Are you the keymaster? Can I have the bathroom key?

The receptionist is keeper of the bathroom key. I prefer the title, “Keymaster,” as it sounds much more badass. This is an important responsibility; without bathrooms and keys to them, nothing would get done around the office after about 11:00 Monday morning. But the responsibility requires very little actual work. There is no rationing or tracking of keys. There is no evaluation process to determine who has worked enough to deserve access. I rarely even touched the keys, unless, I, myself, needed to go. They sat in a wire organizational basket at the corner of the desk, three women’s keys in back, three men’s in front. People took them as needed. Others, like wifey, used their own. The receptionist’s only responsibility is to email the office when the keys don’t find their way home. Being a temp, I didn’t even have to do that.

The job of Keymaster – Bathroom Key Manager on my updated resume – required no physical effort. But it did take up an inordinate amount of brain space. The circumstances surrounding the keys were a little dicey. There’s a certain etiquette to be mastered, a certain awareness required in the delicate two-second encounter that repeats itself all day long. Maybe you’re aware of the subtle maneuvering at every bank of urinals in every men’s bathroom; the front desk key pickup falls into that category. Experienced receptionists master it. Temps, like me, just try to muddle through.

From the front desk, looking out across the lobby, I could sometimes tell when an approaching person needed the bathroom key. They walked quickly, with a purpose. Their eyes said, “don’t bother me, I have pressing business to attend to.” I didn’t pick up on this my first day. I made eye contact and smiled at approaching people, trying to be friendly and make a good impression. I sometimes said, “hello,” and started a conversation. They were walking my direction, so logic and previous work experience suggested they wanted to talk to me. They didn’t. They needed the bathroom key. And I received a few odd looks for my gaffe. Even those who stopped to chat were probably just being polite. Clenching up, they probably thought, “he’s new, I’ll let it slide. But next time I’ll have to jab that key in his larynx.”

The realization that I was grinning at and making small talk with people on their way to the bathroom made me feel totally skeezy. It wasn’t as bad as the homeless guy in the Port Authority who solicits change from people at urinals. But it wasn’t exactly the impression I was going for either. I abruptly changed my approach. Instead of looking at people, I looked past them. That way there was acknowledgment without creepiness. I saw them but didn’t make eye contact. It suggested that I was aware of their presence but not specifically interested in them or their actions. The approach works for avoiding crazies on the subway, so why not in an office with normal people? But then I felt rude. People there were friendly and nice, and they all know wifey. My revised approach was standoffish and perhaps confusing. Occasionally someone actually wanted to talk to me and I appeared to ignore them.

So I tried yet another approach… not reacting at all. I carried on with the phone answering, door buzzing and internet surfing, pretending not to see them. I didn’t look in the person’s direction at all. I didn’t even glance up or shift in my seat. If they wanted to talk to me, they would. And I would respond. This approach seemed to work best, vagaries aside. It got me through the rest of my time, relatively gaffe-free. Mastering the finer points would require a long-term stint is Keymaster. Here’s an example of a typical occurrence. Some people approached the front desk quietly and from behind, startling me and forcing me to look up and break form. I’d need weeks, perhaps months, of conditioning and simulation to avoid this reaction.

I moved on to another bathroom key-related matter… tracking exactly what people left on the desk, seemingly in exchange for the key. (This sentence makes me wonder if maybe I could’ve used my time more wisely.) Because the keys live there, the front desk serves as a way station. Staff and passersby left all kinds of stuff for temporary safekeeping… drinks, lunches, notebooks, pens, packages, gifts, money, purses, jackets, scarves, gloves, and more. Unfortunately, nobody left an armadillo or a space helmet, or something else not typically found in an office. People usually asked for permission, or commented in acknowledgment. Sometimes they didn’t. I didn’t mind either way; they always came back. My favorite remark – “don’t let anybody roofy this” – accompanied the leaving of a cup of coffee. I laughed, as I fingered the knockout drugs in my pocket. They’d have to wait for my next visit to the Meatpacking District.

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.

Not found.

Wifey and I don’t watch that much current TV. I kind of keep up with The Daily Show. Accurate and unbiased news has to come from somewhere, and that Jon Stewart guy seems like the trustworthy sort. Wifey breaks down doors to see the white trash train wreck that is Bret Michaels’ love life. Both of us enjoy Mad Men. Beyond that, I’m all about cartoons, football and M*A*S*H (maudlin, post-Henry Blake M*A*S*H, that is) when I do watch. And she’s all about old and/or foreign movies starring dead people and/or portraying dying people. I know, I know. Why would anyone sit through that stuff when talking fast-food, hillbilly squid and foul-mouthed kids are just a channel click away?

We do watch a lot of TV on DVD after the fact. If everyone else has seen it, talked about it, bought it for their relatives at Christmas and moved on, we’re all over it. Cliffhangers and commercials are overrated anyway. And who really wants to be part of the office water cooler and online message board conversations that the cool kids are having? Not me… stupid cool kids, with their jobs and their computers and their socializing.

“Lost” is our current obsession. Up until a couple weeks ago, I only knew that the hunky Party of Five guy and a hobbit had a show on an island, and s**t went down. The “s**t went down” part was more of an assumption. Because for there to be a TV drama, s**t really kind of has to go down. No one wants to watch a bunch of people getting along fine and being friends.  I’d managed to miss five seasons of maybe the most popular show on TV and all the surrounding chatter – a testament to my god-like powers of obliviousness. It’s genetic.

I wasn’t all that jazzed about watching the show anyway. When wifey suggested we undertake another series on DVD, I voted for “The Wire.” She voted for “Lost.” The election ended in a tie, meaning I lost… again. “The Wire” will make it to the top of our playlist one of these years. And when it does, I’ll happily watch it on my new video hologram playback device that recreates the images life-size right in front of my eyes, or whatever entertainment technology the year 2050 holds. Of course I will be 147 years old then, and probably unable to see, hear or stay awake past the opening credits.

We started out leisurely watching maybe one or two episodes of “Lost” each night. The speed of Netflix and the U.S. Postal Service dictated our viewing. But when we borrowed the first four seasons from friends, all bets were off. We watched eight episodes this past weekend alone.

We’re currently two thirds of the way through season two. [SPOILER ALERT] The two groups of castaways are best buddies now. They’re holding one of The Others prisoner and kicking his ass with some frequency. But he’s starting to get in Locke’s head, so I’m guessing some more s**t is about to go down. Kate, Claire and “that weird French chick” found the lab where Claire was detained and drugged. Mr. Eko (whom I will address formally until he tells me otherwise) and Charlie are building a church. And at the end of the last episode, Michael, who was looking for his son, Walt, stumbled out of the jungle looking a little worse for wear. But for all the activity, it seems some complacency is setting in among the castaways. They’re resigned to stay on the island. [END SPOILER ALERT]

I’m hooked, but wifey is completely obsessed. She would watch the show continuously, one episode after another, while hooked up to a NoDoz and liquid nourishment IV and a catheter if her schedule permitted. But it doesn’t, so she settles for two or three episodes each night and fills the downtime scanning message board entries related to the episodes we’d just watched.

You’d think it would be the other way around, that I’d be the one obsessing. She has a job and a life. I don’t. I sit around all day blogging (which lately means fixing all the problems from the WordPress 2.8 upgrade) and looking for work. Her time is precious and worth every penny of her salary. Mine is abundant, and worth about $430 per week, roughly $10 per hour after taxes, given a 40-hour workweek (good times). I should have plenty of time and need for distraction.

But my every day is full of stuff to do, with much left over at the end. I may get bored, but never from inactivity. I’ve long since settled into a routine and, dare I admit, grown comfortable. That’s kind of scary, when I stop to think about it… not freaky desert island scary, but still. I’m almost completely acclimated to unemployment. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to go to work every morning. What’s going to happen when I find a job? Am I subconsciously easing up on my search efforts? My deadline – the end of my unemployment benefits – gets closer everyday. Will I be able to readjust? Do I want to? Like characters on the show, I have many questions and few answers. I’m marooned and looking for a way out that continues to elude me. And I see the signs of complacency.

Every so often a funk grabs a hold of me, for no good reason. And not the sequined Rick James funk of awesomeness either. I feel sorry for myself. I lament my unemployment and the general state of my life. I start to envy all the things everyone else has and I don’t – big apartments, cars, jobs, stuff. It’s an ugly scene, and the envy can reach ridiculous proportions. The other day I found myself begrudging Matthew McConaughey his success as an actor. Why should I care? I don’t even want to be the male lead in bad romance comedies that should go straight to DVD. The six-pack abs would be nice though. And the million-dollar paychecks… I’d take those.

When in these funks, I feel like the only person who is struggling – a ridiculous notion, but true in the world of me, myself and I. This is a selfish and irrational way of looking at things. And people would be right to call me out on it in the forums and comments sections. Hell, you have my permission to walk right up on the street and slap me across the face if you have to. I forget to give equal weight to all the good things in my life – family, health, etc. They get minimized and pushed aside. The feeling sorry for myself isn’t productive. But it happens every now and again, often enough that I recognize the cycle for what it is.

My birthday was such a good time that the letdown afterward probably sparked this latest round of woe is me. But any little slight or setback can do it. Getting out of bed that next morning took some serious effort. I lay there staring at the insides of my eyelids, thinking that more sleep might make everything better. But more sleep only makes me feel guilty for wasting the morning. So I dragged my ass up, put on my workout clothes and headed off to the gym.

This funk-y workout wasn’t very good as workouts go. They never are. I tried to harness the negative feelings to push myself harder. In the movie version of my life, this would be the montage scene before the moment of truth. Alas, without the ’80s music, the cameras and the inspiration, this tactic didn’t work. Rocky had Drago. Lane Meyer had Roy Stalin, that blond-haired skier guy. I have unemployment as my nemesis. There was no face to picture when eking out that last set. There wasn’t even a last set. I just wanted to go home and stay there.

Home is the best place when I’m in a funk. The only people around the apartment during the day are the cats. And they just sleep and leave behind tumbleweed-like fur balls. I did go out that afternoon for cookies and coffee – the bread and nectar of life. I have to stay strong in case a potential employer wants to interview me. I can’t be scaring children like Michael Jackson or Sophia Loren if I ever want to work again. Walking the streets was a challenge. People were everywhere and always in my way. Part of that is just my neighborhood, Jackson Heights, where most of South America now lives. Everyone seemed to be going important places and doing important things. Most of them, of course, were not. But I saw everything through a lens of negativity. It made me want to just push people out of my way.

Nothing seemed to work right during the funk. My muscles felt heavy. My brain couldn’t hold a thought. I moved with lethargy and less purpose, avoiding new tasks and lingering over tasks that are second nature. My attitude was poor, and my temper short. I complained about really stupid, unimportant stuff. And I got teary-eyed and emotional over sappy TV. (Damn you Sarah McLachlan for showing me hurt animals!) The frustration, boredom and dissatisfaction inside leaked out in weird ways.

Something always pulls me back into real life. This time it was a two-year-old boy on the subway discovering the world outside. He stood on the seat watching the passing buildings, pointing and laughing as his mother held him steady. I sat across the aisle, iPod on, watching him. Something about the scene made me feel better. Maybe it was his joy. Maybe it was his innocence. Maybe the chemicals in my body picked that moment to readjust in a way that improved my mood. I don’t know, but I’m glad it’s over.

We all have ups and downs in our moods. They’re part of life. But unemployment can make the peaks higher and, in my case, the valleys lower. I go through these cycles often enough to recognize them. If I could steer clear, I would. That hasn’t worked so far, so I just try to just be productive and minimize the downtime. My best is the most I can ask of myself.

Being unemployed on my birthday is kind of a downer. I’m just sayin’… for anybody pondering unemployment as a celebration activity. Go with a nice dinner and a cake, or maybe a weekend in Vegas. Don’t get me wrong, there are some upsides – more time, less work, fewer responsibilities. But there’s also one major downside – less money. And don’t forget that sinking useless feeling, that little voice that keeps going, “pss, pss, you suck, get a job, loser.” He’s a fun one to have along for the ride.

My birthday fell on a weekend this year, which would have been a day off anyway. And wifey picked up the tab, so it’s not my money. Of course, since we’re married, it kind of is. This wasn’t a milestone birthday; the late 30s all kind of feel the same. Age is catching up to me, though I still look reasonably young on top of the accumulating aches and pains. Still retirement and an easy life of panhandling to supplement my 401K losses is decades away.

The day was relaxing and enjoyable, if cold and rainy. I slept in a little and then did a whole lot of nothing around the apartment. Wifey went to a baby shower, and I fielded phone calls from family members. The first came from one of my brothers, who just happened to call that morning because he was bored. He figured out, with some prompting, that it was my birthday and, after hanging up, called the rest of my family to remind them. Some already knew. Others, having genes similar to mine, needed the reminder.

A couple hours later, I went off to the movies by myself. I Love You, Man wasn’t going to just see itself, and no one else wanted to go. Seeing a matinee on the weekend is a totally different experience from seeing one during the week. It feels decadent rather than depressing and pathetic. (Whatever, leave me alone! I can rationalize all I want. It was my birthday.) Everyone in Queens was waiting in line to buy a ticket from one person behind the counter. All the families made me worry that kids would soon be running up and down the aisles in my theater screaming at each other. But our good friends in Hollywood had much crappier fare to attract the parents’ hard-earned dollars. My theater was mercifully empty, except for the Whooping Cough guy.

I laughed, I cried. Then I went for a salad to get me through to the tasty dinner in my future. The location was still a secret, but knowing wifey, it would be very good. From there I wandered back home, stopping off for coffee at the cafe that banished me with locks on its electrical outlets. I cursed them while handing over my $2.

The rest of the afternoon was quiet. I can’t tell you what I did, because I don’t remember, not because I’d have to kill you. Maybe I watched TV. Maybe I played video games. Maybe I watched TV with the intention of playing video games, but never got around to the video game part. Cable can do that to a guy.

Fancy Manhattan dinner at Craft was the highlight of the day, and probably will be the lowlight of my wife’s credit card statement next month. Letting loose is worth it once in awhile. It’s not everyday you get older (or maybe it is, I skipped that class). Birthdays are supposed to be special, so why not splurge? We ordered the tasting menu, which meant more food came out in smaller portions over a longer period of time. This is how dinner should be. When I’m rich, I’m hiring Craft to feed me every day. Maybe breakfast would be a cereal tasting menu…

My birthday was a two-parter, the second half of which happened a few days later. Wifey secured tickets to the Flight of the Conchords show at Radio City Music Hall. Hi-lar-i-ous! Most of the songs were from the show’s first season, which I’ve seen. Despite the guys behind us explaining the finer points of the live concert experience (the show isn’t over until the house lights come on, who knew?), I had a wonderful time. Thinking back, some of the jokes still make me laugh.

I forgot all about unemployment during the birthday festivities, which took some effort. But now it’s back to my regularly scheduled life. Days run together, and progress is slow. Passing another birthday without a job is starting to weigh heavily on me. I’m questioning everything. My job search doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, no matter what I try. There has to be something somewhere. I just haven’t found it. And I’m kind of at a loss.

Sweden has given us so much over the years, but nothing as important as Ikea. The store, for the 12 or so people who live under a wifi-enabled rock, sells stylish furniture and home goods for people on a budget. I don’t know a single person whose home doesn’t include an Ikea product. In fact, all of Sweden’s major exports can and should be experienced and enjoyed through Ikea.

The Ivar shelving unit is perfect for proudly displaying Dolph Lundgren‘s groundbreaking cinematic masterpieces on DVD. The Kassett CD box easily stores the ABBA, Yngwie Malmsteen and Swedish Death Metal CDs you’ve long since digitized and uploaded to 17 different devices. Fine Swedish media – like fine wine – is best enjoyed reclining on a comfy Ektorp couch with feet up on a Leksvik coffee table. When hunger strikes, whip up a tasty smorgasbord of Swedish meatballs, which always taste better on Ljuvlig plates and Busig cutlery. And two weeks later, when your Ikea products break, you can take them out back and blow them up with Swedish-invented dynamite. The cycle of life – and capitalism – begins again.

Add in some more cliches and extra consonants, and America is really in the hole on this one. What have we given Sweden in return… a real estate bubble, unemployment, Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels? We should be ashamed of ourselves. America has a major trade deficit with our Nordic friends. But that’s all about to change.

I was interviewed earlier in the week by a New York-based correspondent for Sweden’s TV4. The news segment, for all the non-Swedish speakers about, discusses how the current economic downturn is hitting the more educated much harder than it is the less educated. The piece aired yesterday, I believe, kicking off the giving back. Sweden now knows the glory of Jobless and Less. In the coming days, weeks, months and years of unemployment, my expert and insightful commentary should repay our country’s debt in full, and then some.

The video is above for your viewing pleasure.

Tell your story in the Global Recession Forum…

My wife and I have close to 500 selections on our Netflix list, which we recently discovered is the limit. It’s not that we’re movie buffs so much as we like to keep track of things. So when one of us discovers something, it goes on the list. What belongs to whom is pretty obvious. All the [yawn] old, foreign and obscure movies are hers. All the cartoons, documentaries and interesting movies are mine. The lucky few get bumped to pole position when something else is returned. The rest languish on the list… sometimes for years. More than a few are charter members.

Unemployment has helped me burn through some of what I’ve added over the years – stuff that my wife couldn’t care less about. I watched Ken Burns‘s Civil War documentary (12 hours on 5 discs) during one layoff and his documentary on the West (also 12 hours on 5 discs) during another. Many seasons of South Park and Aqua Teen Hunger Force have passed through the DVD player. I may take a swing at Baseball in honor of the pending season (go Mets!); watching it seems a lot healthier than taking up with Madonna or sticking a needle full of steroids in my ass.

Today I saw an amusing and highly relevant documentary called Fired! A layoff is just a firing without cause; the end result is pretty much the same. Here’s the blurb…

Once unceremoniously axed by Oscar-winning director Woody Allen, actress Annabelle Gurwitch examines the good, the bad and the ugly sides of getting canned in this cathartic documentary. While celebrity interviews include Tim Allen, Anne Meara, Illeana Douglas, Fred Willard and Sarah Silverman, Gurwitch’s introspective journey also turns the spotlight on General Motors workers and other everyday people who’ve landed in the unemployment line.

The blurb (along with my illustrious employment history) made me want to watch the movie, as any decent blurb should. It also overreaches a tad; marketing really is just an exaggeration that no one can do anything about. The movie is funny and touching in places, but it’s not Roger and Me, a biting commentary on unemployment and its individual and societal ramifications or a cathartic sob-fest. It’s a pretty light affair, as much of the pain that comes with losing a job is laced with or buried under humor.

That leads to a key point of the movie… laughing can ease the pain and provide a little perspective. There’s humor in any job loss if you look hard enough. (Trust me, I do this for a living.) And as time passes, this traumatizing experience often dissolves into a joke or story. The importance fades as life moves along. Each of my four layoffs now amounts to a bunch of anecdotes I tell at parties, after I raid the dessert table but before I put on the lampshade.

The main point is that anybody who loses a job isn’t alone in the experience. Many, many people have been through it and go on to do other things. And this comes across by simple repetition, as famous and regular people tell their stories. The movie stumbles in places, but it’s worth watching for the laughs and the welcome reminder that things can get better. Job loss is a reality of the current job market and will remain so going forward. Dealing with it with humor or in other ways allows people to move past it.

Go see Clint kick ass, just not on a weekday afternoon

[Beck song plays in cafe, barely audible over instrumental headphone music]

[Pots rattle in kitchen]

[Chatter of customer placing an order]

One of the luxuries of unemployment is my schedule. I can basically do whatever I want whenever I want. So if I’m not feeling the gym in the morning – when the aerobics classes blare Latin House and people who shouldn’t be wearing tights bend over a lot – I go in the afternoon. Or I tell myself that my arms feel a little sore and skip it altogether. Then I get to work, but not before a quick flex and preen in the full-length mirror. (Yes, those guns are real, but don’t be scared.)

[Man at next table taps incessantly]

[Norm sighs audibly]

My wife, to her credit, keeps urging me to do something fun. Feeling like I’d made some strides these last couple of weeks, I finally gave in. In almost three months of unemployment, this would be my first real, honest-to-God slacking. I went to a 2:00 showing of Gran Torino (no fluff in my slacking, just morals, heavy themes and death). And it felt weird, like I was doing something wrong, like I should be doing something more important (sending out resume number 18,437, for example).

[Faint keyboard clicking heard between headphone songs]

[Nondescript singer-songwriter whines over an acoustic guitar]

[Man at next table taps to beat]

There’s something uniquely depressing about a movie theater on a weekday afternoon. All these movies playing, but nobody watching. The few people who did show up, seemed to come more out of boredom than interest. The lady in line before me was looking for a movie with subtitles, any movie; she didn’t care what she saw.

[Man at next table takes cell phone call; loud prattle ensues]

Gran Torino played in one of the big auditoriums with stadium seating. I arrived during previews and – wouldn’t you know it – got a seat halfway up the aisle and dead center. The whole row was mine until that same old lady and her adult son sat down. An audience of seven total, and everyone besides the mother and son came alone. Sure, empty theaters are more comfortable, but audience vibe is important to the movie-going experience. And the only vibe there was loneliness.

[Man at next table continues loud cell phone conversation while smelling really bad]

The other downside of weekday matinees is subtitles. I can hear perfectly fine, but I found myself reading the dialogue and descriptions of various sounds. This is not a knock on the movie; it was actually quite moving and thought-provoking. My eyes were just drawn to the words because they were there. While Clint Eastwood was being a badass, I was reading about Clint Eastwood being a badass. Some of the effect was lost.

[Bathroom door squeaks as it opens and shuts]

[Toilet flushes in background]

[Volume of man's cellphone conversation gets louder as he returns]

Gran Torino is definitely worth seeing, even if you’re lukewarm on Clint Eastwood. The man knows how to direct a movie, and act in one for that matter. And with one of the Oscar movies under my belt, I can fantasize about all the post-award water cooler conversations I’ll miss. The other movies will have to wait for a weekend when my wife and I are both free, or video. But the next time I feel the urge to slack, I’ll try a different activity. There’s a bar around the corner frequented by grizzled drinkers twice my age. A liquor-fueled afternoon in their company could be just the kind of break to lift my spirits.

[Sound of scuffle]

[Sound of man's cellphone smashing against wall]

[Patrons cheer]

When you’re unemployed (even when you’re not), some days you need a lift. Things aren’t going right, and you’re reminded at every turn of the things you’re missing by not working. Specifically, the paycheck. What you need then is a reminder of the things you’re NOT missing.

So my question then is, how many times can you watch “Office Space” before you have a problem? I’m only up to 2 times since I was laid off. I’ve seen the movie more times than that, but twice in the last month. (What can I say, it makes me laugh.)