Where did all the white people go? (courtesy of Wikipedia)

I hate a lot of stuff, or at least it can appear that way to the reader passing through. My cousin suggested over dinner a few weeks back that I change the blog’s name to Hate Less and Less. The suggestion didn’t quite make sense; he’s not too bright. But the spirit of the comment resonated with me. Some vitriol comes through in these here pages from time to time.

I never thought of it as hate so much as annoyance. Things irk me. Hard as it is to believe, I’m not perfect… far from it. But I’m basically a nice guy with a positive outlook. I don’t walk the sidewalks scowling at old ladies and kicking small children. Nor do I lambaste random strangers and give them wedgies as they pass by. I could; the world is filled with easy targets and people wearing underwear. But I don’t.

A protracted job search would wear on most people. The daily grind of looking for something so elusive can be overwhelming. Just ask one of the millions who’ve seen their unemployment outlast their unemployment insurance. I’ve managed to supplement government help with freelance and temp work, when I can get it. That’s kept me going. All things considered, I’ve fared pretty well. But maintaining a good attitude is a struggle.

Life is hard for everyone sometimes. But I don’t hate anybody for my problems. What good would it do anyway? It’s not their fault. Besides, there’s already plenty of real hate to overshadow whatever inspires me to hold forth with precise and fluid prose in the hallowed pages of this irreverent and insightful blog. A quick scroll through the TV news channels reveals as much. It’s all talk of mosques and immigration… how foreigners are coming to take our freedoms and our jobs and make us worship Allah and speak Mexican. Election season promises to dial up the hate even more; what better way to show leadership potential than to trash the little guy? I can hardly wait.

A lot of this hate is aimed at my neighbors. Jackson Heights is one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the country, with 100+ different languages spoken, including English, thanks to Wifey and me. The array of cultures is amazing, with every continent represented, including Antarctica. My downstairs neighbors are penguins. I take credit for adding Wasp to this extensive and varied list. Most Saturdays find me strolling the shopping streets in crisp white boating pants, with a popped collar and an Izod sweater tied loosely around my neck, tossing dollar bills over my shoulder as I spew random stock market and nautical terms, such as Dow Jones, capital gains, starboard and, uh, sailboat. I’m proud of my heritage.

Not surprisingly, many of my neighbors are undocumented and/or practice Islam. I don’t know most of them personally. But I see them in line at the store and the bank. I sit next to them in restaurants. I stand behind them on the subway platform. I bump into them on the sidewalk. They’re pretty and ugly. They’re nice and mean. They’re rich and poor. They’re hardworking and lazy. They’re generous and stingy. Every adjective – positive and negative – applies on some level, as it does to every group of people. The people we hate are the same as us. They are us.

So why do we Americans hate ourselves? Where does this self-loathing come from? I wish I knew, so I could give the nation a giant lollipop to allay our national crying fit. There are so many real issues to address, such as the stagnant economy that keeps so many of us un- and under-employed. Instead we go on hating the new guy because he’s different, as we have since the birth of the nation. He threatens to upset the status quo, and slightly change our glorious way of life. And that scares us. We hate because we’re afraid.

I’m scared too. But rather than hate, let me put forth something that I like. I like my neighborhood – Jackson Heights. I like that it’s a true melting pot, in a country that embraces the term yet so rarely achieves the true meaning. I like that it offers an opportunity to people not afforded one before. I like that Jackson Heights is Ground Zero for the American Dream. People from all over the world come here for a chance, and they get it. To hate that is to hate America.

How New Yorkers see the world, courtesy of that other New York magazine. (courtesy of The New Yorker)

Queens doesn’t exist. Or maybe it just disappeared one day while everyone was checking their smartphones and being social. There’s a giant void between Manhattan, Brooklyn and Nassau County. Woodside… felled. Flushing… down the toilet. Jackson Heights… sunk. Only the quickly gentrifying Astoria remains, visible from the Upper East Side on the rare occasion someone looks east and wonders, “what’s over there?”

I suspect the rest of Queens might still be here too, somewhere. I manage to leave and get back to my apartment everyday. None of the many trains that stop in Jackson Heights resemble the Hogwarts Express. Besides, whole boroughs don’t just disappear, at least not literally. We New Yorkers do ignore the parts of the city we don’t visit. We forget about them, go about our lives in blissful ignorance. What other explanation could there possibly be for Queens’s poor showing in New York Magazine’s recently published issue covering the City’s best cheap restaurants?

Eat Cheap 2010

No one who’s ventured across the East River to the outer borough that’s not Brooklyn could argue that the food sucks. Queens is anything but a culinary wasteland. Jackson Heights alone has some of the City’s best Thai and Indian food as rated by other reputable food resources, not to mention Colombian and Mexican and Vietnamese. Hipsters make pilgrimages to my neighborhood to sample the street food; I see them under the 7 train with their pegged jeans and printout maps every weekend. And everything in Queens is cheap, cheap, cheap. Wifey and I can eat out for less than $25 total. We smile when we pay the check, because it feels like stealing. And then we walk home.

In New York Magazine’s rundown, any entree under $25 qualifies as cheap. The whole bill at many of the restaurants mentioned would be much higher…$60 or $70 for a couple who shares an appetizer, orders two entrees and washes it down with tasty beverages. Not everyone can afford that price for dinner. And even fewer people would call that cheap. Of course, all the individual food items covered are less than $25. I don’t mean to suggest otherwise. But calling them cheap eats can be a little misleading.

The $25 dividing line is also an important clue. New York Magazine’s readers are professionals, with a certain income and standard of living. Or at least they aspire to those things. I read the magazine (translation: look at the pretty pictures) to seem smart on the train once it crosses out of the Land that Food Forgot. And because the colors make me happy. The Magazine is an excellent source for commentary on local, national and international events. It’s also known for its informative restaurant reviews. When I need a recommendation for a nice place to take wifey for her birthday, that’s where I turn. Many of my friends do the same, which is why wifey gets a lot of expensive free meals around her birthday.

The restaurants covered in this issue are mostly in Manhattan and Brooklyn, because the Magazine’s readers are mostly in Manhattan and Brooklyn. A few restaurants in Astoria – the Queens neighborhood where priced-out Manhattanites and Brooklynites go – are mentioned. Now more than ever, magazines, like politicians, have to pander to their base. I get it. Times are tough for a printed publication in a digital world. And I don’t begrudge New York Magazine trying to serve its readers. A media company needs to make a buck, lest its paying customers go elsewhere and its writers and editors find themselves on the fair-trade, organically baked bread lines.

But the Magazine is named after the whole city. And the last time I checked, the City had five boroughs. Claiming to represent the best cheap food in New York is just plain misleading. I eat some of the best cheap food in the city all the time. And it’s not in Manhattan or Brooklyn. It’s in Queens… usually Jackson Heights for me. The borough is home to some of the best cheap eats anywhere. How else could an unemployed guy and his wife afford a decent meal out? By failing to show the whole picture, the Magazine does its readers a great disservice.

Maybe it just doesn’t give them enough credit. Queens, outside of Astoria, probably seems like a foreign country, something to pass through on the way to the airport or the U.S. Open. It feels strange to me sometimes, and I live here. People generally gravitate to the familiar, in this case familiar foods close to home. But New York Magazine readers are a smart and curious lot. They know there’s a bigger world out there. And they want to learn about it. Sooner or later they will see that big void across the East River and wonder what’s there. If New York Magazine doesn’t tell them, somebody else will.

The contents of my bank account. (courtesy of http://static.squidoo.com)

So much has changed since I last held down a job and forced it to stay. Some of it’s good; some of it’s not so good. And some of it just is. Let’s review the high points. Class, please follow along. This material will be on the final…

• I have two beautiful young nieces, whom I’ve secretly vowed to make avid football fans, once they’re old enough to understand one immutable truth. Large men running into each other and falling down is a beautiful thing.
• The country has a different president. Maybe you noticed. Maybe you voted for him. Maybe you even swooned as the world crowned him America’s savior. And maybe you recognized he’s just a man with a lot of work to do and a lot of people standing in his way. Any way you spin it, I was last employed during the Bush administration.

• Another oil company ruined another body of water. We’ll learn shortly if Gulf shrimp tastes better glazed with crude. I generally prefer a tangy lime sauce.
• More countries were struck with natural disasters. It’s one thing to whine about unemployment in my upright apartment with wifey across the room tapping on her computer. It’s quite another to earn $5/month picking mangoes and then have your home reduced to rubble and your family killed. Huge catastrophes have a way of providing a little perspective.
• My bank account is a little emptier or, as I prefer to see it, more spacious.
• The number of cell phone stores within a block of my apartment jumped from six to nine. The number of 99 cent stores stayed constant at four. And the battle for eyebrow supremacy between my neighborhood’s eyebrow waxing and threading meccas seems to have ended in a draw. The age-old question that’s plagued mankind for centuries (how many eyebrow super emporiums can a neighborhood support?) has been answered. Two.
• “Lost” ended. And I found my Tuesday nights.

Change is the only constant. So it’s not surprising that the working world isn’t what it once was either. I lost my last full-time job in October 2008; I accepted a temporary contractor position with full-time hours in February 2010. A lot is different, including me and my views on things, stuff and what not. And I’m not sure exactly how I feel about it.

When not working for the man every night and day, I will try to figure it all out. The main themes are already becoming obvious; the subtleties are taking their time. And then in the wee hours, by the glow of syndicated sitcoms, I will try to blog about what I learn. Of course, I might just fall asleep. Writing an unemployment blog while employed seems disingenuous. So I need to bide my time until I’m again without job. This should happen soon enough, given my track record and the limited scope of my current project. Then I can get back to my true calling.

They told me the girls would like me more if I got in shape.

I hurt myself at the gym the other day. The exact moment is still fresh in my head. There I was, back flat against the weight bench, two 400-pound dumbbells poised above my head. Nickelback played through the speakers, angering me to the brink of insanity at the unfairness of life. My muscles twitched; sweat dripped off my brow. Four spotters stood at the ready. I brought the weights down to my chest and pushed them back up with a loud grunt. The assembled audience clapped and cheered in adoration. Bob Costas expressed his disbelief to the home audience, using words too big for sports. Only I heard the snap in my chest.

Okay, so maybe it didn’t happen exactly that way. Mike Adamle was doing the play-by-play. Or maybe it was just that creepy gym guy who says random things until he ropes someone into a conversation. And the dumbbells were only 300 pounds each, maybe 250, definitely no less than 200. Fine, I was doing push-ups… lots and lots of push-ups. Are you happy? There are two details I’m sure of: Nickelback playing and being pissed off about Nickelback playing.

I didn’t really feel the injury when it happened. The workout, though a bit more strenuous than normal, was like any other. My chest was sore the next day, and not in a good way. By that evening I couldn’t lift my arms without shooting pain. Sleeping was near impossible, as laying down was just excruciating. So I watched what seemed like a full season of “That ’70s Show” on Teen Nick. The next day, it hurt just to have my arms hang at my sides. I considered cutting them off at the shoulder. But lifting a machete was too painful. The only comfortable position was sitting upright with my arms on the table or armrests, relieving any pressure on the injury.

I’ve hurt myself before, many times. I’m a boy, have been all my life. And I played lots of sports that involve helmets. But this time was different. I’d rendered myself completely useless. Not only could I not find a full-time job, despite my repeated best efforts, I couldn’t even move. I was officially just taking up space. It was a really bad day, one of the worst of my unemployment.

Prolonged unemployment makes a person feel useless. Take it from someone who knows all too well. When a hundred resumes go out and your phone stays silent, it’s easy to get really down on yourself. I fight this feeling everyday. A lot of my fellow unemployed do too. Please correct me if I’m wrong, if you’ve interviewed all 14.8 million of us and found the vast majority to be confident and well adjusted. I’ll douse my computer in honey and eat it piece by piece, starting with the sharp parts. Mr. Jobs, your name will taunt me no more.

Going to the gym is my outlet, my shield against that overwhelming useless feeling. It gives me a sense of accomplishment. It helps me validate my existence. Look at me, world, err… Jackson Heights, err… other sweaty people in this ugly building on Queens Blvd., I’m good at something! That something is lifting inanimate objects twelve times using proper form. Working out makes me feel good about myself, or at least less bad. And hard work yields visible results, unlike submitting resumes. I’m in pretty good shape for someone who spends too much time at his computer and eats too many cookies. Take away my workouts, and my mental state goes downhill faster than Lindsey Vonn.

The injury, painful though it was, healed pretty quickly. There is some lingering discomfort from something that happened months ago, when I was doing dips with a Volkswagen strapped to my back. But I am otherwise fine. I returned to the gym yesterday and felt good after. I went again today and feel even better. All the soreness is good soreness.

As if somehow connected, things have picked up on the job search front too. Some recruiters recently inquired about my resume and, even better, returned my calls. I have a few quality freelance opportunities, including an exciting month-long gig that starts tomorrow. I know deep down that I’m not useless. And it shouldn’t take a workout or some job search success to remind me. But I’ve been unemployed a long time. And keeping one’s confidence and spirits up is hard work in itself. A little validation helps once in awhile, no matter how it comes about.

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?

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.

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.

Fake is the new real. (courtesy of wikipedia.org)

After a long day of not finding a job, it’s relaxing to engage in an even more mindless activity. Channel surfing, second to sleeping, is the greatest time-waster ever created. My thumb and a few buttons on the remote control give me 200 stations of useless television programming, and occasionally something worth watching. I always start with channel 2 (CBS on Time Warner Cable in NYC) and work my way up…  3 (TNT), 4 (NBC) and so on. Somewhere in the 150s – amidst the American Life TVs and the Gospel Music Channels of the cable world – I get bored and return to 2. I like a good “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman” marathon as much as the next guy, but I can’t help hoping for something a little better. Unemployment taught me that. Cycling through the channels drives wifey crazy. She prefers to scroll through the on-screen guide – a wholly different approach to channel surfing that bears no resemblance to mine in any way, whatsoever, at all, in any universe, even the ones without TV.

The other night, around 8:00, I plopped my ass on the couch and commenced with the remote clicking. Wifey wasn’t home, and I was killing time before dinner. Nothing was on, at least nothing that could overcome the slim possibility of something one click away. Then my world changed forever, ever so slightly for the better. I happened upon one of the funniest movies ever made… if you were a goofy teenage boy in the suburbs in the late 1980s.

“Coming To America” is the touching tale of Prince Akeem’s (Eddie Murphy) quest for a soul mate amidst parental and societal pressures. Dissatisfied with his country’s marriage customs, he set outs for Queens, accompanied by his assistant Semmi (Arsenio Hall), in search of true love. Where better for the future king of Zumunda to find a wife than my home borough? Such indisputable logic sets the tone for the rest of the film. The Prince falls for Lisa McDowell, whose father owns McDowell’s, a fictional restaurant that rips off McDonalds. As the owner describes it, “they got the Golden Arches, mine is the Golden Arcs.” The Prince gets a job at the restaurant and sets about winning Lisa away from Daryl Jenks, heir to the Soul Glo jheri curl haircare products fortune. Hilarity ensues and endures, as it is wont to do when Eddie Murphy is on screen and you’re 16 again. Nothing rounds out a heartwarming love story like poop jokes and racial stereotypes (Lifetime… are you paying attention?). I laughed, I cried. Rather I laughed until I cried. Okay, so I chuckled occasionally.

The story takes place in my neighborhood Jackson Heights. And I soon realized that the fictional McDowell’s is really the Wendy’s over on Queens Blvd. (technically in neighboring Elmhurst). I’ve walked by it a million times, including the other day on my way to Target. This discovery was the most exciting thing to happen in weeks. I couldn’t wait to tell wifey, though I knew she wouldn’t appreciate the revelation to the same extent. Her comedic palette is nowhere near as refined as mine; we can’t all be comedic geniuses.

A pilgrimage to the McDowell’s location is in the early planning stages, as is a party to celebrate the movie’s 21-year, three-month anniversary. Arsenio Hall is already on board, because really, what else does he have going on? Eddie Murphy’s people have yet to get back to me. Rumor has it he’s in the studio recording the followup to “Party All The Time” (as in my girl wants to…). The new single, “Take Her Meds Because Now She Has Liver Disease” should be a big hit. In the meantime, to pay homage to the film and the local tradition of ripping off national restaurant brands, I spent the afternoon at the local Starbucks wannabe.

Halfway between my apartment and the gym is a coffee shop called Esparks. (I’d post a link to the site if there were one.) It’s a copy of everyone’s favorite national chain, right down to the font in the logo and the dark wooden interior. Like the fictional McDowell’s, Esparks is easily mistaken for the real thing. The coffee shop sits on a busy corner across the street from a car wash and the pediatric emergency and trauma center of the local hospital. Huge glass windows face each street, and a giant creepy picture of smiling kids. I’m no doctor, but I’m fairly certain that kids going into or coming out of intensive care don’t look quite that healthy or happy. Light streams into the coffee shop, as does local foot traffic. Many people just stop in to use the bathroom.

I arrived a little after 3:00, hoping to score a window seat with an electrical outlet… no such luck. A worried-looking woman with a giant mole on her face was camped out there. Empty coffee cups and dirty napkins littered her table like she’d been there a long while mulling things over. Maybe she’s the resident crazy person; every coffee shop has one. I bought an ice coffee and some cookies, found a seat in the corner next to the bathroom and continued my unemployed Wednesday tap, tap tapping away on the computer.

The afternoon was uneventful… some blogging, some job searching, some fantasy football scouting, all accompanied by my trusty iPod. In other words, the usual, except I wasn’t in my apartment. Doctors or people who like to wear stethoscopes around their necks wandered in for a caffeine fix. The mole lady gazed expectantly at every passerby. Other computer types stared at their screens and typed away. “Your Body is a Wonderland” and “Californication” – somehow audible over Boards of Canada – assaulted me over and over from speakers in the ceiling. Eventually I poured scalding hot coffee into my ear canals to soothe the pain.

Despite the obvious similarities to Starbucks, Esparks is fine as coffee shops go. The coffee is decent. The cookies may have been bought at the grocery store and repackaged into individual servings, but they contain copious amounts of sugar. And that’s all I really care about. Free wireless and outlets built into the benches invite people to hang out. And nobody cares how long I stay. Aside from the occasional weirdo, what’s not to like?

A couple of teenagers carrying their computer stuff in an Ikea bag sat down next to me just when I was thinking about leaving. They appeared to be settling in for a marathon gaming session. An older man showed up to meet the mole lady. She perked up immediately, like a lost puppy who’d just been found. They bought still more coffee, and then settled back in at the same table. The sun was going down, and commuters were going home. The daytime crowd gave way to the evening crowd. And I’m sure later the evening crowd will give way to the overnight, caffeine-deprived, worried parent crowd. I was no closer to having a job, at least as far as I can tell. Maybe one of my resumes will find its way through the ether to an HR person’s desktop; stranger things have happened. But I’d paid homage to one of my favorite movies in my own special way. It was time to go home and channel surf.

What's so interesting, lady? Haven't you ever taken a picture of yourself outside Dunkin' Donuts?

Oh, who are the people in your neighborhood?
In your neighborhood?
In your neighborhood?
Say, who are the people in your neighborhood?
The people that you meet each day

Once upon a time I had a job. Or maybe I just dreamt it up to kill time between layoffs. The neighborhood where I worked was filled with tourists and people trying to sell them “I Love NY” t-shirts and sightseeing packages. Navigating the long block between the subway and my office made me want to kill everybody from the Midwest so they’d stop visiting. Of course the important people in my neighborhood were my coworkers. I interacted with them all day everyday. Together we got things done. So let me break off a little somethin’ somethin’ for them…

Oh, the sales guy always brings up the tale
Of the deal he made without fail.
He’ll talk and talk the whole day through
But get your paycheck safe to you.

‘Cause a sales guy is a person in your neighborhood,
In your neighborhood, he’s in your neighborhood.
A sales guy is a person in your neighborhood–
A person that you meet each day.

And let’s not forget the other marketing guy, my former partner in crime…

Oh, the other marketing guy is smart it’s said.
His writing brings the company cred.
If there’s a fire anywhere about.
Well, his words will put it out.

‘Cause the other marketing guy is a person in your neighborhood,
In your neighborhood, he’s in your neighborhood.
And a sales guy is a person in your neighborhood–
Well they’re the people that you meet
When you’re scrounging for free eats
They’re the people that you meet each day!

I don’t go to that office anymore, what with the layoff and all. They even stopped putting money in my bank account for some reason. I spend much of the day in my dining room, in the company of two furry creatures who sleep and drool a lot. My trips out into the world give me some fleeting human contact. Over the last several months, certain individuals have become the new people in my neighborhood.

A friendly middle-aged Hispanic woman runs the register at a local fruit stand. Fruit stands in Jackson Heights are only slightly less common than cell phone stores, eyebrow threading places and people handing out fliers for English lessons. But this one is the cheapest, something I appreciate given my limited cash flow. A pint of fresh blueberries there goes for $1, and a pound of apples less than that. I shop there multiple times each week, and this lady is always working. She smiles when I reach the front of the line and asks after me and wifey in what little English she knows. The questions are generally one or more of the following…

• You go to gym today?
• You no working today?
• Where your wife?
• You cooking tonight? (This one is generally followed by a laugh.)

My answers are generally of the yes/no variety to ease the exchange. She’s probably saying more than I’m understanding. I don’t know much about her, except that she works a lot and her teenage daughter attends the school catercorner to the stand. Our conversations last the time it takes to ring up a basket full of fruits and vegetables and rarely stray from the aforementioned topics. Her boss – the old Korean guy in a “git r done” hat – is usually sitting right there and itching to ring up the next customer.

Oh, the fruit lady always has the kale
And all the other fruits and vegetables that if they were organic would be collected along a trail.
She works, and works the whole day through
To get me the cheap berries blue.

‘Cause a fruit lady is a person in your neighborhood,
In your neighborhood, she’s in your neighborhood.
A fruit lady is a person in your neighborhood–
A person that you meet each day.

The young Indian guy at the Dunkin’ Donuts knows what I want on sight… medium ice coffee, black. This is a high-traffic store on a high-traffic street corner. The 7 train station is directly above and trains rattle by, shaking the store, about every five minutes. The sidewalks are generally too crowded to walk in a straight line for more than a few steps. Inside are always the usual types of characters – a hospital employee on his way to work, a cop or two on a break, some gangly teenagers getting a sugar fix and an old lady of dubious residence with a plastic bag fetish. Random customers come and go. The cashier will yell out my order from wherever he is the moment he sees me. Sometimes he’s helping another customer. Sometimes he’s in the back, if it’s time to make the donuts. Sometimes he’s at home on his couch watching television. It doesn’t matter. I look up upon hearing his voice and nod. He brings my drink. I pay with exact change and leave. That is the extent of our interaction. There was some confusion a few months back over whether “black” coffee meant no milk or no milk and no sugar. That’s long since been resolved, at least as far as we’re concerned. This is the most basic of customer/cashier relationships. But I enjoy it for what it is. And his recognizing me does make me feel important for a few seconds every afternoon. That in itself is worth the $2.37.

Oh, a Dunkin’ Donuts guy is brave it’s said.
His store is orange, brown and, if there’s a police incident, maybe a little red.
If Norm is near about.
Well, my order he’ll yell it out!

‘Cause a Dunkin’ Donuts guy is a person in your neighborhood,
In your neighborhood, he’s in your neighborhood.
And a fruit lady is a person in your neighborhood–
Well they’re the people that you meet
When you’re avoiding strollers and garbage on the street
They’re the people that you meet each day!

There are other characters around too. It’s a rare day that I don’t see the blond ponytail guy with the spiderweb tattoo on his shoulder. He’s generally rocking the mirrored sunglasses and the outsized attitude, like Dog The Bounty Hunter, with only slightly better hair. Sometimes he’s leaning against a wall, and looking important. Sometimes he’s holding court, and looking important. Sometimes he’s hurrying somewhere, and looking important.

Jackson Heights has no shortage of characters, though no one else I see everyday. My interactions with the people in my neighborhood are brief, but I appreciate them for what they are. It’s nice to be recognized, to be appreciated outside of your own home. Work offers a sort of validation that unemployment doesn’t. Sitting at home alone all day can skew your reality. But a quick trip around the block can bring it all back into focus.

Don't let the smile fool you. He'll beat your ass if you leave your trash or play your music without headphones. (courtesy of http://www.ironrange.org)

My bus trip to DC featured a typical cast of knuckleheads. But the trip back was special, short bus special even. (Like how I bring it all together?) I arrived at the station at 7:45 a.m. to find the line winding all the way back to the exit. The previous two buses didn’t run, we eventually learned. At 8:30, the line moved forward, and presumably a bus left carrying some of the people in front of me. I passed the time trying to decipher the stories on CNN and ignore the inane blather of the two teenagers in front of me. Soon coverage switched to Obama’s Ghana speech; people stopped their conversations to pay  attention. One woman dragged her luggage closer to watch, eventually integrating herself into the line and forgetting about the speech. The good old “blend and butt” worked again. At about 9:00 the line moved forward again. It appeared I might make the next bus and be on my way. Then the driver stopped me. Thanks to Ms. Line Jumper, who took what would have been my seat, I’d have to wait some more.

As I stood in the doorway avoiding the direct sun and looking for a clean surface to lean on, a haggard guy wearing a dirty basketball jersey and gym shorts wandered up to the dividing rope. He sported a fresh, juicy scab on one side of his forehead and smelled like homelessness, or at least showerlessness. His eyes were far away, but his odor was right there. He appeared to be working the line for drug money until he ducked the rope and pulled out a ticket. Everyone backed away and gave him space; one woman actually grabbed her playing children. No one questioned his right to be there; people will only defend their place in line if they don’t feel threatened. For the next hour he paced nervously within a three-foot area, talking to himself and fighting fainting spells. I asked his views of the current administration’s policy on Africa, but didn’t get a response.

I boarded the 10:00 bus, two hours after arriving at the station, and sat up front near to the driver. Dirty, drug addict man boarded a minute later and stumbled to the back, presumably to commune with the toilet. Soon we were on our way. The bus stopped at a turnpike rest stop named after a minor historical figure. The driver wanted to take lunch. I was happy to avail myself of facilities that weren’t moving at 65 mph. Riders bought their fast food and reconvened under some trees on an island halfway between the main building and the bus to eat.

A guy wandered around with some sort of championship belt and a camera. Periodically he stopped someone to take a picture of him posing with the belt and looking tough. At one point he wandered out into the parking lot and almost got hit by a car. I was intrigued and considered asking to take his picture. How else would I get the story? After ten minutes and three or four pictures, he put the belt back in a sleeve marked with the UFC logo. UFC stands for Ultimate Fighting Championship, or Unidentified Flying Chicken if you’re hungry in Jackson Heights (soooooo, good!). Underneath the dead eyes and baggy t-shirt, he could be one of those fighters that I channel surf by late at night. I couldn’t find him on the website, but his forearms sure looked like he’d trained for something. Then I thought maybe a conversation with a potentially lethal attention-seeker wasn’t such a great idea. Who walks around a rest stop parking lot showing off a championship belt? The guy had to be a little off from all the blows to the head. And talking with him (or anyone) on a bus (or anywhere) for the next two hours probably wouldn’t be worth the trouble.

The driver finished his burger, and everyone filed back onto the bus, carrying what was left of their Burger King and Cinnabon. Mr. UFC champion returned to his seat somewhere behind me to dream of skull bashing glory. The bus continued on up the turnpike without incident. My neck was too sore to sleep or even lean back, so I watched the trees and power line poles pass. When the bus pulled out of the Lincoln Tunnel and into midtown Manhattan, one kid exclaimed incredulously, “where are we now?”

My dream… to not ride the bus

Adventures in bus riding, part 1