Where can I get me a big boat for my next press conference?

Mission accomplished. Those two words stick in my head lately, as I speak to the world from the bow of my aircraft carrier, the USS Kitchen Table. Navy SEALs, with an assist from the CIA, recently killed public enemy number one. They put a bullet through his head and dumped his body in the North Arabian Sea. A chapter in the ongoing war against terrorism ends. Many many more remain. In other national news, this once-unemployed blogger announces his full-time employment—the death of his own biggest enemy. It remains unclear what the revelers in Times Square were celebrating that night a few weeks back.

It’s been a wild and wacky ride. I lost my last full-time job on October 31, 2008. I started Jobless and Less a few weeks later and blogged my way into the hearts and minds, or at least the bowels, of a nation. Many of my loyal readers were also unemployed, or identified with the condition of unemployment. It was—and still is—a common problem; the country’s current unemployment rate hovers around 9%. I hope that I helped a few of these readers, not to find a job (though I tried that too in a few cases), but to get through another soul-sucking, mind-numbing, gut-wrenching day. Finding work is a thankless job, without the benefit of a paycheck or even a pat on the back. It’s a grind. But the occasional chuckle or smile can brighten an afternoon just a little. And I benefited more than anyone.

On a personal level, the site gave me a reason to get up and go through it all, again and again and again. It was a way of rewarding myself for enduring another day of disappointment… a cookie for the unemployed soul. What better way to overcome being ignored than to make people pay attention? The site gave me some control in a situation where I seemed to have none. It gave me an outlet to express my frustrations, big and small. And it gave me voice.

On a professional level, the site helped me become more employable. It served as a tool to teach myself new skills and refine old skills, from Search Engine Marketing to Social Media to website and project management. I grew as a marketer, and I grew as a writer. A website about being unemployed, ironically enough, made me a better employee.

Having a full-time job is a lot harder than I remember it. The days can be long. The work is often taxing, particularly as I dust off the little-used parts of my brain. But I enjoy being engaged. And my bank account enjoys receiving paychecks. And wifey enjoys having a gainfully employed husband. And the cats enjoy, well, sleeping. What did you expect? They’re cats.

I work on websites and related projects for a huge media company, also known as the man. They control TV and radio stations, not to mention web properties of all shapes and sizes. The position came out of a friendship I developed during a freelance project last year. One day I was meeting a someone for coffee. The next day I had a job. Who knows what the future will bring?

So what happens to Jobless and Less? Do I end it right here and ride off into the sunset? Do I continue to post sporadically, as the mood hits me? Do I steer the discussion off in another direction? Or do I continue to ask questions until I actually stumble upon my point? I don’t have the answer.

There’s plenty more to write about, but fewer hours to write. And I don’t own a horse, or a sunset. Maybe these are all signs that I need to keep writing. I already have the site, even if the name no longer makes sense. One mission ends, and another begins. I just need to figure out what the new mission is.

I don’t like guests. I’m not very hospitable, and a terrible host besides. Our apartment is in a perpetual transitional state. Ripping and packing up 1500 CDs is the current project, but there’s always something. And if that weren’t enough, the cats are trained to annoy guests with their cuteness and persistent affection. Yet people still visit for some reason. It must be the scenic walk up Roosevelt Ave; the allure of slush and garbage can be intoxicating. Maybe they just come to see wifey.

I don’t really like guests on Jobless and Less either. The site wouldn’t really be about MY experiences with unemployment and under-employment if other people did all the writing. But I’m not fundamentally against guest writers. Rumor has it that other people have interesting unemployment experiences and opinions about them.

It’s been almost two years since Ben Breier—the last guest poster—shared his tales of interviewing woe. I’ve since been solicited often, though nobody ever seems to quite get it. The world just doesn’t need another post about how to write a resume or what to say in an interview. The topics have been amply covered, elsewhere, by people who actually have jobs. Why would anyone trust advice on finding work from a site run by someone who can’t find work? It’s much more fun and interesting to laugh at my repeated failures.

An aspiring contributor does occasionally get it. Charlie Johnson emailed me this past week with a link to his video. He’s a clever lad, who has been unemployed since November. Months can seem like years to a recent college grad itching to put his education and skills to work.

I know the feeling. At 23, I was impatient about my job situation too. When I failed to nail down a coveted blacksmith position at the town stables, I became a cobbler. Shoes for farmers and tradesmen would have to suffice. Then came the Great War and the Roaring Twenties, and my skills were suddenly outdated. (“Suddenly” took 15 years in my youth.) I thought my career was over, but the end of my career was just getting started.

Charlie is much younger than I am. He still has skills and experience and drive. He also has initiative and chutzpah, and a fierce jump cut to rival any Hollywood director. So I’m letting him tell his story, his way. Enjoy. Let this be a reminder that smart and creative people everywhere are struggling through this terrible job market.

Hire me or I'll shoot, but I mean that in the nicest possible way. (courtesy of wikipedia.com)

I’m back in the saddle again or, um, out of it. I can’t keep track anymore. My full-time freelance assignment ended this past Friday, and I’m unemployed again. Or am I still self-employed but without a full-time project? Is there a difference? Does it really matter? Can I go on asking questions like the annoying five-year-old who lived up the block from me when I was a kid? Do you really want me to answer that question? Or that one? Or that one?

It feels like I fell off the proverbial horse, which then kicked me as it trotted away. So let’s go with “out of it,” a phrase that seems to fit like a lasso around my neck. The current job market is similar to the Wild West… catch as catch can, every person for themselves. And sporadic unemployment might be the new reality. Maybe the only solution is to quit looking for full-time work and devote my life to mastering Red Dead Redemption; I’ve already got the horse metaphor thing down. And besides, John Marston, the video game’s main character, is essentially me a hundred years ago.

John is a former outlaw in the early 20th Century Mexican boarder region whose family is held hostage by the government. To secure their freedom, he must act as a bounty hunter and bring the members of his former gang to justice. And he must kick lots of ass.

I like to wear black sometimes, and stole a candy bar from a 7-11 when I was 14. That’s right, straight up gansta, yo. Jackson Heights feels like it borders on the third world. Wifey is a hostage of government largess, paying taxes to avoid charges of tax evasion and maintain her freedom from the tax-collecting man who wants to give her cheaper healthcare and a couple dollars for retirement. The nerve! I hunt for a job, so that she may one day have a little more freedom from the tyranny of the working life. And I, like John Marston, kick lots of ass.

We are brothers from another mother, and another time and dimension. We even look alike, in a ruggedly handsome, don’t-take-no-guff sort of way. Since our experiences and circumstances are so similar, maybe his approach to life could help me in re-unemployment.

Whenever John—himself forced into freelancing by the government—finds himself unemployed, he seeks out potential employers in need of his services. They might be a town sheriff looking to capture some criminals, or a local rancher who needs help rustling some cattle. John always gets hired, and he always gets paid. If anyone or anything gets in his way, he shoots them. The human bodies he then loots; the animal bodies he skins. And the proceeds he spends on supplies or new houses, or gambles away.

My situation is basically the same, albeit a tad more nuanced. The projects that kept me off the streets and in the black for much of 2010 are over. More work could be pending, should the client sign on and the company ask me back. Neither is guaranteed. Some other freelance work is coming, theoretically, and two more inquiries came through this week. What materializes and how much I get paid remain to be seen. But to maximize my chances, I need to remain forceful and aggressively follow up on any opportunities. When I get work, I need to be resourceful in handling it. Then again, maybe the lesson here is to spend more time at the horse track.

As John succeeds, he gets hired for increasingly challenging and better-paying projects. Lassoing wild horses leads to collaborative missions with gravediggers and snake oil salesmen. His freelance projects even take him south of the border to Mexico, to rescue senoritas or hunt down the perfect burrito or something. I’m not that far into the game yet, so I don’t know exactly what happens. John eventually nabs the villains and gets his family back, reaching his larger goal. Then zombies come and ruin it all again. You’ll have to ask wifey—video game player extraordinaire—about the specifics.

Most of my freelance projects only use some of my skills. And that’s fine. I still do the best I can. A job well done sometimes leads to more and better work. But sometimes it just leads to a paycheck. One day I’ll have the perfect job, or at least one that draws on more of my skills. One day I’ll get paid like the marketing gangster I am. But today—two years and three months after losing my last full-time job—isn’t that day. Today I’m just trying to get my foot back in the stirrup before the horse rides away.

Yeah, but can you do this in a bathroom stall, poised over a toilet? (courtesy of connect.in.com)

I’ve been looking for full-time work for about two years. My resume is up to date, and can be tweaked at a moment’s notice. My answers to commonly asked questions sit on the tip of my tongue. And my sincere smile and confident demeanor can be summoned like a spell. This job seeker is ready to interview. But sometimes the hardest part of a job interview has precious little to do with the actual meeting and everything to do with looking the part.

I’ve been freelancing for a company on-site for much of 2010. The dress code is lax—not record-company, I-can’t-believe-your-parents-let-you-out-of-the-house lax—but lax. Jeans and a t-shirt may be fine for work, but they don’t cut it for a job interview. And, of course, most interviews happen during business hours. So the aspiring full-time employee, with dreams of job security and a regular paycheck, has a choice to make. Does he wear a spiffy wool suit to work, sweating on the subway platform, itching all day and enduring the inevitable “got an interview?” question over and over? Or does he bring the suit and change in a bathroom stall? I opted for plan B one fine day this past fall.

My suits and dress shirts and ties are relatively clean and wrinkle-free, not too mention chic and stylish and a whole bunch of other adjectives I found in GQ. And the company that interviewed me is four blocks away from my freelance gig. So I packed up my outfit in a suit bag and lugged it to the office on the subway the morning of. A half hour before the appointed time, I slipped into the bathroom with my clothes. That’s when the fun began.

The bathroom has two stalls, one large and one small. The large one dwarfs some Manhattan apartments. Being wheelchair-accessible, it’s plenty roomy for changing clothes. It even has a hook, which many men’s bathroom stalls don’t for some reason. Maybe I’m just not frequenting the right stalls in the right public bathrooms; maybe I’ve said too much. The large stall was occupied, by someone who sounded (and smelled) like he needed a doctor. So into the small one I went, breathing through my mouth.

The small stall is roughly two feet by four feet in size, and only slightly bigger than some Manhattan apartments. The toilet takes up most of the space, and, like most public toilets, doesn’t have a lid. The stall door won’t close or latch unless the occupant lifts it forcefully with the top of his foot. There is no hook. Though I must admit, the royal blue that adorns the stall walls did have a soothing effect. It lent an air of class to the occasion… low class.

I draped my suit bag over the stall door and stacked the contents of my pockets on the toilet paper dispenser. One false move would land my phone, wallet and keys in the toilet. I turned gently and unzipped the bag. It fell, and I caught it as it hit the floor. No harm done. Holding the bag up with one hand, I took out my shoes with the other. Then I jammed the hanger hooks over the top of the door. The suit bag now hung at a 45-degree angle from the door, making the stall almost two-dimensional.

I replaced my t-shirt with an undershirt and dress shirt and draped the tie around my neck. I sat down on the toilet, took off my jeans and changed my shoes and socks. My performance avoiding the floor with my bare feet would’ve impressed even a Cirque du Soleil recruiter. Clad in a half-buttoned dress shirt, untied dress shoes and tighty whities, I was the picture of hirability. What sane hiring manager wouldn’t employ me on the spot? I considered embracing the look for the interview and going forward in life.

But my discarded sneakers prevented me from actually moving my feet. So I bent over to slide them out of the way, narrowly missing the wall with my head and the toilet bowl water with my tie. A discerning interviewer would probably notice a forehead bruise and wet tie. And any on-the-fly explanation probably wouldn’t, um, fly. Though my headbutting, urinating bum story definitely has potential. We’ll just file that one away for a rainy day.

Catastrophe avoided, I moved on to the pants, which presented an exciting new problem. How does one put on slacks in a bathroom stall without dragging them across the floor? I sat back down, draping them across my lap left to right. I inserted my right foot, pulling my leg all the way through from the bottom of the pants. Then I did the same with my left and stood, cuffs hiked up around my kneecaps. From there, it was all buttoning and tucking and tying and adjusting. Within five minutes, I looked like a million bucks, or at least $12.98.

My acrobatics in the bathroom stall that day would’ve earned me a 10 from the American judge in Olympic competition (9.5 from the East Germans, damn Commies). It could’ve even landed me a sideshow gig the next time Cirque du Soleil plays the Port Authority bus station. At the very least, my amazing display of logistics should’ve got me that full-time job. Alas, the interview just didn’t seem like the place to tout my newfound skills. Nor did I have the foresight to set up a video camera and capture my accomplishment. I didn’t get the job. As they say, hindsight is 20/20.

Sit down, boys and girls, and let me tell you a story. It’s about someone you know, or at least someone like someone you know. Let’s call him “Our Hero.” “Superman” is already taken. He lives in the big city. He likes cookies. He dresses in grownup clothes. He rides the subway. He sits at a desk. And he works… for now.

His job is freelance. Many mommies and daddies have jobs like this. If he works, he gets paid. If he doesn’t work, he doesn’t get paid. The job doesn’t come with health insurance, which is what he needs to see a doctor when his tummy hurts. And it doesn’t come with a 401K, which makes him think he won’t have to work when he’s old. A freelance job, and the paycheck, can go away at any time. Our Hero wants a full-time job instead. But he likes money and needs more of it now. So he works. And he works. And he works.

One day he’s sitting at his smaaaaall desk in a BIIIIIIIIIG office when his computer makes a noise. “PLUNK!” He has a new email. It’s from someone he doesn’t know. The sender works in the Human Resources department at a company he’s heard of. His mommy always told him to never talk to strangers. Taking candy is fine. Email is okay too, because people who email can be trusted. The sender found Our Hero’s resume on LinkedIn. She wants to hire someone like him. The job is full-time. She sends him a description.

The job is perfect for him. He has every skill the company wants, and some more that they need. He even had the same title at his last full-time job. And that company was just like this company. Ms. HR thinks Our Hero could be a good fit. She wants to talk. They arrange to meet. He’s happy.

The first round of interviews goes well. He meets Ms. HR in person. She is a nice lady with brown hair and a big smile. They get along well. He also meets the person who would be his boss. She is also a nice lady. She is younger than Our Hero, and very smart. They also get along well.

The second round of interviews goes well too. He gets to meet the two men who run the company. They ask lots of good questions. They are very interested in what Our Hero has to say. He asks lots of questions too. He is very interested in what they have to say. The meetings go well.

Ms. HR says that she will call next week. Our Hero has a good feeling. This could be the one. This could be his next job. He tries not to get excited. He thinks about other things, poopy things, such as bills and Republicans. This makes him sad, and then angry. He waits for his phone to ring. What sound does the phone make? No not, “Ring-a-ding ding-y-dong, ring-a-dong ding ding dong.” Our Hero’s phone goes “Bzzzzzz, Bzzzzzz,” like a bumblebee with hiccups. It’s set on vibrate.

Ms. HR doesn’t call, and doesn’t call some more. Our Hero calls her and leaves a message. She doesn’t call back, and doesn’t call back some more. He calls her again a week later and leaves another message. Nothing. Our Hero gives up. He’s sad. The biggest cookie in the WHOOOOOOLE world couldn’t make him happy again.

He calls one last time a week later. “Three is a charm,” his mommy always says. He receives an email later that day. What sound does his computer make? That’s right, “PLUNK!” It’s from Ms. HR. This is what it says…

Dear Nrom,

Thank you for your interest in the XXXXX XXXXX position at XXXXX Company.

Although your experience and accomplishments are excellent, we filled the position with another candidate whose experience and background seemed better matched to our current needs. We invite you to visit our website for continued employment opportunities.

Your interest in XXXXX Company is appreciated. We wish you success in your job search.

Best,

Ms. HR

Our Hero calls his mommy to make sure he’s been spelling his name right all these years. He has. Our Hero tells himself not to take it personally. He does.

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.

The call went out. Maybe you saw the big “U” projected onto the Empire State Building. Maybe you heard the siren song blaring from large speakers mounted on flatbeds circling the city. Maybe you received a little note slipped into your pocket as some nondescript pedestrian brushed by on the sidewalk. RT (Russian Television) needed an unemployed person, an expert, stat, to comment on this bit of ridiculousness…

Looking for work? Unemployed need not apply

Who better than me, unofficial spokesman for the unemployed? Okay, so the call was an email. And I’m not technically unemployed at the moment. Oh yeah, and I can’t form a coherent sentence without my monkeys and their typewriters. But let’s not fuss over exactly how it all went down. I got the gist right. My blog and I were in the right place at the right time. The rest is television history.

Some employers don’t consider the unemployed for open positions. That was the story making the rounds. I wasn’t surprised to find this out. I wasn’t angry. I was, at best, slightly intrigued or, perhaps, mildly bemused. An unemployed friend posted a link on Facebook about the growing phenomenon. Anyone who’s been unemployed during a recession probably suspected this was happening. I know I did. There had to be a better reason for all the unreturned calls and emails than a simple lack of jobs. I’m not that bad of a job candidate, or am I?

Companies receive tons of resumes for every opening, many from people who aren’t remotely qualified. Separating the maybe’s from the no’s takes time and resources, both of which are in short supply these days. And let’s be realistic. Most resumes are ruled out even in a normal hiring climate; the percentage only rises during a recession. Employers can afford to be extra picky in a buyer’s market. But the short-staffed and shortsighted HR department needs a shortcut, an easy way to reduce the pile. Ruling out the unemployed is that shortcut.

Common thinking suggests someone is unemployed for a reason – they’re an undesirable employee. They don’t show up on time. They do substandard work. They wear soup-stained shirts and smell like dried cat vomit. A desirable employee would’ve found a job already, or never lost it in the first place. So failure to be employed is seen as proof that someone is unfit to be employed. I failed to win the lottery today. Does that make me unfit to win the lottery? The thinking is flawed. And any company that thinks this way is missing out.

People lose jobs for all sorts of reasons. I lost four different jobs for four different reasons, none of which had anything to do with my performance. Each of my former employers experienced some sort of financial duress and could no longer afford to pay some of its employees. People don’t find new jobs for just as many reasons as they lose jobs. During an employment crisis, one reason trumps all others: there are very few jobs.

The need to reduce the applicant pool won’t go away any time soon. Unemployment sits at 9.7%, and the ratio of unemployed to available jobs is 5 to 1. Submitting a resume is easier than ever. Ruling out unemployed applicants will continue. Companies still discriminate on the basis of race, sex, age and sexual orientation, and those practices are illegal. The unemployed can only take solace in knowing that any company that picks its employees this way isn’t worth working for. Too bad solace doesn’t pay the bills.

Taxes during Armageddon, as imagined by someone who just discovered Photoshop. (courtesy of http://wbtax.com)

I like doing my own taxes. And, no, I’m not insane, at least not like the drunk guy dressed as a female clown who rides his three-wheel bike around my neighborhood with a live parrot on his shoulder. My insanity – since that’s what it probably is – is more pedestrian and middle class. There’s something satisfying about sitting down with a pile of forms, statements and receipts, and ending up with a single number. This is what I owe the federal government or, preferably, this is what the federal government owes me.

Another number tells me a lot more about my life this past year. It sits near the bottom of page one of the 1040 – line 22 to be exact – after the words, “This is your total income.” That number sums up an entire year of working. It’s not a perfect measure. It lacks detail and nuance. It glosses over the personal and societal value of my accomplishments. It entirely ignores what I’ve learned and experienced. It does tell me one thing – how much money I earned. And that number was pretty damn small in 2009.

I’ve been doing my own taxes since the ripe old age of 15. That’s when I had my first real job – pumping gas at the local Amoco – and drew my first paycheck. Like many a suburban teenager, I’d mowed lawns, shoveled driveways and babysat kids. But people paid cash for those services. And as any waiter, bookie or financially savvy homeless person will tell you, cash is much harder for the tax people to track.

My taxes were much simpler then. There wasn’t much to report. All I had was a whopping $3.60/hour income, a bank account with a few hundred bucks and a mutual fund with another few hundred more. As a teenager, I rarely earned more than the standard deduction. So most of the taxes withheld the previous year came back to me. That day in May when the government sent me a nice fat check ranked right up there with my birthday and Christmas and the last day of school and, of course, Arbor Day, the granddaddy of all holidays. Tax refunds sure can buy lots of CDs and prepackaged Donettes from 7-Eleven.

Life is a little more complicated 8 (by which I mean 20+) years later. My expenses include more than music and convenience store food. I do my taxes on a computer using advanced (and awesome) tax software rather than on paper forms using No. 2 pencils with dried-out erasers. And if 2009 is any indication, my earning power has decreased.

If we ignore government unemployment insurance payouts, that total income number – line 22 – has decreased since 1987. I earned less as an experienced worker, with undergraduate and graduate degrees, than I did as a high school sophomore. The government paid my way this past year. And while I was entitled to the money, having been previously employed full-time, I didn’t earn it in 2009. I earned it in 2008 and 2007 and every other year I held down a staff position at a company that paid into the system. We can quibble over the meaning of “earn.” After all, I did spend hundreds, maybe thousands, of hours looking for work; and looking for work is most definitely work. But I wasn’t paid directly for it.

The realization of how little I earned didn’t sink in right away. Maybe I just didn’t want to think about it. And maybe I was too busy rushing to finish my taxes by the April 15 deadline. I always plan to do my taxes in March, and always fail. There’s always something more pressing to get done. This time the culprit was a freelance project that was and continues to sap all my time. Don’t read this as a complaint. I’m happy for the paying work, as is my bank account. It just leaves precious little time for everything else, like blogging, sleeping and filing taxes.

The bright side of all this is that 2010 won’t be a repeat of 2009. I will once again earn more money this year than I did as a high school sophomore. There are many parts of my youth that I’d like back. My income bracket isn’t one of them.

I love how you've decorated your office. This desk is oak, right? (courtesy of http://myesllab.files.wordpress.com)

I had a job interview for an Account Manager position… a very odd job interview. I don’t really know what to make of it. So maybe teasing out my thoughts into an epic blog post, laced with humor and vitriol, will clear things up. What would really clear things up… having this post picked up by a publisher, expanded into a book bought by millions of people and turned into a movie, with the part of Norm, the fearless unemployed blogger, played by George Clooney. Maybe it wouldn’t. And George might not want to endure the months of gym time necessary to fully become the character. But I really think we should try, just to be sure.

I arrived early for my interview. So I stood outside the nondescript downtown office building, scrolling through emails on my phone. A leisurely stroll from the subway, past City Hall and through the neighboring park, didn’t kill enough time. Nor did a quick and depressing stop at the bank machine. But being early is good. It shows eagerness. It shows discipline and drive. It shows that I have nothing better to do.

The company’s office sat at the end of a meandering hallway, next to a sketchy-looking medical office. I walked in to find the receptionist vacuuming around her messy desk. It was jammed into a corner with some boxes and a couple of broken fans. A narrow walkway, lined with shiny metal chairs and blurry pictures of New York City, led to three offices. Had they furnished the space with leftovers from the previous occupant? The place was uninspiring for a marketing company. It was uninspiring for any company.

I asked to use the bathroom, and the receptionist directed me back out of the office to a door marked “Out of Order.” “Ignore the sign,” she explained. “It works.” And technically it did, thanks to copious amounts of duct tape. The bathroom appeared to have exploded recently and been pieced back together by MacGyver. Times are hard even for former television stars. I went about my business quickly, touching only what I had to.

The receptionist handed me a clipboard upon my return. A basic information sheet was attached, along with an interesting questionnaire. It contained 20 or so groupings of four adjectives, with directions to choose which of the four most and least describes me. The purpose was to create a psychological profile and ferret out the people who would excel in a certain role. I’ll make up an example to illustrate…

• Watchful
• Theatric
• Fucoid
• Helpful

I would probably check off “most” for “helpful” or maybe “watchful” and “least” for “fucoid,” since I’m not “of or like seaweed.” But the appropriate answers weren’t always so obvious. Sometimes none of the words applied, leaving me to pick the best of the worst. Sometimes all of them applied, forcing me to pick the “least” tag for something positive and sell myself short.

After completing the application, I was called in to interview. The interviewer’s office was dominated by a huge curtain-less window overlooking Broadway. Sunshine streamed in. Still the room was only slightly less depressing than the waiting area. It contained a desk and a couple more metal chairs. I don’t even remember a computer or any personal effects. The office seemed to belong to no one.

My interviewer was tall, well dressed and barely out of college. Being closer to 40 than 30, I’m increasingly aware of people way younger than me in positions of power. He asked questions as if seeing my resume for the first time. “So… you worked at company X. How was that?” I answered simply, praising the company and the experience of working there. He didn’t really listen. His cellphone rang at one point, and he checked it. After a few stale exchanges, he asked why I was applying for an entry-level job. This was news to me. My rather direct response was that I didn’t know I was. Account Manager isn’t usually an entry-level job. He ceded my point. I ceased to care about the job.

With the interview portion of the meeting out of the way, he launched into his spiel. This is the type of company we are. This is our way of doing business. This is the project we’re hiring for. He’d obviously delivered the words many times and been instructed exactly how to do so. He maintained strong eye contact throughout, as if trying to hold me in place. He leaned slightly forward, as if trying to engage me more. There was a thought-out method to all this.

I listened and tried to figure out the angle. Everything sounded reasonable, sort of like a pyramid scheme does until you actually explore a little. This seemed like a scam, but I couldn’t figure out why. I just knew that I wanted no part of it.

I imagined all the applicants who’d sat exactly where I was sitting. I imagined all the applicants who would sit where I was sitting. I felt stupid and small. Stupid for putting on a suit and dragging my unemployed ass halfway across the city for something I suspected would be a waste of time. Small for not having a choice. Putting up with such nonsense is so frustrating.

He handed me a business card at the end of his little speech. He was a partner. The company would decide quickly who to bring back for a more in-depth interview. I could expect a call as soon as that afternoon. He instructed me to keep my phone line open. I said that I would, though I was really looking forward to actively ignoring the call. I didn’t even get that chance. He never called.

This says "stats." If you had eyes, you'd know. (courtesy of http://www.recruitingblogs.com/)

Three recruiters contacted me last Thursday, all within about an hour of each other. The stars must have aligned just so, creating a world where my resume springs to the top of every job board search for “digital marketing professional.” Does this signal the end of the famine, or the beginning of the famine? I’ll let you know when I eat, or die. Maybe it just means I should buy a lottery ticket.

The first recruiter was filling an in-house search engine marketing position, but expressed concern about my extended unemployment. His clients – potential employers – think there’s a problem when a candidate’s unemployment stretches past six months, horrible job market notwithstanding. Skills deteriorate; people get lazy. The long-term unemployed guy, the thinking goes, must be spending all his free time watching “Roseanne” reruns and inhaling Little Debbie snack cakes by the the pallet. Why hire someone who can barely remember how to bathe himself?

But a job search takes a month for every $10,000 of expected income. If my second grade math skills hold up (it has been 30 years), anyone expecting to make over $60,000 a year (6 X 10,000) may want to reexamine their options. A lower salary may be preferable to perceived obsolescence. I understand the recruiter’s point. I don’t like it, but he’s probably right. The burden is on the job seeker to prove continued relevance in an ultra-competitive job market. It’s nice to know the job of finding a job is that much harder.

I wasn’t really qualified for the opening anyway. We both knew it. I tried to talk my way into a meeting anyway, because that’s what I have to do. He backpedaled away from any sort of firm commitment, like a juggler on a unicycle. Recruiters are good at that. The call ended with his promise to run my resume by the company. Even if he actually does, nothing will come of it.

The second email came from an HR person at a reputable company. I would happily work at this place; I’d even hang out in their cafeteria just to make people think I work there. My qualifications line up nicely with the company’s needs, upon first glance. I followed up by phone but couldn’t get through, not even to a voicemail. So I expressed my interest via email, twice. I’ve yet to hear back, though my fingers and toes are crossed, and crossed again. Typing is painful. I’ll follow up once more, by phone and email, before writing it off. It’s frustrating to fail before actually getting a chance.

The third recruiter left a voicemail message while I was cleaning the kitchen and blasting old Rush albums (Power Windows, Hold Your Fire and Moving Pictures, for those of you who were teenage boys in the 1980s). Following up on an email I never received, he invited me to interview for an account manager position. I don’t remember applying. Nor could I find any record in the vast Excel spreadsheet that tracks my job search exploits. Many open positions don’t include the company’s name or identifying information. So I didn’t think much of it. He left a phone number but no name.

I called back later that afternoon to inquire. A frazzled receptionist who only spoke in rapid fire confirmed the company was interviewing for an account manager. She asked a bunch of questions and then put me on hold. Upon picking up again, she had me repeat everything. She then put me on hold again, picked up again and asked for another recap. We eventually arranged an interview for 10:30 the next day. The company forwarded directions via email later that evening. The email stressed that I should “…dress professionally, and to bring a copy of your resume.” A call confirming the meeting came early the next morning.

The initial phone message and followup email both seemed weird at the time. What recruiter calls and doesn’t leave a name? And when does a company ever remind someone how to dress for an interview? The phone conversation soured me some, but didn’t seem that unusual. Having just wrapped up a stint answering phones, I know all to well that people can be distracted at work.

I researched the company as I always do, reading the website and Googling what I found there. Grammar mistakes and misspellings aside, the website was fine for what the company seemed to be – a small marketing agency. It only contained a few pages and didn’t say much of substance, but many are like that. The Flash elements on the site were pointless and annoying. All in all, though, I’ve seen much worse.

The lack of additional info beyond the website concerned me too. Besides a few online press releases, which anyone with a PRWeb account can post for free, there was nothing. Maybe I didn’t dig enough. But a search on any company name should yield tons of stuff. My name brings up pages and pages of results, not that I ever Google it. I especially don’t search for “Norm Elrod” in my pajamas, late at night, while listening to “Juke Box Hero” on repeat and pining for the fame and fortune I so desperately desire. That would be dysfunctional.

And I am anything but dysfunctional. I may have forgotten marketing and basic math, as far as recruiters are concerned. But I am not dysfunctional. I am desperate however. So I went through with the interview. As my next post will reveal, that was a complete waste of time.

Read Job interview, aka complete waste of time