Morning and evening rush hour on the subway is quiet time. The trains are crowded with commuters. But everyone sleeps or reads or daydreams or listens to music through headphones. Nobody talks, and nobody bothers anyone. It’s a very New York feeling to be surrounded and still alone. And during rush hour – when you’re still half asleep or tired from a long day – it’s a very welcome feeling.

This Rush Hour Quiet Time rule – more commonly known as the Shut the F**k Up Before I Jab You in the Larynx with a Bic Pen rule (STFUBIJYITLWABP) has been understood and respected by generations of NYC commuters, dating back to the early 20th century. Of course, in the those days, it was called the Scram With That Funny Business Fella Before I Let You Have It In The Larynx rule (SWTFBFBILYHIITL). Even a simple “good day” or “bully for you” brought about swift retribution. People work, and people value their larynges… then and now. In fact only three unwritten rules have ever been more important…

• Don’t pet the rats.
• Don’t sit in a wet spot.
• Avoid the empty subway car on an otherwise crowded train, unless you enjoy smelly homeless people fermenting in their own sweat.

Rush hours were quality time when I last had regular work. Opportunists now routinely violate the rule for their own petty and selfish reasons. People have loud conversations on cell phones. Homeless and “homeless” people beg for handouts. And subway musicians force their mediocre music upon weary travelers. The first two can be easily ignored by turning up the iPod. The last can’t.

I don’t mean to hate on music. I’ve been a big music fan since my days playing the “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” drum solo on mom’s kitchen bowls. And I don’t mean to hate on street and subway musicians. Some great performers ply their trade on sidewalks and platforms. The Yanni-looking electric violin player in black leather pants who covers Depeche Mode and Metallica is a national treasure. He almost balances out all the harm Nicolas Cage has done with his movies.

The point is I like my music on my terms. I listen to what I want, when I want and how I want. Take away my choice, and I get a little pissy. I may even reach for my Bic pen. This reaction may seem harsh to non-New Yorkers. Subway music is as big apple as Times Square, the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty. So let’s recast the scenario for those who have only experienced subway musicians as tourists and through TV shows and movies.

You’re driving to work on a Monday morning. Traffic is moving nicely. Something relaxing plays from the car stereo. The light ahead turns red, slowing cars to a stop. You close your eyes and rub them slowly with your thumb and forefinger, thinking about what needs to get done that day. Just then, two guys jump into the backseat. One has a rusty accordion, the other an out-of-tune acoustic guitar. They launch into a song you can’t understand because it’s in Spanish. And they do it three feet from your head. The light turns green, and traffic forces you into motion. The music pounds against your brain. You turn up the stereo, but the noise from the backseat still drowns it out. After three minutes, they stop playing. One of them puts his empty hat in your face; he wants you to pay for the giant headache he just gave you. You wonder what combination of evil thoughts will make him explode, and then make the pieces explode. Before you hit on it, the light ahead turns red and you stop the car again. The musicians jump out and into the car behind you. Two traffic lights later, two other musicians make a stage of your backseat.

What if the music were really good? Would it be okay? No. What if the music were absolutely, positively the best I’d ever heard, ever? Still no. What if angels descended from heaven and sang to me on the F train as it sped through the tunnel under the East River? Would it would be okay then? The answer is still a resounding NO. I want to hear what’s playing through my headphones. That’s why I picked it. That’s why I put in my headphones. And that’s why I pressed play. So unless the same musician materializes and plays the same song the same way, I’m not interested.

Subway musicians feel the recession just as everyone else does. Maybe the non-rush hour donations just weren’t cutting it. Maybe they lost a job and resorted to a secondary talent to pay the bills. I respect that. I’m in the same boat. But you’ll never catch me forcing random people to read my blog and pay me for the privilege. Pick a subway platform and play your music. I may stop and listen; I may even leave a couple bucks. And I may not. But the choice will be mine.

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.

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.

You'd think a beautiful building like the Chateau Frontenac wouldn't have a name that sounds like a cat yacking up a fur ball. You'd be wrong. (courtesy of wikimedia.org)

How much can a broke unemployed guy possibly enjoy himself on a ten-day vacation? More to the point, how much can he can have to say about it? We’ve reached the fourth and final installment of my vacation saga. So now you have the answers… four posts worth, given a forum, some free time and enough caffeine to put a large mammal into cardiac arrest. This vacation exposé became so bloated for a totally unrelated reason. I don’t have an editor. This is a one-man, two-cat operation. While I’d like a professional second opinion almost as much as I’d like a paying job or my own theme music, it ultimately works out. There’s no money to pay an editor. Hell, there’s no money to pay me. So I sit at my dining room table toiling away for free, flanked by two needy creatures who wouldn’t know a run-on sentence or a runaway theme if it, well, ran away with them.

Wifey and I further explored the exotic hinterland to the north, specifically its tourist areas, on the last leg of our trip. After Montreal and La Mauricie National Park, we continued northeast to Quebec City. The heat and humidity were there to greet us, like an old friend who you really hate and wish would just go away forever and die. Canadian heatwaves are milder than their New York cousins, but infuriating in their own special way. Here’s why…

1. Canada is supposed to be cold. It’s the law. It’s written into our treaties and trade agreements. We give them Rob Schneider movies, and they give us comfortable vacation weather.
2. The weather report shouldn’t be a mind game. I hear 32°, and my first thought is, “that’s a little chilly for August.” My second thought is, “but we are in the Great White North, near where Santa Claus lives with all his elves and reindeer.” I walk outside and realize they mean Celsius, not Fahrenheit. Foiled again.
3. Knowing the temperature shouldn’t require math. But unless the temperature happens to be 0° C (i.e. 32° F), that’s exactly what’s needed… math. Here’s the formula, for all the geeksters out there who enjoy number crunching as a vacation activity… F°=(9/5)*C°+32. Go crazy.

Our hotel was up the hill from the harbor area and overlooked a cute little park, the Chateau Frontenac and the Saint Lawrence River if I pressed my cheek against the window. The squeaky bed and claw-foot bathtub gave the room plenty of charm, and all the steps we had to climb to get there took it away. The Chateau Frontenac – the expensive, castle-looking hotel seen in every picture ever taken of Quebec City – sits majestically upon the river banks. It’s an impressive, seemingly impenetrable structure. I wandered in one afternoon while wifey was bathing in ice and taking fluids to poke around and suck up some air conditioning. The hotel is nice in a classic, getting-by-on-reputation kind of way. The carpets were worn; the brass seemed a bit tarnished. Staff in dorky outfits were at the ready. The guests were still more fancy-pants than anyone Tom Bodett leaves the light on for at Motel 6, at least judging by the cars that the valets were parking. I imagine the rooms are very austere and oak-y, with just a hint of privilege. But the view is probably lacking, since the Frontenac isn’t visible from its own windows. That requires a trip across the river, to Quebec City’s equivalent of New Jersey.

We strolled around the city, taking in the major sites and the general atmosphere. Slathered in sunblock, guidebook in hand, we were very clearly tourists. One morning was devoted to a tour of La Citadelle – the massive star-shaped fort built to protect the city. Every trip requires at least one battlefield or fort visit, and this was it. How can it rightfully be called a vacation without stories of death and killing? One afternoon we strolled along the cobblestone streets in the city’s old town area, marveling at the architecture and peering in store windows. The pace was slow, given the heat.

My favorite part of Quebec City was the Ile d’Orleans, which we explored on our last morning. The island sits in the Saint Lawrence River just east of the city and is accessible only by a two-lane bridge. It’s a rural place, with a mix of small communities, farms and stands selling locally produced fare. The middle-age, spandex-clad bicyclists love it. We followed the main road (in a car) that traces the island’s circumference, stopping every so often to sample cheese or wine or bread or pie or gelato. Drive. Stop. Eat. Smile. Repeat. We were spitting distance from Quebec City, but it felt much much further away.

With our stomachs full, we began the long slog back to New York. Somewhere south of Montreal I spent the last of our Canadian currency on an overpriced soda, leaving us with no stray coins to pass off at the local grocery store. We crossed the border quickly and without incident, though the other side was still backed up. Canada is the place to be, and the US clearly is not? We stopped for the night at an Econo Lodge somewhere near Lake George. The room smelled heavily of disinfectant, like something had recently happened that needed covering up. We ordered pizza, watched bad television and slept. The next day, after a quick stopover at the Hudson Valley Ribfest, where some friends were competing, we made it home. Wifey would return to work the next day. I would return the rental car.

Another vacation was over, but not without some lessons learned. Here is a sampling of the more valuable information I picked up…

1. Canadians hate s’mores… at least Quebeckers do. Or maybe they just hate me enough to hide all the marshmallows and graham crackers in the province in a failed attempt to ruin my camping experience. Or maybe they’ve never even had s’mores, in which case I’ve just discovered the path from unemployment to untold riches. Ladies and gentlemen of Canada, I present to you, the s’more [cue the trumpets].
2. Funicular is an actual word. I thought “funicular” was a tourist book term coined to make a tramway or aerial lift sound way more fun than it actually is.
3. Canadians and lazy tourists love funiculars. Why climb steps? Let the funicular take you up the hill, from one gift shop to another, in style.
4. XM satellite radio rules. I’d always suspected it might, even though my experience heretofore was limited to car rides with people with different music tastes. My only quibble… why did it take so long to play The Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive?”
5. My threshold for 80s music is about five consecutive hours. One minute more and my brain begins to eat itself.

Recommence with the unemployment.

Vacation from unemployment, part 1

Vacation from unemployment, part 2

Vacation from unemployment, part 3

A few months ago I commented on a friend’s Facebook page that he should check out the new Longwave album. He gently reminded me that the album wasn’t new; it came out last year. He went on to suggest what the college-aged Norm would have said, were someone to dare refer to an album not released in the last two hours as new. The exact words he put in my mouth elude me. But they were definitely snide, music snob that I was. And in those days, I would’ve followed them with something like…

That album sucks anyway. You need to find their first release from before they got popular and started getting played on the radio. It’s an import-only. And they recorded it before their singer got off the smack. That’s their best album. That’s the one you should pick up.

or

That album sucks anyway. If you want to hear something good, check out band X. They just recorded a 5-song EP on a 4-track in the bass player’s mom’s cousin’s uncle’s basement garage storage space. They only printed 100 cassettes. And they only sell them at shows to real fans. They’re gonna be huge. [By "huge" I was destined to mean that nobody would ever give a crap, and they'd go on to bag groceries or ride a desk like everybody else.]

The Facebook exchange reminded me that I’m not that young music fan anymore. I’m not even up on the latest music – once a point of pride with me. My priorities have changed. “New” as a music descriptor doesn’t matter as much as “new-to-me.”

But I’ve been in a music slump this summer. Even the new-to-me hasn’t seemed all that interesting. My CD buying has tailed off, what with the unemployment and all. People forward me albums, which sit in folders on my desktop, un-listened to. Even eMusic‘s suggestions haven’t excited me much. Only when wifey commandeers the stereo, and then only when she plays something other than David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance,” might I be exposed to some new-to-me music.

My music listening hasn’t tailed off one bit. I seem to crave my all-time favorites more than ever. Certain albums connect me to a specific time and place, or, more importantly, a feeling. Some of these albums come from my youth and were first released on a player piano roll; the Pet Shop Boys get a lot of airplay around the apartment, as do The Church.  Some albums are more current – like The Clientele’s “The Violet Hour.” Either way, I’ve heard these albums a hundred thousand times. Every word and every note is familiar. There are no surprises. I know what they sound like, and I know how they make me feel.

This weird lack of curiosity extends to the news as well. It’s been that way since the layoff. I just don’t care that much about the constantly changing. I have a theory as to why this all is. Unemployment breeds uncertainty… about my career, paying bills, having children, life in general. And uncertainty in some aspects of life pushes me toward familiar and comforting things. In the face of upheaval, I crave stability. So I ignore the news. So I keep playing old Church and Pet Shop Boys albums.

A few weeks ago, something changed. We were cruising down a Canadian highway, somewhere in Quebec province, and entering our fifth straight hour of 80s music on XM. We’d heard every one-hit wonder’s other single – “Pop Goes The World,” “Promises, Promises,” “Kyrie,” you name it. All the Duran Duran and Whitesnake actually started my mullet growing back. I’d had enough… probably too much. It was time for something else.

Since then, I’ve been enjoying many great new-to-me albums. Some I discovered on one of the other XM stations. Some were already sitting dormant on my iPod. And some of them are almost new [gasp!]. My younger, hipper, indier-er than thou self would be so proud. Here is but a sampling of the sounds gracing my ears in recent weeks…

Bowerbirds – Upper Air
Ever wish Iron & Wine, Great Lake Swimmers or Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy would liven things up a bit? Maybe you like your depressing folk music to be a bit dancier. Well, here you go.

The Broken West – Now Or Heaven
Wow, can these guys write a pop song. I have wifey to thank for introducing me to this. And she has me to thank for burning the songs into her cerebral cortex from repeated listens. Seems like a fair trade.

Desolation Wilderness – New Universe
Dreamy and atmospheric… but won’t put you to sleep like Galaxie 500.

Here We Go Magic – Here We Go Magic
Catchy melodies that devolve into experimentalism. I like it, but I don’t know really what to make of it.

Jets Overhead – No Nations
Secret Machines-lite… from Canada, where everybody is just a little happier.

Metric – Fantasies
Ladytron meet The Sounds. The Sounds meet Ladytron. It’s cold, emotion-less music for summer cruising in the convertible with the top down. That is, if you have a convertible, or a car stereo, or, uh, summer.

The Most Serene Republic – …And The Ever Expanding Universe
The Most Serene Republic borders on The Polyphonic Spree and Mercury Rev. There supreme ruler has banned all drugs but surrounded himself with interesting orchestration. So things don’t get nearly as wacky here as they do in neighboring states.

Passion Pit – Manners
It’s a happy dance party in your living room, or at least in your headphones. But maybe not in your pants. For that, try Junior Senior or Cut Copy.

Rhett Miller – Rhett Miller
The Old 97’s guy is still around. This album is solid singer-songwriter fare, with a country-ish tinge. It’s pretty okay for what it is. But I get the feeling Rhett can’t decide what to do with the rest of his life but also knows the job market is crappy for low-level rockstars.

We Were Promised Jetpacks – These Four Walls
Is the band name clever or just trying to be clever? Either way, pop punk just sounds better when Scottish guys sing it. It’s a little like Ballboy without the sense of humor.

Wye Oak – The Knot
Pop songs with guitar noise… what’s not to like?

Keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars. Unless you’re in a convertible and going under a low overpass.

Travel the world in a couple hours, and then buy a t-shirt to prove it. (courtesy of www.nationalgeographic.com)

Wifey and I enjoy flying to fancy, far-off places – like France, Crete and Wyoming – where people dress and speak funny. We also like to tack on road-trips to the end of those long plane rides. For one of my favorite vacations, we flew to Sioux Falls, SD, rented a car and drove across the state and up through Wyoming and Montana to Glacier National Park. Along the way, we spent a cathartic afternoon at Wall Drug, communed with bison and giant stone presidential heads and ran out of gas along the highway halfway through an Indian reservation. Ahh, the memories.

This year’s vacation was a less-adventurous affair than previous vacations. We rented a car and drove from New York City to Montreal, and then on to La Mauricie National Park and then Quebec City. We skipped the airports and airplanes, which hopefully saved us some time and money. We also slacked on the planning, which changed the dynamic of things a bit too. But we managed to explore a little corner of Canada, and have a good time doing it.

The trip had a less than auspicious beginning, thanks to the traffic gods. Escaping from New York City is always an adventure; just ask Kurt Russell and his feathered mane. We hit major traffic leaving the city and then a couple more times along the New York State Thruway. It just takes a little road construction or one tiny accident to make thousands of people late to wherever they’re going. Crossing the border into Canada was also a nightmare. We idled in line for two and a half hours waiting for our two minutes of questioning. Border agents inquired about the nature of our visit, to which wifey responded, “international intrigue and espionage.” Maybe I just imagined her response in my boredom and carbon monoxide-fueled delirium. They followed that up with a question about the food stuffs in our possession. Aside from a half-eaten loaf of sourdough nut bread and an unopened bottle of soda we ventured ten miles off the highway to find, we had nothing. And we definitely didn’t have any of the following banned items…

• Radar detector
• Live minnows, leeches, or worms (night crawlers) unless not packed in dirt
• Dog food
• Potatoes
• Firewood
• Military-style attack rifles
• Large capacity cartridge magazines (Exceeding 5 rounds for center fire rifles)

…or did we? I’ve smuggled more than my fair share of potatoes and dirt-packed worms across international borders in my day. What should’ve been an eight-hour trip was an eleven-hour schlep.

We rolled into Montreal well after dark – tired, hungry and in dire need of a bathroom – and promptly got lost. Our nerves were wearing thin, but we rallied and found the bed and breakfast. Let the vacationing commence. After checking in, we wandered the streets looking for food. Plateau Mont-Royal – the area where our hotel was – is known for its nightlife. We settled on a fondue restaurant, largely because it was open and not full of loud Canadians. For those unfamiliar, the term “fondue” stands for “a dish of incredibly hot liquid in which small pieces of food are dipped and then used to burn the crap out of the top of one’s mouth.” After a delicious dinner, we returned to our room and passed out.

The next day brought more wandering. The Mile End neighborhood - which might consider a name change to “1.60934 Kilometer End” given Canada’s use of the metric system – is filled with cute little shops. All of them sell antiques or pretty stuff for kitchens. The area is also home to a pretty tasty bagel, disproving wifey’s theory that you can’t get a good bagel outside of the New York area. As Dr. Wiki P. Edia explains it, “in contrast to the New York-style bagel, the Montreal bagel is smaller, sweeter and denser, with a larger hole, and is always baked in a wood-fired oven.” The place we went actually makes the bagels right there. Other shops bake them off-site and truck them over. The day ended with a fancy dinner at DNA and a late-evening stroll. Every vacation has one special meal (read delicious and really f***in’ expensive), and this was it.

Embracing our inner tourist, we explored the Biosphere Environment Museum and the old town area on our second day. The Biosphere is, in their words, “…an exclusive venue to better understand major environmental issues, including those related to water, air, climate change, sustainable development and responsible consumption.” It takes the visitor through actual recreations of various environments, complete with living plants and animals. The museum was a lot more interesting and less preachy than I expected it to be. Who doesn’t like penguins and crazy-looking fish? And the screaming kids and doting parents – humans in their environment – only added to the realism. Old town Montreal dates back to the 1600s, when vendors had to churn their own ice cream and knit their own t-shirts to meet tourist demand. Narrow streets and beautiful old buildings remain, as do the ice cream and t-shirt shops. This part of the city was worth a look and a walk along the water, but not much more.

Vacation from unemployment, part 1

Vacation from unemployment, part 3

Vacation from unemployment, part 4

See that little light in the top right corner, way in the distance? Yeah, that's not my apartment. (courtesy of http://abodenyc.com)

It’s my ten-year New York anniversary. In July of 1999, I moved here on a day a little warmer than today. In honor of the occasion, I’m expecting a gift of tin, as tradition dictates. Aluminum would be okay too, me being the modren man, with parts made in Japan (domo arigato). eHow tells me the gift should be placed “…in a pretty aluminum bucket from a gardening store.” How quaint, I’ll have to set up the foldout white picket fence for its arrival. The gift is more likely to be a bucket than in a bucket, the City is facing a budget shortfall and further job cuts. It probably won’t even be a bucket, but something smaller and more befitting our collective state. This city dweller has no use for gardening stuff. But I could sure use a tin or aluminum can, something to gather spare change on a nearby street corner when my unemployment insurance runs out.

From a career perspective, the relationship between me and New York has been a little stormy. I held four full-time jobs that ended in layoff. I endured many more temp jobs that ended because, well, they were temp jobs. And I’ve been unemployed and engaged in a job search for a large chunk of the last decade. The total would probably amount to years if I felt like actually adding it all up. I don’t. New York is probably dissatisfied with the relationship as well, having paid more in unemployment benefits than it collected in taxes all these years.

I moved here to work in the music industry. Washington, DC – the metro area that encompasses my old suburban MD stomping grounds – didn’t offer many options to that end. And what options it did offer, I exhausted pretty quickly. My first employer out of college was a major industry trade group. This was before the onset of digital downloading, when the organization’s reputation was still largely intact. I was a full-time club DJ for awhile after that. But public venues still allowed smoking in those days, and secondhand smoke soon choked me out of that job. There may have been work at a local record store or concert promoter, but I didn’t bother. I needed to move to move ahead.

Once in New York, my path to the executive suite continued to wind among the cubicles. I found work at a music website, wrote some freelance articles and edited CD packaging at a major label. None of the jobs paid that well, but I sure got a lot of free CDs and concert tickets and some good stories to tell at parties. Nothing impresses people quite like an entertainment industry job, aside from a large pile of money, of course. And maybe a fat gold medallion, worn with a billowy shirt and leather pants.

We all know the story of the music industry these last few years – free downloads, declining CD sales, industry lawsuits. I decided a couple of layoffs ago to be open to other career options. The MBA was supposed to help with that… legitimize me as someone who could work in the “real world.” Many people think the entertainment industry is all glamor, all fun and games. It can (or at least appear to) be for the lucky few. But it isn’t for the peons who make up the other 99.5%, those not photographed climbing out of fancy cars without underwear. They work hard. And the talk show hosts who propagate the lie should be put down. Mary Hart… watch your back! You’re already in the hole, having partnered with John Tesh.

These days I’m a professional in search of a job and an industry – not what I’d envisioned for myself ten years ago. Do I second guess some of my actions over the years? Sure, sometimes. I could’ve sought work at this company or that. I could’ve networked more and kissed more (or different) ass. Do I regret my major career decision – to follow my interest and passion? No. I made an honest go of it. I followed it as far as it would take me. That’s fine. That’s life. And I won’t ever have to wonder what would’ve happened if I’d only tried.

Behold the mullet, feel the mullet, be the mullet.

An old buddy of mine texted me last night. He’d been listening to the first Tears For Fears album, The Hurting, from forever ago. You may remember “Mad World” and the great cover of it that scored a Gears of War video game trailer. His favorite song from the album – “Suffer The Children” – starts out like the opening of a sex scene in an 80s porno. At least that’s what he tells me. I wouldn’t know. I was too busy studying and doing community service in high school to have viewed such unwholesome debauchery. But one 80s music reference was all it took to put me on an extended high school/college music jag.

It started yesterday, and I kind of thought it would end yesterday. These things generally run their course in about a day. But I heard this insidiously infectious song at the gym today, one that owes Toni Basil of “Mickey” fame an enormous debt of gratitude and has probably been adopted by every high school cheerleading troop between here and California. Maybe you’ve heard it. Maybe you’ve sung it to yourself. Maybe you’ve told your daughter to turn it down or you’ll disown her. It goes a little something like this…

They call me hell
They call me Stacey
They call me her
They call me Jane
That’s not my name
That’s not my name
That’s not my name
That’s not my name

They call me quiet girl
But I’m a riot
Mary Jo Lisa
Always the same
That’s not my name
That’s not my name
That’s not my name
That’s not my name

It isn’t my favorite song ever. But it also doesn’t make me want to jam plastic sporks in my ears until blood washes away the pain. The Ting Tings song (like the name of the artist matters) is rather catchy actually, and it put me right back in 80s mode. Playing evil scientist and implanting that song in your brain is just a nice ancillary benefit. Some the stuff that made the playlist is still great, and some of it, well, isn’t and probably never was. All of these albums could use some serious remastering. I’m sure the music industry will get to it right after they figure out the whole digital thing. I’ll start holding my breath now.

So without further delay…

The Church – Gold Afternoon Fix
The Church is one of my favorite bands ever, still. They had one hit – “Under The Milky Way” – 20 years ago, and have been ignored ever since. I discovered this album on a friend’s dorm room shelf freshman year of college.

Tears For Fears – The Seeds Of Love
I couldn’t find The Hurting, so I went with this one. It’s got a little too much of that 80s over-produced thing going on. But how can you not love someone named Roland Orzabal?

The Stone Roses – The Stone Roses
This album indoctrinated a generation of anglophiles and holds up well to this day. Everything else they did kind of sucked.

Rush – Power Windows
I was a teenage boy. Is any more explanation needed?

New Order – Technique
A Korean friend of mine insisted that only Asian people could like New Order. I thought that was ridiculous. It’s not like New Order was The Communards or some other such band. Besides, I always turned up “True Faith” to some insane volume whenever it came on the radio. So I bought this album on cassette – as one did then – pealed away the shrink wrap, breathed in that glorious new-tape smell and put it into heavy rotation.

Catherine Wheel – Ferment
This is one of those albums that influences my tastes even today – Early Day Miners, The Black Angels, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and so forth. And it still f**king rocks! I saw Catherine Wheel at the HFStival in 1992. It was about 100 degrees with 90% humidity that day… real outdoor weather. Heat stroke only made the music better.

The Charlatans – Some Friendly
Ever worked ground crew on a golf course? Ever cruised the empty fairways in a golf cart at 7:00 in the morning blasting British shoegazer music through ratty headphones? You should try it sometime.

The Ocean Blue – Cerulean
Ok, so they’re a little dippy. I can accept that. I’ve come to terms with my love of jangly pop made by Pennsylvanians trying to sound British. I suggest you do the same.

Mr. Big – Mr. Big
Not sure what I was thinking back then. The mullet, no doubt, drastically affected my judgment, and not for the better. I can’t tell if this album is so bad it’s good, or so bad it passes good on its way back to bad. We’ll just go with the latter.

Living Colour – Vivid
This album was my psych up music for the SATs, or maybe it was the PSATs. Either way, I can still picture cruising in my orange 1981 Chevy Citation to my high school early that Saturday morning. And wouldn’t you know it, it still holds up.

And an unfortunate, last-minute, post-jag entry…

Micheal Jackson – Thriller
Ma Ma Se, Ma Ma Sa, Ma Ma Coo Sa, Michael. Ma Ma Se, Ma Ma Sa, Ma Ma Coo Sa.

Where working out meets rocking out.

Unemployment took away my last excuse not to go to the gym… work. And for that I will never forgive it. If you’re reading this, unemployment, consider yourself out of the will. The cats now get my ever-shrinking pile of assets. (Wifey will have to take it up with the furry ones.) My gym membership is cheap and paid through some time next year. All that prevents me from going these days is laziness and achiness (by which I mean laziness).

My gym has three reasonably convenient locations and many more totally inconvenient locations. One is in midtown, across the street from a previous employer and a short subway ride from home. Working out was so convenient until layoff #2. I still go there sometimes in the late morning to avoid the lunch-time and after-work crowds. Another location a few stops further downtown in Chelsea is bigger and better, but also more crowded. Working out during off-peak times is still perfectly pleasant. And then there’s the Elmhurst location within walking distance of my apartment, where I go if I’m pressed for time or – like today – just don’t feel like riding (or paying $4 to ride) the subway. That place is a madhouse.

I left for the gym at about 9:30 this morning. It was drizzling and sunny, and the sky threatened thunderstorms, portending another day of confusing weather. There was also a 30% chance of snow, a 20% chance of tsunami and 10% chance that the atmosphere would solidify into some sort of jello-like substance making it impossible to do anything. I crossed underneath the subway tracks as the 7 train rumbled overhead, and wound through Elmhurst past the hospital and the park. I turned down through a neighborhood of houses, most of which have been converted into apartments, judging by all the doorbells and Direct TV dishes. A few have been remodeled or torn down and rebuilt into some blocky, tasteless monstrosity. Many more are just kind of drab. At Queens Blvd., I crossed over to the gym.

The one-story box of a building sits right on the boulevard of death next to an LIRR overpass, some used car dealerships and a few hotels that probably rent rooms by the hour. One dealership I’ve watched shrink over the last year from two lots and 60+ cars for sale to half of one lot and about ten cars. And one motel I’ve watched go up right next to it; all they forgot was a sign big enough for passersby to actually see. A huge billboard on the overpass advertises Big Macs at McDonalds with the words, “Sobrang masala may kasamang extra bun.” Who knew that “two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions” could be boiled down to four words? A huge public intermediate school sits behind the gym, and buses line up next to it. If I go around 8:00 or leave around 3:00, I inevitably end up following a group of 13-year-olds and looking like a total perv.

The gym was packed, because it’s always packed. Every person in Elmhurst is required to hang out at this gym for two hours each day; working out is optional. I signed up for a couple aerobic machines at the front desk. The earliest available was in an hour. Every machine looked to be occupied when I got inside. Some people were working out, some were talking on cell phones, and some were trying to do both. I jumped on a recumbent bike when one opened up.

As if the crowds weren’t bad enough, the noise levels were just ungodly. Pumping club music covers of 80s songs blared from the aerobics room, as the instructor yelled instructions into her headset microphone. Some of the TVs played corporate music videos of beautiful, disaffected white guys rocking out in construction sites and on the tops of buildings. The accompanying audio came through the club’s speakers. Other TVs tuned to CNN played the news. People yelled into their cell phones over all of this and to their friends across the gym. I hoped my head wouldn’t explode.

I moved from the bike to a cross-trainer when my turn came up, kicking off the woman who tried to take my spot and putting my towel in the drink holder not lined with hardened bubblegum. The air conditioning wasn’t really on, and I was sweating profusely. Soon after, a 40-something-year-old woman busting out of her stretchy black and white gym outfit took the machine next to me. She was all silicon and botox, and damn proud of it. I glanced over, and she flashed me a smile through her lipstick, at least what amounts to a smile for someone who can’t move her face. Distracted from a New York Times Magazine article about aesthetically unpleasing construction, I looked over again a minute later. The Williamsburg Bridge may be ugly, but who could possibly ignore a living, breathing disaster two feet away? She smiled again. I cringed.

When construction lady was done, one of the two people I know at the gym – an unemployed engineer – took over the machine. We chatted about what would happen once unemployment insurance ran out. He has his eyes on a job at McDonalds. I’m thinking Starbucks. My reasons are simple… I don’t want to get fat, and I’d much rather be scalded by coffee than grease. The conversation moved on to the situation in Iran and places to play ping-pong in Flushing. I finished up on the cross-trainer and went for some water.

By the water fountain in the locker room, I ran into the one other person I know at the gym – a heavyset retired guy who enjoys science fiction and Broadway shows. We met many months ago when he commented about The New Yorker magazine I was reading. He was surprised to see it in a gym where no one even speaks English. We chatted briefly about the drag cabaret show I saw over the weekend and what movies we wanted to see.

My time on the elliptical trainer was uneventful, except for the OK Go’s brilliant orchestrated treadmill dance routine video, which came on. Someone programming the music videos for Big Gym TV has a sense of humor, or not. It seemed appropriate either way. The old Jewish guy who works out like he’s on a mission was nowhere to be found. Nor were his right-wing buddies, whom he greets by yelling political nonsense across the room. The Tourette Syndrome guy who spouts off randomly in Italian wasn’t there around either; I think he comes in evenings. The stretching area was unusually quiet. The crew of old ladies who sit around telling dirty jokes was noticeably absent. I finished up my workout in relative peace.

Leaving the gym, I passed an employee returning from her smoke break and waited at the corner for the traffic light. I was tired and had the beginnings of a headache. It had been a relatively quiet workout, but I was still less relaxed than when I arrived. Tomorrow I’ll spend the four bucks and go workout in peace.

So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, good night.

Little Compy – LC to family and good friends – is dying a slow and painful death right before my eyes. It’s sad to watch. His once shiny white case is smudged and dinged with the scars of a hard life. His screen is scratched and imprinted with the outline of the keyboard. His battery is drained, lasting only 20 minutes per charge. And his plug only connects to sideways outlets, and not even all of them. LC has lost all his advantages as a laptop and embraced all the drawbacks. The end is near. My heart aches for the poor machine who’s helped me through three layoffs and job searches. But his time has come.

LC continues to give his all, chugging away at my every keystroke and mouse click, bless his little, overworked processor heart. But the high-powered world of job search and unemployment blogging has passed him by. My competition is stiff, relentless, and his best is no longer good enough. As I type on his temporary replacement, in a coffee shop many subway stops away, Little Compy is asleep at home, dreaming of a simpler world. His next stop is the digital glue factory, or at least a demotion to music server. And deep down in the recesses of his CPU, he knows.

I first noticed the decline around the start of Jobless and Less so many months ago. LC had trouble loading new web pages crammed with job listings and WordPress setup instructions. He would think and think, and then think some more. Filling in typed words and commands grew difficult. His usual response became a momentary blank stare, followed by a rush to catch up. I knew he’d fallen asleep on the job, but was willing to let the lapses slide if productivity remained strong. But this was just the start.

I started closing applications not in use to ease the work load and extend his life. I even bulked up his memory, performing the delicate surgery on my dining room table with the help of my furry assistants. Both solutions proved to be temporary fixes. Soon YouTube videos stopped playing. LC’s iTunes application started ignoring Mr. iPod half the time. For the love of God, they’ve been best friends for years! The two were purchased together, with the same credit card and student discount. When the banner ad girl dancing about low mortgage rates – a key component of my every online experience – stopped loading, I knew something had to be done. Little Compy isn’t going to take me down too.

I mostly work on wifey’s laptop these days. This temporary machine may have a name, but I don’t know it well enough to care yet. She’s at work all day and uses her desktop computer at home anyway. I’ve copied over some important files and added some bookmarks to her browser. But my music and most of my files are still in Little Compy’s possession. He refuses to go quietly. Up until yesterday her computer was still showing the effects of the WordPress 2.8 upgrade. LC, for his part, had somehow managed to adapt. So he retains a bit of usefulness, a smidgen of his former glory. It’s almost the end of an era; my first post-college Mac is about to die. He soon will be replaced by a new Mac – one who is bigger, stronger and shinier. I think I’ll call him Big Macky.

Help me replace Little Compy with Big Macky and not max out my credit card by clicking here. Pleeeeeeeeeease!!! I’ll be your friend…