed it. The setup step – what some call the “bait” – was smooth and effortless. You took over the mic and dropped the most salacious quote I’ve heard in years. “All unemployed people want to be unemployed” is so ridiculous that people can’t help repeat it. And repeat it they will. But no Political Two-Step is complete without the walk-away. You teased us with just a vague hint of context. No elaboration… you let the meaningless words speak for themselves. That was pure magic to watch. Tom, you’re truly one of the masters.

Judge 2:

I have to agree. That was artistry in motion. The dance seemed simple in its execution, and the dancer void of a functioning brain. But that’s the uninhibited beauty you bring to it. The easier it looks, the harder it is.

Judge 3:

I felt my hips go boom, boom, boom. And then my stomach turned, a little bile came up into my throat and I tasted that tuna fish sandwich I had for lunch. But in a good way.

Host:

As we say goodnight, let’s thank everyone who makes this possible… the Republicans, the Democrats, the media and everyone who pays attention to politics rather than something useful. See you next week for our grand finale, when Tom shows us the Political Side-Step. Perhaps he’ll claim to be taken out of context. Maybe he’ll go the passive, mistakes-were-made route. Or he could simply claim to have never spoken the words. Tune in and find out.

I love a good snow day, even when there’s nothing to stay home from. What kid, or kid at heart, doesn’t? To this day, the news radio chimes make me hope for the words, “Montgomery County schools will be closed today,” no matter the time or season. A snow day is special, a surprise holiday, a day off from my problems. It has a calmness to it. Life stopped late last night and will pick up early tomorrow morning. For now, I’m on snow time.

Queens is blanketed by over a foot of snow. It’s currently coming down sideways. I can see out my window for a couple blocks, beyond the subway tracks to the hospital. The Citigroup and Empire State Building have disappeared into the gray. The streets are empty, aside from the occasional car swishing by. The neon store signs are on, but nobody is out shopping. Everything is muffled, quiet. If only my neighborhood were always this way. If only every day were a snow day.

Around 3:00 this afternoon, I asked wifey via IM how the snow looked from work. Her company is on the second floor and has big windows overlooking the street. She couldn’t tell from her cubicle, and was too busy to go look. She asked me to take some pictures of our neighborhood in the blizzard. This made me think, “I should take some pictures of our neighborhood in the blizzard.” And so I did, from the living room window, on the street and off of the subway platform.

The results probably won’t find their way onto an art gallery wall. But who needs an art gallery when we have the Internet, the world’s biggest and best and worst art gallery? So I present to you the Unemployed Snow Day Photo Exhibition…

[I'll pause here for you to make some hot chocolate and settle in. Those of you in warmer climates can hum the Jeopardy! theme song and imagine Alex Trebek without his toupee.]

Okay, now I present to you the Unemployed Snow Day Photo Exhibition, starring Jackson Heights, some random people of dubious citizenship who probably wouldn’t want their pictures posted online and Snowden S. Snowberry, the star of the show…

The view from my window looks like a snow globe, a really dirty snow globe.

This is Elmhurst Hospital, one of the buildings I’d drive by if I ever needed a hospital.

Imprisoned by unemployment, until someone throws me over the ledge for using really bad symbolism.

I picked the perfect day to play in the street.

The cleanest you’ll ever see Roosevelt Ave.

If you close your eyes, it looks just like Paris, during a blackout.

I have no idea where I took this. I really need to lay off the highballs at breakfast… and lunch.

Who knew there were trees in Queens?

If 7 is a lucky number, why does the train always leave a minute before I get there?

Please take me to the hospital if I ever cough up something blue. (courtesy of http://www.gottabemobile.com)

Unemployed people get unlimited, unpaid sick days, in case you’re considering unemployment as a career move. But I haven’t taken a sick day in forever. Sick days were a rarity for me even when employed. I’m generally a healthy guy. And laying about seems like such a waste when things need to get done. (Hear that, potential employers? Norm goes the extra mile to get the job done. He’s on sale now, just in time for the holidays.) The catch is that, with or without a job, things always need to get done.

Wifey will sometimes go to the office when she really should stay home and rest. This week is a good example. On Monday, for maybe the first time since I’ve been unemployed, she took a sick day. Being a trooper, she went in Tuesday, infecting her whole company with more than the Christmas spirit. Wednesday she managed half a day. And Thursday she stayed home again. These weren’t sick-of-work days – personal repayment for late hours or a job well done. She never takes those either. They were honest-to-God sick days, because she was actually sick. I saved the used tissues and empty jello containers to prove it.

Having her around during the week was a treat, even in her phlegmy state. I spend most days home alone, idly staring out the window watching the world go by and wondering, “why not me?” I occasionally shed a single tear. Wifey usually leaves for work just after 9:00 a.m. and gets back well after 7:00 p.m. In that time, the cats are the only people I talk to. And the conversations – stimulating though they are – tend to be one-sided. After a year of days, what do an unemployed guy and two furry barf machines really have to talk about? “Meow” can only mean so many things.

Having wifey around also threw off my whole unemployment work routine. I usually sit at the dining room table, back to the TV, working on my laptop. Keep in mind that I live in NYC, where the dining room and the TV room are, in fact, the same room. My water bottle is to my right; my cell phone is to my left. Roughly half the day is spent looking for work, whatever the specific task happens to be. The rest of the time is spent working on Jobless and Less or trying to learn something new and exciting. For the record, detours to The Superficial qualify as learning… learning about people more ridiculous than the rest of us. Notice that none of my time is spent watching TV; that bit of info will come into play shortly. I take full advantage of the stereo. That means a healthy dose of artists that wifey is way over – Pet Shop Boys, The Clientele, Mark Eitzel and so forth.

Wifey likes to put on her pajamas, wrap up in a blanket and watch mindless TV when sick. She sets the volume just shy of stadium concert levels, and keeps tissues and remote control within arm’s reach. Daytime TV has surpassed mindlessness to achieve total unwatchability. So Netflix provided her distraction. First up was “Southland Tales,” a dystopian tale staring The Rock and many other actors who should really know better. I then joined her for the darkly amusing “Sunshine Cleaning.” She continued on to season 1 of “The Tudors,” which teaches us that everyone in 16th Century England was beautiful and had sex all the time. Who knew history was so interesting?

When not joining in, I tried and failed to block out everything with loud music on the iPod. It wasn’t a sick day for me. And, like always, there was work to be done. But gunshots and moaning, not to mention wifey’s super whooping cough of death, have a way of breaking my concentration. Headphones block out the world on the subway or in the office, but not so much at home.

Weekdays feel more like weekends with wifey around. So I tend to slack off a bit. I can’t blow her off entirely, we’re married. And she’s way more fun than CareerBuilder anyway, even in her weakened state. Nor can I, in good conscience, blame a sick person for my poor productivity. What kind of monster do you take me for? I probably made her sick day feel more like work. But I didn’t get done what I’d hoped to.

There’s always tomorrow to catch up on my unemployment stuff. And the next day, and the next day, and the next day. I might have something going on the day after that though. I’ll have to check my calendar.

Happy anniversary to me!

Here I am riding another bus, trying do some work and trying not to get motion sickness. Working on the computer while traveling is a much better idea in theory than in practice. The bus ride gives me a solid block of time to concentrate and tick things off my list, or dive into a bigger project. But the bus is filled with other people, some eating, some sleeping, some playing games on iPhones. Headphones and a nose plug block out most of it. Still the space is tight for laptop use and worse, I’m prone to motion sickness.

I started barfing in and out of cars at about six years old. Bumps, quick stops, turns… they all made me sick. Things improved once my parents learned not to put me in the far back seat of the station wagon facing backwards. But trips on hilly roads often still included me losing the contents of my stomach in someone’s bushes – flash fertilizing for random vegetation. I’ve grown out of it a little, but I still avoid reading and sitting backwards in cars, particularly blue 1980 Caprice Classics with AM radios and vinyl seats. Oddly enough, I can read on the subway. Maybe the actual cause of my motion sickness is the bumpiness combined with what my peripheral vision picks up out the window. Remove the random visual stimulus, and the sickness goes away. That’s my theory anyway. I’ll get NIH to look into it.

The bus is a half hour out of New York and all’s well… for the most part. My stomach is mostly calm. The New Jersey Turnpike is flat, straight and moving swiftly. The sky is gray; a little rain is falling. New Jersey is filled with construction and power lines, though greener than expected. The older lady sleeping next to me hasn’t yet co-opted my shoulder. The older guy in front of me stopped trying to cough up the residue of a hundred thousand cigarettes. The Bolt Bus, which I’m riding for the first time, is comfortable enough. The wireless internet doesn’t really work, but the electrical outlet does. So I’m blogging via Microsoft Word. Next week maybe I’ll blog using a 1970s Selectric typewriter or possibly a chisel and stone tablet. And I’ll use smoke signals for tweets. Look east at first light every third day for 140-character updates on my cats and the weather.

It’s a good time to reflect, as soon as I put on some music. Okay, now it’s a good time to reflect. (And sorry for lying; 20 seconds ago in fact was not a good time to reflect.) I just passed the one-year mark of unemployment recently. And this is my 202nd post, the second bicentennial plus two or 1978 – the year I began barfing in earnest. My unemployment insurance will run out by the end of the year. The work landscape is still bleak, as the country is enjoying a jobless recovery. I’m planning a huge party without food, drink, entertainment or people to celebrate it. I’d invite you, but you can’t come, and it won’t be any fun anyway.

I continue to network and send out resumes. Most of my job inquiries are ignored, though people are still receptive to networking requests. They want to help, and are willing to offer their time, expertise and contacts. They just don’t know of any openings. Networking may be the best way to find a job. But it hasn’t worked for me yet.

I haven’t had any in-person interviews in awhile either, which is disconcerting. Screening, pre-interview phone calls come in with some frequency. I research the companies, prepare things to say and present my case with intelligence and grace. All this rarely gets me even a “no thanks” email. Last week I received an email for a screening interview. It stated I would be called between 2:00 and 3:00 the following day. I wasn’t asked about the time, I was told. Not having a choice, I made myself available for that hour, except for a 30-second bathroom break. That’s when the call came in. I returned it and left a message, but haven’t heard anything since.

Maybe my resume is to blame for the overall lack of employer interest, because I’m a real charmer in person. Where I worked and went to school is already determined, though my skill set grows every day. Maybe I could present all my experience more convincingly, in a way that better quantifies my successes. And maybe more concrete measurable numbers would give my descriptions that needed boost. I struggle with this issue during every layoff. The opportunity to have my resume redone professionally for free recently presented itself. And the third draft is looking promising. We’ll see what happens when it’s finished and out in the world.

I started applying for temporary seasonal positions to stave off the end of my unemployment insurance. These jobs pay about the same amount for 40 hours of work as my weekly checks. And working for a couple months now, while seasonal work is available, would push the end of my unemployment to the end of February. So I applied for a couple of positions at a department store you’ve definitely heard of. The whole experience deserves its own post. And now I can write it, because they rejected me. They actually sent me an email saying as much. I was overqualified for the position. I was probably overqualified to run the department. Being overqualified is a legitimate reason for rejection. Companies know that employee is looking to leave, and they’ll be faced with hiring someone else sooner than later. But this was a temporary position, with an end date. And I still didn’t get it. Few things are as depressing as not getting a job you don’t want and are overqualified for.

Nor did I get the pundit position, which was my ticket to fame and stardom. The Washington Post did send me a very nice rejection letter, complete with a link to pursue further opportunities. The link, like me, didn’t work. Pundit is probably not the right position for me. In retrospect, my submission was probably a tad tame and inoffensive. I didn’t call anybody a whore or a communist or a Nazi. And my opinions were reasonable and clearheaded. I guess I really do have a lot to learn about the punditry business. If only I’d barfed up something more bilious, maybe I’d be typing this article from my newspaper desk and not a seat on a bus. Alas, it was not to be.

On the bright side, the job search and the blog go on.

[Note: I wrote this post a couple weeks ago. Technical issues and general busyness have kept me from posting it until today. Sorry for being a terrible person.]

Have card, will not travel

Life used to be so easy when I had a job. Okay, maybe that’s overstating it a little. Subway travel was easy, or at least buying a fare card was. Life was hard then too, just in a different, more financially enriching way. And subway travel was and is always an adventure, like the flume ride at Busch Gardens with a few minor differences…

• No one wants to be splashed with any liquids found on the subway.
• Those clothes some people wear near subway station entrances aren’t quaint and historic, they’re just old.
• People smell worse on the subway, sit closer and are generally not having a good time. They might be screaming and waving their hands in the air though.
• Occasionally someone makes a pass at a woman on the subway and touches himself in a highly inappropriate way. This may happen at Busch Gardens too, but I’ve never seen it.

When employed, I didn’t have to do anything to get a fare card. It just showed up in the mail or on my desk once each month, like magic. Every company I’ve ever worked for subsidizes the cost of commuting in some form. Employees can set aside up to about $100 each month through a system like TransitChek. That money is automatically deducted from their paycheck – pre-tax – and used to buy a subway fare card or commuter rail tickets or transporter passes for beaming to and from the USS Enterprise. The employee chooses the preferred method of travel and type of ticket, and the rest takes care of itself. (I advise against beaming, unless you’re a main character. It won’t end well.) Those were the days, when subway travel required no more thought than where to go and who not to sit next to.

I always opted for the 30-day unlimited fare card, which gave me full access to the trains and city buses. The pass cost $81 when I was last employed, or about $60 after the tax savings. It was a pretty good deal. Any given month includes about 22 workdays on which I’d commute to and from the office. That’s 44 subway rides, each costing $2 then, for a grand total of $88. So even without using the fare card for any other travel, I saved $7, which was really more like $21 given the tax benefit. The savings were usually much greater, since I used it evenings and weekends to gallivant around the city in search of revelry.

Fast-forward to my post-layoff, pre-employment existence, currently known as “the rest of my life.” A monthly unlimited fare card now costs $89, and a single ride $2.25. I don’t take the subway as much these days, as even a brain-dead hamster might deduce from the facts at hand. Where is there to go anyway? No office chair requires the presence of my ass every weekday morning at 9:00 a.m. Aside from some networking meetings and the occasional interview or field trip, I rarely have to ride the train.

I don’t buy an unlimited monthly fare card anymore either. It’s no longer cost-efficient. Only a rare and very busy month would get me on the train 40 times – enough to make it worth the price. And the freedom of having it is an expensive luxury for an unemployed guy. I usually put $20 on a fare card, which gives me a $3 bonus, and then use as needed. That lasts me a couple of weeks. If my schedule is packed with meetings and errands and tea dates with royalty, I buy an unlimited weekly card for $27, and time the start for maximum usage. Then it’s back to pay-as-you-go.

When on an unlimited card, I don’t think twice about subway travel. It’s paid for, and more rides mean better value. When not on an unlimited card, I find myself avoiding subway travel. Is the $4.50 this trip will cost really worth it? “No” is most often the answer. I go to the local gym instead of the nicer one in the city. I go to the local coffee shop rather than the bigger one a few stops away. I shop in the neighborhood rather than in some other neighborhood. Most anything worth traveling for can be found in Jackson Heights, in some way, shape or form. The other day I met a contact for coffee in Manhattan and had an errand to run after. I walked the ten or so blocks instead of grabbing a bus or the train. This wasn’t any inconvenience. If employed and/or packing an unlimited card, I might have still walked. But that would have been my choice. Saving money wins out these days.

The seemingly insignificant difference between an unlimited fare card and a pay-as-you-go fare card has changed my life. I don’t go out as much, even for free activities. I think about whether I really need to spend the couple bucks on subway travel. Small amounts of money dictate my actions in unemployment. My days may be more free, but, ironically, they’re less free as well. I avoid spending money, and as a result, avoid going anywhere.

Where's Kool-Aid Man? I didn't pay all this money to meet a mustard bottle and a bald guy. (courtesy of www.realtimeadvertisingweek.com)

Many of the daily emails I receive are useless. They may even be less than useless, costing me two seconds to delete, two seconds I could have spent scratching myself or staring off into space. The nextNY newsletter is actually worth the time. The first of the week gives a huge list of technology events happening in and around New York. I always peruse it in search of the solution to all my problems;  “How To Grow and Care For Your Own Money Tree,” for example, would be ideal. Last week I found something not nearly that good, but maybe worth $25 and a few hours of my time.

“Advertising Week is North America’s premier gathering of cutting edge communications leaders,” according to their marketers and copywriters. Is that vague (and, therefore, ironic) enough for you? The event could just as easily be a gathering of teenagers with really fast thumbs on the latest Sidekick, or maybe knife owners who talk a lot. The wordsmiths go on to describe the event as, “…a hybrid of thought leadership and special event programming, uniting clients, creatives, media and inspiring figures…” They didn’t work in “next generation” or “turnkey,” so I only sort of understand what they’re getting at. I’ll try to summarize Ad Week myself, having attended and all. Media people sit in auditoriums, listening to more important media people talk in platitudes on stage, and plan out their networking strategies. Near constant lip service is paid to social causes, though networking and open bar parties are the main draw.

I attended last year as an employee of my previous company and managed to learn a few things and meet a few people. My schedule is a little more open this year, so I bought a $25 student pass with a borrowed .edu email address and filled my days with sessions. Some of the programming included…

• The New Media Mix: Connecting the Dots in a Multi-Screen Environment
• The Future in 4D: Brands, Communities, Content & Technology
• The New Mad Men: How Familiar Agencies Are Writing a New Business Model for a New Ad World
• Social Networking 2.0: Brands Get in the Game

The sessions took place at The Times Center in the heart of Times Square (read, on a side street within eyeshot of the Port Authority Bus Station) and the Paley Center for Media a little further uptown. The Times Center – part of the new New York Times building – is a state-of-the-art auditorium where performances, lectures, readings and fancy parties are held. They may use it as a meat locker on off days, given how cold they keep it; the New York Times needs to make money any way they can. The Paley Center is more like a movie theater, before anybody spills soda and buttery popcorn on the floor. It’s comfortable in a padded, high-use, industrial sort of way. The two venues aren’t close enough together to make it from one to the other between sessions. So I stopped trying. As it turned out, no one gave a crap what I’d registered for and what I attended. I came and went as I pleased.

Despite the grand names of the sessions – complete with colons and qualifying descriptions, as if working titles for nonfiction hardback rejects – not much substance was offered. I’m media savvy, though not expert, even with my much-celebrated, prize-worthy blog to end all blogs. But I didn’t take away much more than a few free magazines and some pilfered cookies. Presenters tended to generalize and not back up their ideas. Everybody was friends; no one really disagreed with anybody. The real goal was to get a little publicity for their company, while using up as many plastic water bottles as possible. I did learn that AOL still exists, or at least an entity by that name still sponsors conferences. And the ten-year-old trend of oddly capitalizing a company’s name is alive and well, as is the shunning of spaces. What were once cutting-edge ideas, even bleeding-edge, are now childproof-scissors edge. Okay, class, today we’re going to brand our startup. Everyone cut your construction paper. Be sure to follow the lines… exactly, so nobody can tell them apart.

I found myself drifting off during sessions; cool air and a comfortable seat will do that. How might I re-brand myself, were I a company? Maybe I could go by normelrod, or normElrod, or even nOrmelrOd. The third one has potential. It’s like my name is looking at you, making eye contact, so you know I’m serious about doing business. Stare into my eyes… you’re getting sleepy. I’m going to count to three. And when I snap my fingers, you will give me a job. If I were a conference session rather than a company, what would I be called? A couple of the finalists were…

• Norm Elrod: Connecting the Dots Between Education and Unemployment
• The New Mad Man: How an Employable Person Goes Postal in a Jobless Recovery

Some company ran a contest that preoccupied me for the better part of an afternoon. Entrants filled in words for “(blank) moves (blank) forward” on a sign and were photographed holding it up. The pictures ran in a long slide-show loop on the wall as advertising. One randomly chosen entrant won $3.27 or a gift certificate to Chipotle or something else not worth the price of their dignity. Entries tended to be along the lines of “hard work moves my company forward.” I didn’t enter, but kept coming up with possible responses. “Bran moves my bowels forward,” was one of my favorites. “Bad corporate management moves my last day forward,” was another. But the winner was, “stupid advertising moves the competition forward.”

I eventually started wondering why the people on stage were there and I was in the audience and, more generally, why some people have jobs and some don’t. There are many possible reasons… skill, luck, timing, hard work, fate. All of them and many others probably figure in somehow. No one reason can fully capture it. My daydreams didn’t provide an answer, nor did most of the people talking at me in generalities. A few of them were indeed very impressive people. But all of them could’ve been me, later on in life or after a sex change. I suppose if I had the answers, I wouldn’t be asking the questions. I’d be up on a stage talking, or writing a book. Or maybe I’d be picking large, ripe bills off my money tree.

Bully! (courtesy of www.oldtimestrongman.com)

I was walking down Broadway last Friday evening, south of Madison Square Park but north of Union Square. This is a ritzy part of town, where nannies pay other nannies to push strollers and restaurants offer $25 lunch specials one week a year, by reservation only. Design Within Reach – whose name assumes the customer makes seven figures – has a store selling furniture too expensive to actually touch. Canvassers plied their trade on the sidewalk up ahead of me. I tried to swing wide, not needing a piece of garbage at that moment. But one of them made eye contact and held out a flyer. For some reason, I took it.

It was a three-day pass to a high-end New York City health club. I needed to shake up my routine, and I could resist the sales person’s hard sell. Monday morning, bright and early (for an unemployed slacker), I arrived with my gear, ready to work out. I even wore a nice gym shirt – one without stains and holes that still retained some semblance of its original shape. Upon first glance, one might mistake me for respectable.

I’ve tried many different local gyms, as a change of scenery rather than a first step toward switching. Sometimes it’s more convenient to feign interest and take a tour to get a free workout than trek halfway across the city. This isn’t really lying. I am interested in other gyms… in the general, long-term, information-gathering sense. I might even make a switch someday, if a big pile of money magically appears in my living room. Switching at this moment just isn’t going to happen. The average gym membership in NYC runs about $75/month. My gym membership – a college graduation present many years ago – costs me less than a third of that. And lest we all forget, I’m unemployed.

The sales associate – a former pharmaceutical rep in Jackson Heights I would soon learn – asked me the usual questions. How often do you work out? What are your fitness goals? Have you ever had personal training? Each question began with an implied, “given that you’re so incredibly buff…” Or maybe that’s what I inferred. Who can remember these piddling details? She then gave me the grand tour of what might be the nicest gym I’ve seen, definitely the nicest in NYC. My perception might be different if I’d attended a division one university or my alma mater had renovated its athletic facilities the year before my graduation rather than the year after. The place is four floors and 4000 square feet of new, clean and in working equipment. (I’m used to old, dirty equipment that stays broken for weeks.) Trainers wander the floors putting away weights and offering advice or a quick spot. Classes with names I can’t pronounce and punctuated with exclamation points are available throughout the day, as are massages and physical therapy. There’s a boutique and a cafe. I could go on and on, because that’s what I do. But let me sum it up in three words… cool eucalyptus towels. They’re available on every floor to wipe my sweaty brow.

Back in her office, the sales associate showed me the membership plans and asked if I was ready to join. I was, if she was ready to wave the membership fees (Initiation: $645; Monthly Dues: $173). I love me some cool eucalyptus towels. To get out of the conversation, I said I would need to discuss the matter with my wife. She might also be interested. And I couldn’t make a final decision without working out, of course. This being a high-class joint, she didn’t push the matter. There was no pressure, no hard sell.

The first trial workout was the best, probably because I felt the most gung-ho and the least self-conscious. The facility is light and open and not especially crowded. Many people there had personal trainers putting them through their paces. The rest, I can only assume, were surrogates – paid to work out on another’s behalf. And then there was me, wandering around wide-eyed, trying out all the equipment. Everyone was beautiful. Everything was shiny and new, from the filtered water fountains to the fancy Macs for class registration and music downloading. The house speakers played model runway and swanky club music. I worked out near a huge window overlooking Broadway (the road, not the theater district), thinking “look at me, mom, I’m a fancy person now.”

The weird feeling didn’t hit me until the next day. I was on a cross-trainer machine that mimics a running gazelle. I looked stupid, but everyone does on that machine. The middle-age woman next to me discussed kitchen remodeling with her friend. The issue was where to live while the work happened. She leaned toward Florida, because she likes it there in the fall, but hadn’t made a final decision. Her friend agreed. I didn’t have an opinion, having never remodeled a kitchen or been to Florida. Money didn’t seem to be a concern at all. Renovating a kitchen to them was a little like buying a cup of coffee is to the rest of us. I felt a little out of my element.

I switched to a recumbent bike with a video screen, and tried to run down riders on the redwood forest course. The pedaling avatars just disappeared as I approached. The machine wouldn’t even let me off the path. Where’s the fun in that? So I tried the college campus course, where I could pick off a few Abercrombie & Fitch-wearing coeds, or at least a mascot with a giant head. Again, no luck. I worked up a good sweat, but still felt a little off, a little on edge, like I was someplace unfamiliar. I needed a cool eucalyptus towel and a massage to bring me down. The massages cost extra, so I settled for the towel.

I was self-conscious, which led to the anxiety. It wasn’t because I had no intention of joining the club, but because I had no choice. I couldn’t join. Places that I walk past all the time – places like this gym – are off limits. I can look around, take it all in, but then I have to leave. Unemployment gives me free time, but then takes away most of my options. I felt like an impostor, like the people there knew I wasn’t a member and couldn’t afford to be. I don’t have a job or the money for fancy things, or really anything. If gainfully employed, I wouldn’t spend my money on a high-end gym membership. But I could, theoretically. The choice would be mine. Everyone around me had chosen to be there. They are rich and can work out mid-morning on a weekday. I am poor (or at least feel poor) and would really rather be at work. But I can’t, so I work out instead.

I didn’t put all this together until after my last workout. I was in the shower, where I do my best thinking, using up the gym’s fancy conditioner. Hot water streamed from the deluxe shower head. Wooden slats the kept my feet from touching the floor. And that’s when it occurred to me. I dressed, packed up my stuff and went to Quiznos for lunch, which I bought with a coupon.

What, no free cookies? What kind of establishment are you running here? I may just have to take my business elsewhere.

The Great Recession is over. At least that’s what everyone keeps telling me. The S&P 500 gained 15.2% from April to June for its best quarter since the fourth quarter of 1998. Retail sales rose 2.7% in August. Existing home sales rose 7.2% in July from a year earlier, to a two-year high. Happy days are here again. Uncork the champagne, plate up the caviar and break out the credit cards. The spending party is about to resume? I’ll be at the As Seen On TV store if any employers want to talk to me. There’s a purple snuggie with my name on it, and the Dentist-in-a-Box will save me a little money.

Unfortunately, hiring doesn’t move lockstep with the economy; it historically lags three to six months behind. Some companies wait to see revenues return before bringing on additional staff. Others wait to know exactly what gaps in their depleted workforce need filling the most. National unemployment – currently 9.7% – is forecast to hit 10% by year’s end. There’s one thing I don’t remember from all those economics classes long ago. If consumer spending accounts for the bulk of all spending and consumers are unemployed or scared to spend, how exactly is the economy pulling out of the recession? Anybody care to explain that to me? Uncle Milty… Papa Kruggy… Zeidy Bernanke… anyone?

I’m not even convinced that the job market will be back in any significant way. Worker productivity rose by 6.6% in the second quarter of 2009, the biggest jump since the summer of 2003. Wages remained stagnant, as they have for years. People are doing more work for the same money, and companies are reaping the benefits. Corporate profits are expected to surge; bullish estimates see 12% growth in both 2010 and 2011. That jump in productivity can be viewed as a loss of jobs. Why hire or re-hire someone to perform a task that’s already getting done? Just turn up the heat on the minions. Future innovation may lead to new types of jobs, though no one can say exactly what those jobs will be and to what extent they’ll offset recession job losses.

While things get back to normal (whatever normal will be), I have to deal with the likelihood that my unemployment will continue for some time. There are a few more jobs out there, but companies still receive hundreds of resumes for each position; the ratio of unemployed to openings is 6:1. They interview the best of the best which, given that I haven’t had an interview in a couple months, doesn’t seem to include me. I beg (as well as plead, beseech, entreat and supplicate) to differ, of course. I think I would be an invaluable employee for any company that hired me. So to date, I haven’t been willing to settle for less than I deserve. My previous salary was already on the low end for MBAs with work experience. Compromising seemed unnecessary.

That is about to change. The clock on my unemployment insurance is running down, and the end-of-the-year deadline looms large. This week I began actively seeking jobs that would be a step down. I don’t mean a big, digging in trashcans for recyclables-kind of step. The illegal aliens that roam the Jackson Heights streets with shopping carts collecting cans have that lucrative business locked up. This is a smaller step. I’m now applying for positions beneath my pay grade and skill level, even entry-level if the company is in a strong growth field. I’d be hard-pressed to turn down an offer – any offer – in online marketing, for example. The MBA will likely come off of my resume, at least one version of it. I’ve also started looking for work outside of marketing. Proofreading – one of my fallback skills – is one option. Sales is another, though I’d really prefer it not to be. We’ll see what kind of results I get in the next few weeks. As the time ticks away, I will widen my scope. That’s how desperation works.