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

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

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

Eat Cheap 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm being social, by ignoring the people around me... so out of my way! (courtesy of The New York Times)

Walking consists of two major components: moving your feet and looking ahead. If you don’t move your feet, you stay in one place. This is called standing, or, in New York, tourism. If you don’t look ahead, you run into things, or things with the right of way run into you. This is called stupidity, or, in New York, stupidity. Over the last year and a half, many pedestrians on busy city sidewalks have decided that one major component of walking doesn’t matter anymore. Anybody care to guess which one?

When I unceremoniously left the job market in late 2008, most people still used regular cell phones. We made phone calls and sent text messages. We played that game in which a bouncing ball makes blocks disappear. Then we put the phones in our pockets and walked. We did one thing at a time, as our parents taught us, and we did it well. The trendsetters who walked among us while talking and texting were seen as oddities, and belittled mercilessly. Life was simpler then. Men held doors and tipped their hats. Women curtsied. People had, you know, jobs. Maybe I’m just remembering a New York that never was, like in a Meg Ryan movie on WE TV that you can’t turn off even though you’ve seen it 100 times, memorized all the funny parts, including the fake orgasm in Katz’s Deli, and find Billy Crystal’s hair really, really disturbing.

When I last left the employed ranks, smartphones had been around awhile. The first iPhone launched in early 2007; the first BlackBerry came along well before that. But they hadn’t gained critical mass. The fall of the economy somehow ushered in the age of the smartphone. It seems a little counter-intuitive on the face of it. Then again, what’s more American than spending money you don’t have? The smartphone also birthed a whole new breed of city pedestrian… the smartphone zombie. New York sidewalks are now overrun with reading, texting, emailing, surfing, tweeting, status-updating, app-using, video-watching, music-downloading, game-playing zombies who don’t look where they’re going.

Today’s white collar worker is used to multitasking. We juggle email and IM and Word docs and Excel spreadsheets and countless other desktop applications designed to make us more efficient. It’s necessary and expected, even though constantly switching tasks has been shown to reduce productivity. The smartphone extends the workspace to a hand-held device and anywhere someone can take it. So multitasking logically carries over too. Arriving in one piece is no longer accomplishment enough. We must get things done en route. The world won’t wait, but it is expected to stop when a smartphone zombie weaves down the sidewalk and wanders out into traffic.

I’ve seen many smartphone zombies almost die and not even realize it. They step out in front of buses and cabs. They wait to cross the street, in the middle of the street. They ride bicycles against one-way traffic without looking. I’m perfectly okay with people self-selecting themselves out of the human race. Humanity is better off if the stupid gene doesn’t reproduce. I just don’t want to be involved. More to the point, I don’t want to be inconvenienced. Too bad it’s unavoidable.

Smartphone zombies get in the way. They’re attracted to high-traffic areas, such as doorways, sidewalks, subway platforms and the tops and bottoms of escalators. Eyes glazed over, they seem to lack any awareness of the world around them, or any interest in it. And they don’t seem to understand that someone else might need to pass through the space they occupy. Or they just don’t care. I routinely have to push smartphone zombies out of the way… zombies leaning on the front door of my apartment building, zombies blocking the exit of a retail establishment, zombies lounging by the subway escalator. And when I do, it’s somehow my fault.

Change being the only constant, I expected the world to be a different place when I returned to work. How could it not be? But I thought some basic things—like walking—would remain essentially the same. The New York sidewalk slalom was treacherous enough without the smartphone zombie swarms wandering about. Now, not only do I have to look out for myself, I have to look out for the other guy too…  the guy who’s too busy harnessing technology to see the world around him.

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.

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.

Norm Elrod
Jackson Heights, NY
joblessandless[at]gmail[dot]com

January 15, 2010

Conan O’Brien
Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien
100 Universal City Plaza
Building 2220
4th floor
Universal City, CA 91608

Dear Conan:

I’m so sorry to learn of your recent job troubles. Employers can be such a pain sometimes. I know from experience, having been laid off four times in the last decade, most recently in October 2008. They never seem to do things right. And the little guy pays for it.

My purpose in reaching out isn’t to belittle employers; they’re already good at making themselves look bad. I’m writing to offer my advice and support in your upcoming unemployment and job search. I’ve been out of work for over a year, applied to hundreds of jobs and networked my way through much of New York City. I know what I’m doing. It’s a difficult job market out there. Decent-paying positions are few and far between, even for those with education and experience. You’ll need expert help to land on your feet.

The first thing to remember is that the pending layoff isn’t your fault. You showed up bright and early to work every day. You were generally funny or interesting or at least amusing to look at. You shot wax replicas of Tom Cruise and The Fonz out of cannons and let company clients, like Bruno, make inappropriate advances. In short, you did your job. NBC is reneging on its end of the deal. This is nothing new; many of my former employers told me my performance was good and my job secure, right up until my layoff. And then they let me go without severance or, once, my last paycheck. Sometimes a situation just isn’t right, and circumstances are beyond your control. Economies tank; television networks program terrible prime-time shows and yield to unfunny has-been celebrities. It happens. Don’t get down about it. A bad attitude won’t help you move forward.

Staying positive may be the hardest part of unemployment, possibly harder than finding a full-time job. I’ll let you know which is worse when I succeed at one of them. The trick, they say, is to start the day strong. Set the alarm for a reasonable hour. I’m guessing your typical day starts around noon. Stick to that. Don’t sleep in, and don’t lay in bed staring at the ceiling wondering if you’ll ever find work again. Get up and get going.

Tackling the day head on will boost your spirits and prepare you to be productive. Keep the same early afternoon ritual… shower, coffee, hair sculpting, Chinese massage, whatever it may be. Those flannel pajamas with pink bunnies and a hole in the crotch may be comfortable, but they’re for lounging around the house. No one in the real world wants to see you in those. Dress for success. You had a dream job, and you will again.

You’ll be commuting down the hall rather than to the studio. Getting a job is your full-time job now. So set aside a little space as an office. This may be hard when sharing a home with a wife and two young kids; I’ve taken over half of the dining room table. But a place to concentrate and work is essential for job search success. Those unemployment checks will stop coming before you know it.

I spent my first few days of unemployment reaching out to contacts. Given the public nature of your employment issues, let’s assume everyone knows you’re in the market. The next step is to sign up for a few of the major job boards… CareerBuilder, HotJobs, Monster. Enter in your resume and click through the pages. See what’s out there for a comedian with network and freelance experience and a degree from Harvard. Then set up some job alerts to ping you with appropriate leads.

A quick search for “talk show host” openings in the Los Angeles area yielded 15 results. There seems to be work as a movie extra. What a coincidence…  I get same sort of listings when looking for marketing jobs. You’re a little gangly and have beady eyes, and competition is fierce for these positions. Given your experience, they might also be a small step back. Sometimes sacrifice is needed to get ahead. But don’t settle just yet. There’s also an opening for a bi-lingual tax preparer and director of catering sales. Both are worth a look, as a part-time change of pace to bring in a little money during the job search. Experts say to allow a month for every $10,000 of annual income you expect to earn. So your unemployment may last for many, many years.

A job search shouldn’t fill every waking hour. You’ll go crazy looking for something that doesn’t seem to want to be found. Find a hobby, a distraction to fill up the days. I started a blog called Jobless and Less about my experiences with unemployment. The idea was to be productive and learn new skills, which I have. You could take to breeding pigeons or scaring children or something. Lots of volunteer organizations need help too. And that’s a good way to network. Regardless, stay active and get out of the house each day. There’s more to life than work, or finding work.

I know this is a lot to digest, particularly while going through a drawn-out layoff. Reading about it day in and day out, combined with news of the nation’s ongoing employment crisis and my own problems, is pretty discouraging.

You’ve given me a lot over the years. So let me extend my offer one step further. Come hang out at my apartment in NYC, and I’ll mentor you in the ways of unemployment. The job market has changed a lot since you were last unemployed many years ago. With the Internet as the main job search tool, the potential for rejection and disappointment has increased exponentially. Let me help you ease into unemployment and what will likely be a prolonged job search.

New York hasn’t changed much since you left, though my neighborhood of Jackson Heights is pretty far from Rockefeller Center, culturally speaking. There’s plenty of room at my dining room table for another laptop. We can comb the job boards together, proof each other’s resumes and lunch at Subway on $5 footlongs (have to watch the pennies now). We can lift weights and play video games to take out our frustrations. And if the wife kicks you out because you can’t provide for her and the kids anymore, you can crash on my couch. Though consumed with worry, you might have trouble sleeping. Carson Daly can help with that.

So that’s my offer: unemployment advice and tutelage. Think it over and contact me at joblessandless[at]gmail[dot]com if you’re interested. In the meantime, I’ll keep my eyes pealed for openings that match your skill set. I hope the layoff goes smoothly and they send you off with a nice severance package and cover your COBRA. And keep your sense of humor; they can’t take that. Good luck.

Norm Elrod

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.

I love burritos so much that I named my fantasy football team after them. That, my friends, is dedication. (courtesy of allwomenstalk.com)

[Read the holiday season job post, part 1 and part 2 so this post makes sense.]

Around 1:30, a full three hours after my arrival, an interviewer led me out of the horribly misnamed Turnover Room and into the interview room across the hall. Set up were two rows of five narrow tables, each with two pairs of chairs facing each other. She sat me at a middle table and took the chair opposite. Eight other interviews continued on amidst the general hustle and bustle of people coming and going.

She explained that the sales floor position I’d applied for only paid $8/hour, and the HR coordinator position had been filled earlier that day. I didn’t ask why they invited me in to interview for a position and left me waiting all morning while they filled it. I knew the answer… my time didn’t matter to them. Making that point wouldn’t help things. As luck would have it, my computer skills – meaning my ability to use the Internet – qualified me to be a proctor. The person in this position helps jobseekers complete online applications at the computer terminals out front. The job paid $10/hour for 40 hours/week until early January, when it could become full-time. I indicated my interest in interviewing for it.

The interviewer asked a few brief questions about my resume, nothing terribly probing. Do you have a resume? Tell me what you did at Company X. Why did you leave Company Y? I answered simply, and she passed my file on to a colleague and left. I waited, listening to the interview happening a few feet away and mentally fielding questions that seemed to stump the interviewee. Those questions would be coming my way in a few minutes.

The next interviewer dug a little deeper, meaning she actually asked questions that required some thought to answer.

Interviewer: Why is customer service important?

Me: So people will buy s**t and then come back later and buy more s**t.

Interviewer: What would you do if faced with an angry, frustrated applicant?

Me: I would slap them across the face with the keyboard then climb up on a desk and wreak havoc from above in the form of a flying elbow or, perhaps, a dropkick. It all depends on space and what I’m wearing. What do you think I would do? I’d help them. Because being unemployed is frustrating enough without having to contend with technology.

I may be confusing my words and thoughts at that moment. The border between Reality-ville and Imagination Land gets a little blurrier everyday. And neither side seems willing to cede victory in the battle of Norm’s Brain. Regardless, the interviewer accepted my answers and complimented my outfit and comport. Her implication was that not everyone she interviews is as well dressed and well spoken. She said she would recommend to the director that I be hired. The director – the last step in the interview assembly line – had to meet all potential hires personally and was unavailable at that moment. She would call me by the end of the week. I liked my chances and, in my head, started revising my calendar and my budget. Then I remembered what it’s like to punch out and take a lunch break.

I left the store around 2:00, after three hours of waiting and 30 minutes of interviewing, and bolted straight for Chipotle, Burrito Bucks in hand. My stomach was about to feed on a vital organ to keep the rest of my body alive, so time was short. The closest Chipotle sits on the ground floor of the Empire State Building, home of my last employer. The lunchtime rush had ended and the line moved quickly. I commandeered a window seat and ate my chicken burrito. Guys in red jackets tried to sell bus tours to tourists outside. Tourists resisted, as they often do when approached on the mean streets of midtown and asked for money. The rest of the world hurried by.

I feared running into someone from my old company and explaining why I was there, eating a burrito in a suit in the middle of the afternoon. Various, less-than-plausible answers came to mind involving high-profile espionage and intrigue. But in the end I opted for vagueness followed by a quick change of subject. Something like, “I had a job interview nearby. How’s work these days?” It’s this kind of deftness that got me here today. I wasn’t ashamed of my interview so much as my year of continued unemployment. Though, truth be known, I wasn’t exactly comfortable with my interview either. No one familiar happened by.

I strolled up Fifth Ave., inspired by the beautiful weather to try and think positive thoughts. Many successful business types get their start on the ground floor of a company. I could be next. Of course they usually walk through the door at the age of 22, not 37. The director’s call never came. But a friendly generic email rejecting my application did later that week. It invited me to apply again, presumably for another job I didn’t want. Spending more quality time in the Turnover Room was definitely tempting. I could bring along a pillow next time, maybe my PlayStation too. But I never followed up.

The holiday season job I didn’t want and didn’t get, part 1

The holiday season job I didn’t want and didn’t get, part 2

Ever feel like the blue robot to the world's red robot? (courtesy of http://coolrain44.wordpress.com/)

What better time to find a job than the holidays? The whole retail industry staffs up to meet the demands of the year’s busiest shopping season. More eager shoppers require more overworked sales people to serve them while wishing they could just go home. It’s a holiday maxim, as accepted as Black Friday and mall Santas and spending money you don’t have. These jobs aren’t perfect, or even desired. And they pay significantly less than my unemployment insurance. But a job is a job, if you get one. I didn’t.

My unemployment insurance will run out soon. At least I thought it would until Congress passed that extension; now I don’t know what the hell is going on. But my plan at the time was to delay the inevitable with a seasonal job at one of New York City’s many fine department stores. They’re all hiring. And seeing the throngs of shoppers up and down Fifth Ave. the other day, I can see why. Working during the holiday season – when work is available – would push back my day of unemployment reckoning. It would save me from having to find work in the dead of January.

I applied for a few seasonal positions – sales and back office – at a department store you’ve definitely heard of. They have locations all over the country, including the flagship store in Manhattan where tourists line up to look at display windows and relive scenes from movies. The smaller stores in Queens are the same as those in suburban Maryland or, presumably, anywhere. The pay would suck, but the employee discount would save me a few dollars on Christmas presents. And I’d get to experience the Christmas Season madness from the front lines. It could make for an interesting experience, provided I don’t get trampled by some present-hungry horde in search of a half-off sale. Maybe I’d even meet the real Santa Claus. I definitely have some questions for that fat hairy bastard… like why he never brought me those Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots. I mean really, Santa, WTF?

I applied for three different positions – HR coordinator and salesperson at the main Manhattan store and salesperson at a Queens store. The online application took about 40 minutes to complete and included a lengthy multiple-choice personality test. The questions attempted to gauge my suitability for dealing with the public. And here I thought one only needed a pulse. The appropriate answers were obvious and, conveniently enough, the answers I would’ve chosen anyway. Apparently I have the right stuff for retail and am not a threat to steal things or shoot up the place (file those under “good to know”). A few days later, the store invited me to interview. I was actually a little excited.

Like any good job candidate, I arrived early at the Manhattan location for my 10:30 appointment. It was unseasonably warm that day. My wool suit, which had magically shrunk since my last interview, was a little toasty. The main floor wasn’t yet decorated for the season; customers were few and far between. Having only ever visited as a shopper, and then only evenings and weekends, I was surprised to see the store so calm.

The staff elevator whisked me away to the upper reaches of the store, where the human resources email had instructed me to go. Standing among various employees, I became keenly aware of my reason for being there. With 15 years of work experience and an undergraduate and graduate degree, I was about to interview for a seasonal job in a department store that probably paid less than some of my summer jobs. My stomach dropped, and a lump formed in my throat. My career had come to this.

I exited into the bridal registry section and wandered among the plates and salad tongs and wine buckets not finding anything HR-related. A couple of salespeople chatted by a register; nobody shopped. After about ten minutes, I felt sufficiently stupid and asked for directions. Any trace of superiority or entitlement I arrived with were now officially gone. I started to wonder if I were even qualified to work in retail.

The holiday season job I didn’t want and didn’t get, part 2

The holiday season job I didn’t want and didn’t get, part 3

Happy anniversary to me!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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