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.

I love a good snow day, even when there’s nothing to stay home from. What kid, or kid at heart, doesn’t? To this day, the news radio chimes make me hope for the words, “Montgomery County schools will be closed today,” no matter the time or season. A snow day is special, a surprise holiday, a day off from my problems. It has a calmness to it. Life stopped late last night and will pick up early tomorrow morning. For now, I’m on snow time.

Queens is blanketed by over a foot of snow. It’s currently coming down sideways. I can see out my window for a couple blocks, beyond the subway tracks to the hospital. The Citigroup and Empire State Building have disappeared into the gray. The streets are empty, aside from the occasional car swishing by. The neon store signs are on, but nobody is out shopping. Everything is muffled, quiet. If only my neighborhood were always this way. If only every day were a snow day.

Around 3:00 this afternoon, I asked wifey via IM how the snow looked from work. Her company is on the second floor and has big windows overlooking the street. She couldn’t tell from her cubicle, and was too busy to go look. She asked me to take some pictures of our neighborhood in the blizzard. This made me think, “I should take some pictures of our neighborhood in the blizzard.” And so I did, from the living room window, on the street and off of the subway platform.

The results probably won’t find their way onto an art gallery wall. But who needs an art gallery when we have the Internet, the world’s biggest and best and worst art gallery? So I present to you the Unemployed Snow Day Photo Exhibition…

[I'll pause here for you to make some hot chocolate and settle in. Those of you in warmer climates can hum the Jeopardy! theme song and imagine Alex Trebek without his toupee.]

Okay, now I present to you the Unemployed Snow Day Photo Exhibition, starring Jackson Heights, some random people of dubious citizenship who probably wouldn’t want their pictures posted online and Snowden S. Snowberry, the star of the show…

The view from my window looks like a snow globe, a really dirty snow globe.

This is Elmhurst Hospital, one of the buildings I’d drive by if I ever needed a hospital.

Imprisoned by unemployment, until someone throws me over the ledge for using really bad symbolism.

I picked the perfect day to play in the street.

The cleanest you’ll ever see Roosevelt Ave.

If you close your eyes, it looks just like Paris, during a blackout.

I have no idea where I took this. I really need to lay off the highballs at breakfast… and lunch.

Who knew there were trees in Queens?

If 7 is a lucky number, why does the train always leave a minute before I get there?

Just how I like my Christmas elves... large and creepy.

After visiting the mall this weekend, I’m extra happy that temporary holiday season job at the big department store fell through. What a horrible nightmare of crowds and slush and noise. Holiday spending may be down, but holiday shopping is alive and well. As is the Queens Christmas spirit, which translates into lots of pushing and screaming and grabbing. I’m actually making a documentary about it; the working title is “Holiday Kill! Kill! Kill!” I did find a little temp work to prop up the bank account. Rather, a little temp work found me.

Wifey’s company sends out holiday gifts every year to contacts and clients. Most companies do. It’s a corporate holiday tradition to get in a little branding with the giving. Though in my experience, few companies are as classy and generous about it. They hired me to run the show, to be head elf. I was happy to oblige.

I’d forgotten what it’s like to wake up for work. Sleeping in isn’t my usual approach to weekdays. But I never have to be anywhere for anything either. My schedule is fluid and flexible, yet stuff always fills up the time. It felt oddly freeing to wake to an alarm and know that I had an hour to leave the apartment. Those with jobs may be wondering exactly what kind of crack I’ve been smoking. The 2008 model Norm would’ve asked a similar question. But unemployment is a seemingly endless series of uncertainties. Something defined and concrete frees up the brain to think about other things.

That something was putting gifts in boxes. Wifey’s employer sends out snazzy-looking hats emblazoned with the company logo. They design a new one each year. As a rule, I prefer my baseball hats to advertise for overpaid, underperforming sports teams, not corporate brands. Overexposure to crap-tastic corporate conference schwag has scarred me for life. But sports teams are just corporate brands anyway, and these hats are sharp. So what do I know? That’s right, nothing. You can say it. I know the truth, or, uh, I don’t. I’m so confused.

There were five of us to do the job. Each person was a friend or family member of a company staffer and in a similar situation – unemployed and/or cash-poor. The project was straightforward and is best presented in list form, last week’s diatribe notwithstanding…

1. Separate box tops from bottoms.
2. Put tissue paper in box bottom.
3. Put hat on tissue paper.
4. Put top on box.
5. Put bellyband on box.
6. Repeat steps 2-5 approximately 1300 times.

Some boxes got mailing labels and postage. Most didn’t. That was the extent of the project.

With our marching orders, we convened in a conference room and set about separating the boxes. The space was a little cramped, the back wall a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over much of the office. It didn’t occur to me until later that we were on full display. Within a couple hours, we filled the room with swaying stacks of box tops and bottoms. A gentle breeze would’ve toppled them all, spelling disaster for the fearless crew, or at least minor annoyance.

We didn’t talk much initially, being complete strangers and all. Nor did anyone want to make an executive decision on what online radio station to play. Group deference led us to a middle-of-the-road pop station. I’m not up on what the kids like these days, not since the end of my DJing days many years ago. So figuring out samples in songs was a fun diversion while working. One co-opted Elton John‘s “Tiny Dancer” in the name of Hip-Hop. Another put a melody over Gary Glitter‘s “Rock and Roll, Part 2” – the “Hey” song played at every sporting event ever, by law. I mentioned that the artist who recorded the original, went to jail for child pornography. Nothing like a little light trivia to break the ice and let everyone know I’m completely normal. After that, we all became fast friends, chatting about everything from Michael Jackson to AARP to hair salons. Did you know that hair stylists have to rent individual chairs in salons? I didn’t.

After separating boxes, we filled them. Two people took on tissue paper duty. Two others did hats and box tops. I did a bit of everything, from getting more supplies to breaking down boxes to hat stuffing. All the boxes were stuffed by late morning the next day, and the belly bands affixed by lunch the day after that. We hit a little snag with postage, because I miscounted the number of boxes. But that soon resolved itself.

With the boxes done, two of us stayed on to put together holiday gift bags for extra special contacts. The bags -themselves reusable shopping bags – contained some serious schwag, including fancy brownies, a cookbook, spices, a dove made of blown glass and more. All of the gifts came from companies that do something good for the world. And a booklet was included to explain what.

The work was mindless and monotonous, as assembly line-type work tends to be. My feet and lower back hurt by the second day. And a dull headache lingered throughout. But my coworkers were friendly and hardworking. And we had unlimited access to the stocked snack closet and all the holiday sweets that came through the office. I was happy to be productive, and to push back my unemployment insurance by a week. Box stuffing isn’t a career move, nor will it bolster the old resume. The experience was worthwhile though. I always think of temping as a horrible soul-sucking experience. But this time was different. I didn’t sense the least bit of condescension, maybe because they knew me already. More likely, it’s just a good company with good people. I also felt like what I was doing mattered in some small way. It’s nice to have a purpose, to be relevant again.

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

A couple weeks back I clicked over to The Washington Post to read about the Redskins. This is my daily torture. The thinking is that news about the team can’t always be bad; this season has taught me that it can. My mouse missed the “Sports” pull-down menu and landed on the link for “America’s Next Great Pundit.” Clicking led me to this…

The Washington Post opinions section is asking people around the country to tell us why they deserve to publish their opinions in The Washington Post and be the next Dana Milbank or Eugene Robinson. Ten contestants will be picked from among all the entrants, and then the field will by narrowed down by rounds of challenges testing the skills a modern pundit must possess. They’ll have to write on deadline, hold their own on video, and field questions from Post readers. After each round, a panel of Post personalities and reader votes will help determine who gets another chance at a byline and who has to shut down their laptop. The ultimate winner will get the opportunity to write a 13-week column that may appear in the print and/or online editions of The Washington Post.

It’s a contest for a job, kind of like every listing on every job site, but with some publicity behind it. And I suppose most companies don’t lay out the interview process for candidates in advance and then conduct those interviews in public. Otherwise, what we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is a job listing. The contest also bears a striking resemblance to Reality TV, with more ink and less silicone and plastic. People can risk making fools of themselves to be the last person standing. Alas, there’s no Flavor Flav or Bret Michaels or Mr. and Ms. Douchebag Von Dingbat to boost our self images. But The Washington Post is definitely spreading the disease that’s taken over my cable box.

Their overall goal here is to generate excitement with the readership, some sort of connection to the public. The newspaper industry isn’t exactly minting money these days. People get their news online, and ad revenue is way down. The wall that’s separated the media and the public has come down. Citizen journalism and crowdsourcing are all the rage, so why no co-opt them? Maybe there’s a hidden talent out there, or at least some worthwhile free content. And all the chatter that this contest has generated among the digerati can’t hurt.

I’m alright with all this. Every last bit is just peachy-keen with me. I play the job search game everyday, for hours on end. It’s so much more fun than “God Of War” or “Grand Theft Auto: Vice City” or full-contact Parcheesi. I never win, as evidenced by my ongoing unemployment and blog. But I play and play and play. There’s even a home version of the game coming to a Toys R Us near you. It’s called “A Norm’s Life,” and it’s perfect for that loved one you don’t like so much and want to scar a little. Check the discount bin this holiday season, below the anatomically correct Barbies. I also play the “here’s my content, please steal it” game. Bots scrape my site all the time, and the posts show up in random places – travel and plumbing sites being the most common. Blogging is public. Leave anything out front long enough and someone will steal it. (Queens residents should change “long enough” to “for three seconds.”)

And why not me? That’s what I ask myself whenever I send off a resume. So the question applies here too. I have opinions on stuff, and can make things up on the spot. I’m media savvy, given my college radio shows, a few TV appearances and this blog. And I defy you to find someone better looking in the punditry field, Rush Limbaugh aside, of course. Go ahead, turn on CNN or Fox News. There’s no one.

I read through the official rules just to be sure. Entry requires a 400-word article on a current issue and a 100-word paragraph describing why I’m the best choice. Everything else is pretty standard – 18 or older, US resident, no purchase necessary. So the other night, writing against a deadline, I banged out my entry. The subject is the term “jobless recovery,” and why the whole idea is more ridiculous than the premise for “Gilligan’s Island.” Maybe the actual sitcom comparison got edited out of the final draft. I had a word limit. But the spirit is there. This could be my chance, after months of looking for work. As we say in the job search biz, 7456 is a charm.

A jobless recovery means no recovery for the unemployed

Joe and me... like my hat? (courtesy of http://exit78.com/)

Some people like me, and some people don’t. And most couldn’t care less one way or the other about some unemployed blogger and his thoughts. That’s the way the world works. But once in a great while someone spits so much venom my way that I wonder if I wronged them in a previous life. Maybe I was Genghis Khan and he a Mongolian foot soldier I placed in charge of animal dung collection. Who can say? That was a long time ago in a faraway land, and I had a very large army to run. The task needed to be done, so I delegated. Raiding dynasties is tough enough without having to worry about the hurt feelings of some nomadic tribesman or other.

In a comment to my post “The recession is over, but high unemployment remains,” a reader named Joe makes it abundantly clear what he thinks of me and my blog. And it isn’t good. It’s actually pretty far from good. Here’s what he wrote…

your blog disgusts me plain and simple. Settling for less than you deserve? “This is a smaller step. I’m now applying for positions beneath my pay grade and skill level, even entry-level if the company is in a strong growth field”? Who do you think you are. I have an MBA myself from Sloan, yes MIT Sloan, and it’s laughable to think we are entitled to 200K annually because of a piece of paper. I used to make $400K/yr in NYC at a boutique investment firm, but was laid off a year ago.I was unemployed but settled for $80K annually in Dallas,Tx with an oil and gas firm with room to grow. Your blog is hilarious I think bc it shows your true colors. You’re a snot of an MBA like everyone else, and no you are not entitled to anything…..yes, no job is beneath you Norm.

[Note: I've added quotes to the above to distinguish my blog excerpt from his comments, and a link.]

It’s always nice to hear from one of my fans. So I thank Joe for gleaning so much about me from a blog post, applying his superior and highly valued intellect to my words and revealing my true colors to the world. I’ve been exposed as a disgusting, undeserving snot. In fact, let me take the Norm-bashing to the logical next step. Tomorrow at 3:00 pm I will stand on my fire escape in Queens – where entitled MBAs and first-generation immigrants commingle – so the world can hurl epithets and rotten fruit at me. I only ask that people aim high. Oh yeah, and no mangoes. Those things really hurt, tasty though they are.

In the meantime, since I’ve been called out on my own site, let’s examine some of Joe’s points, shall we? I have an MBA from Fordham University. Fordham is a solid school, but it’s not MIT by any stretch. That’s okay; we can’t all be as smart and modest as Joe. I’m still proud to have earned my graduate degree. I worked full-time and went to school nights for four years to get it. But at the moment, the only real proof of my investment is a piece of paper, some hefty student loans and perhaps an inflated sense of my worth in the marketplace.

The idea behind grad school was to make myself more employable. That has worked out in some ways and not in others. A graduate degree did increase my paycheck by about 40%. But in my best year that never approached six figures, let alone $200K or $400K. All MBAs don’t work at investment banks or make high salaries. Many have pursued jobs in communications, public service, non-profit or, like me, marketing, and “settled for $80K annually” or less. An $80K a year annual paycheck would be a step up for a lot of us. Does my career path and earnings history make me a sucker or a fool? Quite possibly. Maybe I should’ve grabbed my share while I could… if I could. I’ll never know. I thought it important to follow my interests where they led. The music industry tanked, so that didn’t work out so well. Nor did my degree make me any less expendable, what with my last three positions ending in layoff. That’s something I plan to work at when hired again. In the grand scheme of things, my MBA, as an investment, appears to be a wash.

As Joe delicately points out, I’m not entitled to anything. I agree. I’m not, aside from certain inalienable rights that I came up with in another previous life. Today’s world reminds me over and over, all day, everyday that nothing comes easy, lest I forget. It’s up to me to make it happen. This is part of what makes unemployment so hard to take. I feel like a skilled and capable worker who can offer value. I’m qualified for the positions I seek. My experience, education and skill set support that, but my continued unemployment refutes it. So “I’m now applying for positions beneath my pay grade and skill level, even entry-level if the company is in a strong growth field.” There’s no shame in this, though I am over-qualified.

My continued unemployment says I’m worthless, at least on bad days in my own head. Joe would probably agree. But I know where I fit, and I don’t want to sell myself short. There’s a big difference between qualified and entitled. Though both lead to disappointment in this job market. Many other people of various education levels and job histories feel the same way – disappointed. Some write blog posts to work through their issues. Some read blogs for another perspective. And some assume they know everything and lash out to mask their own insecurities and fears. At least that’s my take from reading Joe’s comments. Because one blog post, or one paragraph of comments based on assumptions and riddled with errors, can define a person.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did I forget my deodorant this morning?

Tourists and Manhattanites don’t come to Queens. They’re still scared of Brooklyn‘s tonier neighborhoods, where killer mothers, nanny henchmen and four-headed demon newborns of death rule the parks, boutiques and cafes. So this side of the East River, a little north of Brooklyn, where all the foreign people live, might as well be Sadr City for all the visitors trekking out here. Some crazy unemployed guy has an apartment here too, where he composes mad rants about the state of his life for the enjoyment of millions (by which I mean his wife, his mom, twelve unemployed people, six spam-bots and three of the Google hamsters running on a giant wheel out in Mountain View, CA. That is how they keep the Internet going, right?) Outsiders just avoid the whole borough of Queens. Someday, when average property values cross the half million-dollar mark, that may change.

But something happens here every summer about this time. Tennis fans return to roost, like swallows to San Juan Capistrano. The 7 train – called the International Express because of the many ethnic neighborhoods it passes through – becomes decidedly less international. Ultra-proper English can be heard. Country club attire can be felt brushing by. Hands can be seen protecting wallets and iPhones from would-be pickpockets reading or sleeping on their way home from work. The annual visitors follow the DIRECTV blimp floating high above Flushing Meadows. It’s US Open time again, and locals are warned to hide their Heineken. Here come the tennis fans.

I’m a card-carrying white person, but I’m not so big on the tennis. Sure, all the back and forth, combined with the grunting and sweating, can be exciting. But I still prefer to watch eleven large men in pads running into eleven other large men in pads, all of whom are grunting and sweating. (Maybe those last two sentences don’t belong together.) I played a lot of tennis as a kid, in summer camp and with my grandfather. We would hit tennis balls on his neighbor’s court many afternoons and then ruin our dinners with watermelon and root beer floats. But even fond childhood memories couldn’t make me a fan of the sport. Tennis can be kind of boring.

I went to the US Open qualifiers last Thursday. The week before the tournament, the wannabes and also-rans compete for the chance to lose to the players you’ve heard of. The timing once again lined up with my unemployment – another seemingly annual event. Entry was free, but the crowds were sparse – mostly teenagers and old people. It was a great way to spend a breezy summer afternoon, without shelling out your hard-earned tax dollars.

I watched Sam Warburg take on Michael Berrer on the largest of the courts outside the stadium. (Stadium courts are reserved for the real tournament.) The crowd routed for Warburg – the American – though he didn’t show much personality. He did let out a convincing grunt with each racket swing. Sometimes there would be a delay between swing and grunt, as if he’d momentarily forgotten and then remembered he was contractually obligated to make the noise. Berrer – the German – was much more fun to watch. He yelled at himself after bad shots and pumped his fist after good shots. He repeatedly excoriated the official for obviously bad calls. (The officiating was horrible all around.) His accent made the complaints sound more menacing than he probably intended. The players were evenly matched, and points sometimes stretched beyond my interest. Each player just toed the baseline and ripped shots at his opponent, only to have them returned. My neck tired from the constant head turning. Warburg twisted his ankle late in the match, giving Berrer enough advantage to pull it out.

I found myself easily distracted throughout the match, first by the corporate sponsor banners lining the court’s perimeter. Chase, American Express, J.P. Morgan, Citizen, and, of course, Heineken… are these companies targeting me and my vast spending power ($430 a week, baby)? Am I supposed to leave here and go buy a beer or a watch or an investment that gets repackaged and sold to another giant financial institution, over and over, until the economy crashes, I lose my job (were I to have a job, which I don’t) and they get government money to market to me at professional sporting events? I guess actively not caring about these companies and their products further proves I’m not a tennis fan. Maybe I’ve lived in Queens too long.

More interesting than the match and the advertising was the ball boy etiquette. Each match had a six-person ball boy crew. (Half the crew were, in fact, girls, but I’m not going to derail my informative yet whimsical prose with a pointless gender dispute.) Two were stationed behind each player and two manned (see, womanned just sounds weird) the net. Before a point, a ball boy offered the server a ball, and then another, and then another, from which the player chose two. The player served, the other returned it, blah, blah, blah. Afterward, a net ball boy fetched the shot that ended the point. Another offered each player a towel to wipe his brow and racket handle. The others threw balls to each other, ensuring that ball boys behind the server had an ample supply. The process repeated for a couple games. The players then got a rest, but a ball boy’s work is never done. One held an umbrella above each player’s head to block the hot New York sun. Others provided towels and water. The remaining stood at attention until the match started back up.

Being a ball boy is a science and an art. I found myself waiting for points to end so they could execute their duties. I even wondered what it would take to be a ball boy, aside from a time machine and parents who pay my bills. Could I dart across the court at any moment, scoop up a tennis ball and duck into my corner before a 120 mph serve took my head off? Could I remember how many tennis balls to offer up the serving player, and how and when he wants his sweaty towel? I don’t mean to sound flip. I actually thought about this stuff. Alas, it’s not the job for me. I need work that allows me to buy beer, watches and financial products. Maybe then I won’t find tennis so boring.

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.

Where to work if the thought of another day at the dining room table makes you suicidal.

I need a new place to go blog and be unemployed during the day with my computer… ok, with wifey’s computer. My requirements are simple. It has to be reasonably close to home, or at least in NYC. It has to be cheap (by which I mean free) and near food and a bathroom. It has to be quiet enough that music through my headphones will drown out any noise. And no one there can care how long I stay. Oh yeah, and it must have unicorns, and rainbows ending in pots of gold. Does anyone out there know of such a mythical place? I’m willing to give a little on the unicorns and rainbows. However, the pots of gold are mandatory, a deal breaker. No pots of gold… no Norm.

I’ve spent much of the last few months working at my dining room table. It’s one giant mess that wifey puts up with but probably secretly hates down to the very core of her existence. Let’s set the scene, shall we? The space where I work is closest to the kitchen facing the wall and a painting of kids on a carousel in France somewhere. I would sit opposite myself (and often do during out-of-body experiences) facing out into the apartment if squeezing into that space weren’t so difficult. My chair has no padding left, so I sit on an old pillow, prompting the occasional hemorrhoid reference from wifey. There’s a pile of printouts, business cards and computer wires pushed off to my left. The cats sit and drool on it whenever they decide to spend quality time with me. I often type with one hand and harass one of them with the other, because I’m ambidextrous like that. When they knock the pile to the floor, I put it back on the table, inevitably mixing it in with the assorted newspapers and magazines strewn about. The salt and pepper grinders stand tall – like beacons of domesticity in a job search wasteland – until I knock them over and scare the cats away.

My spot is nice and central, letting me be a part of wifey and the cats’ madcap escapades. It’s basically the center of my apartment, which is near the center of Jackson Heights, which is the geographical center of New York City. And everyone knows that New York is the center of the universe. So by extrapolation, my workspace is the center of the universe… which explains a lot. But spend enough time anywhere and you’ll tire of it. There has to be another spot.

My desk, where one would think I’d work, is piled high with papers and books and all the other things I’ve been meaning to go through and haven’t. It’s a disaster area, which the city keeps threatening to condemn, and removed from the rest of the apartment besides. I experimented with the couch as a daytime work spot. The TV remains off, because it really wouldn’t be work otherwise. But my urge to watch remains a distraction. So too does the amazingly hot battery in wifey’s computer. An hour of work leaves giant sweat marks on my pants, which would likely raise questions should she come home midday. The UPS guy gives me odd looks too.

My local options are limited… Espresso 77, the bench in front of Espresso 77 and the curb in front of the bench in front of Espresso 77. Starbucks would give me wireless access too if I had AT&T, but I don’t. The good news on that is I actually receive phone calls. Espresso 77 has a strict policy for laptop use. The first hour is free with a purchase on weekdays, and each hour after that costs $5. I’ve never seen it enforced. They did remind me about the policy during my last visit. I was the only one there. And you may remember the outlet-locking episode. I love their coffee, particularly the New Orleans ice coffee, which is some crazy double-brewed concoction with extra milk… sooooooo good. But I don’t feel terribly welcome when I bust out the laptop. The bench out front might work it ever stopped raining and wifey’s laptop weren’t trying to accelerate global warming. As for the curb, I’m not that desperate yet.

Communitea in Long Island City – a short subway ride away and convenient to Manhattan – is another workspace option. The coffee is solid, except for my last cup which tasted like sweetened, milky arsenic. The baked goods are scrumpdilicious. And the place is big enough that no one cares when I hang out awhile; I always make a point to spend more taxpayer money. The other customers are quiet and respectful, except for the smelly hippie guy who taps his ring to the tasteful alt-rock and talks on his cell phone. He’s just asking for a Hong Kong Phooey to the jaw. And maybe a little Captain Caveman action for good measure. I’ll do it, one of these days, so help me. Just keep not showering and sitting next to me. Bad things will happen; I’ve watched too many cartoons and endured too much unemployment.

The Brooklyn Creative League invited me to a blogging event to hype their new workspace for freelancers and small businesses. So I dragged my ass out to Brooklyn yesterday on the subway in a monsoon in search of a change of scenery. This is how desperate I’ve become. The New York subway system floods in a light drizzle, so you can only imagine what it was like in a steady rain. Water poured through the cement ceilings of the station multiple stories below ground. I felt like I was entering an underground torture chamber from a Mel Gibson buddy movie, and some wild-eyed fu manchu guy was going to string me up and shock me with a car battery. Gary Busey didn’t show himself, but I kind of suspect he was there. Why didn’t I just take the ark?

Brooklyn is the blogging capital of the world. It has more bloggers per square inch or per capita or per something than anywhere else. Understandable, since Brooklyn also has more subsidized, tech-savvy white people who are filled with angst, blessed with free time and convinced that everyone cares about their “struggle” than anywhere else on the planet. Maybe that’s just Williamsburg. This temporary relocation actually represented a powerful convergence of centers; the center of the world and the center of the blogosphere were one. Did you feel the great suck pulling you in? Not the pull from Yankee Stadium, the other one, from Brooklyn.

If I were a freelancer or a small business with any sort of steady income and I lived closer, I’d join the Brooklyn Creative League. The space – a decked-out floor of a warehouse with exposed brick walls, shiny wood floors, an open layout, various office necessities and a friendly, accomodating owner – is stellar. And the rates are quite reasonable. Alas, I do not have the wherewithal. But I did take the opportunity to look out a different window down on a different block (Carroll St. and Whitewell Pl.). From my perch, I observed an empty lot with an overflowing dumpster, an elementary school and the back of the Kentile Floors sign that greets F train riders emerging from the tunnel at Carroll St. It was actually fairly scenic in an album liner note photo kind of way. I got a lot done, then trekked back across the city to Queens. It’s back to working at home.