No Slater, I just want to be friends! (courtesy of www.almightydad.com)

Has it really been that long since high school? Am I really that old? I still kind of feel the same, at least after ten hours of sleep and a couple cups of coffee. I still look about the same, when I wear my mullet wig and sing Def Leppard songs into my hairbrush in the mirror. But it has been that long, and I am that old. That’s why I was in MD a few weeks back for my 20^th high school reunion.

That Saturday afternoon, I sat on my dad’s couch watching the Disney Channel and killing time before the the big event. Who could’ve guessed Saved By The Bell would spawn a whole network of beautiful teens running around sanitized, microcosmic worlds making bad jokes? Screech would be so proud, Mr. Belding too. In one episode, restaurant advertising mascots – a hot dog, salad bowl and baked potato, to be specific – have a “food fight.” Get it… food fight? They’re food, and they’re fighting. I stuck my finger in my eye, repeatedly, to stop the pain.

The episode also involves a ping-pong tournament at a school for wizards, located right in the heart of NYC. Given that television is always factually accurate, I was surprised to have never heard of this place. It must be one of those newfangled magnet schools, or magic’s answer to Bronx Science. Regardless, if you ever see a kid in funky glasses and a cloak getting into hijinks and ballyhoo near your apartment, discreetly walk the other way. That kid is a wizard in training. And he might cast a spell that forces you to go back inside and waste your Saturday afternoon.

Next up was the first Harry Potter movie, which had me saying “Harry Potter” to myself in a faux British accent for the next week. Wifey was lucky I wasn’t around enough for her to hear it; she might’ve lost her s**t. All the new Hogwarts students are wide-eyed at this enchanted world where staircases move, pictures talk, feasts appear on tables and magic is everywhere. Two decades ago, about to embark on our lives after high school, we were excited too. The sun is coming up behind the bleachers in my senior class picture, which someone posted on Facebook. We’re laughing and talking and posing. My eyes are closed.

My teen years don’t seem quite as absurd as those of these characters. We wore ridiculous clothes and hairstyles and attempted to woo members of the opposite sex. We told stupid jokes and laughed until tears dripped from our eyes and soda from our noses. We played sports and worked degrading after-school jobs in food service. But it all seemed pretty normal at the time. That’s what teenagers do, or did. And then the ’80s, and the next 20 years, disappeared. Now we’re all older than we ever imagined we could be. And teenagers are these strange, magical beings who are decidedly unfunny.

I carpooled to reunion with a good friend, who, unfortunately, is also unemployed. We’ve both had tenuous job situations these last couple years. He’s had more luck getting interviews; I’ve had more luck getting freelance work. We help each other out, critiquing resumes and websites, exchanging job leads and listening to complaints about how much this whole situation really sucks. Neither of us is where we want to be. But both of us are getting by.

He had a more positive outlook going in. Maybe he just knew that he could get loaded because I was driving. My feelings were a little mixed. Many people I like – or liked once upon a time – would be there, including some who remain good friends to this day. But I’d have to explain, over and over, who I am after 20 years of life. And I didn’t know what to say. Would the truth – or some version of the truth – cut it? Maybe a story of international intrigue and espionage was the way to go. A reunion elevator pitch that summed up things up in pithy little bullet points would’ve come in handy either way.

It didn’t matter anyway. No one seemed to care that much about the specifics; and those who did already knew my tale of woe. The music was so loud that involved conversation was near impossible anyway. My Norm spiel came to me two seconds into my first conversation. It included phrases such as “freelance marketing professional” and “billionaire playboy.” I sprinkled in a few names of current and former employers and exotic locations to add some flavor. Then I flashed a business card showing my face Photoshopped on the Monopoly guy’s body. And that was that. The conversation turned to my classmate, who is a real estate lawyer in Florida, a state hit hard by the economy. She deals with foreclosures day in and day out, which is depressing but also fascinating. My first reunion conversation, and I didn’t even have to feign interest. Personal human suffering caused by a floundering economy is a personal hobby of mine.

Subsequent conversations tended to be similar. Some lasted longer than others. Some meandered and explored a little more. But most were standard and perfunctory, progressing through the five basic stages of reunion discourse…

1. Pleasantries
2. My story
3. Their story
4. Awkward lull
5. Excuse to go talk to someone else

I remembered everyone’s name, except for one person’s; I didn’t know him that well. A stolen glance at his name tag saved me from obvious embarrassment. Everyone looked about the same, or at least recognizable. No one had lost a limb or gained 400 pounds. People didn’t even seem “puffy,” which is how wifey describes the look of someone moving into middle age. A few people have fancy jobs, but most have turned out kind of like me.

Life is hard, but I’m working through it. We all are. And things aren’t really that bad. Sometimes we just need the opportunity to step back and take stock. I’m lucky in many respects. The conversations I didn’t want to have that night seemed innocuous by the end. It would’ve been nice to pick up where we left off 20 years ago. But that wasn’t possible. We aren’t those people anymore. The jokes aren’t as funny now as they were then. We don’t wear those costumes anymore. The magic years are gone. But the present is where I want to be, even with all its difficulties.

Where did all the white people go? (courtesy of Wikipedia)

I hate a lot of stuff, or at least it can appear that way to the reader passing through. My cousin suggested over dinner a few weeks back that I change the blog’s name to Hate Less and Less. The suggestion didn’t quite make sense; he’s not too bright. But the spirit of the comment resonated with me. Some vitriol comes through in these here pages from time to time.

I never thought of it as hate so much as annoyance. Things irk me. Hard as it is to believe, I’m not perfect… far from it. But I’m basically a nice guy with a positive outlook. I don’t walk the sidewalks scowling at old ladies and kicking small children. Nor do I lambaste random strangers and give them wedgies as they pass by. I could; the world is filled with easy targets and people wearing underwear. But I don’t.

A protracted job search would wear on most people. The daily grind of looking for something so elusive can be overwhelming. Just ask one of the millions who’ve seen their unemployment outlast their unemployment insurance. I’ve managed to supplement government help with freelance and temp work, when I can get it. That’s kept me going. All things considered, I’ve fared pretty well. But maintaining a good attitude is a struggle.

Life is hard for everyone sometimes. But I don’t hate anybody for my problems. What good would it do anyway? It’s not their fault. Besides, there’s already plenty of real hate to overshadow whatever inspires me to hold forth with precise and fluid prose in the hallowed pages of this irreverent and insightful blog. A quick scroll through the TV news channels reveals as much. It’s all talk of mosques and immigration… how foreigners are coming to take our freedoms and our jobs and make us worship Allah and speak Mexican. Election season promises to dial up the hate even more; what better way to show leadership potential than to trash the little guy? I can hardly wait.

A lot of this hate is aimed at my neighbors. Jackson Heights is one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the country, with 100+ different languages spoken, including English, thanks to Wifey and me. The array of cultures is amazing, with every continent represented, including Antarctica. My downstairs neighbors are penguins. I take credit for adding Wasp to this extensive and varied list. Most Saturdays find me strolling the shopping streets in crisp white boating pants, with a popped collar and an Izod sweater tied loosely around my neck, tossing dollar bills over my shoulder as I spew random stock market and nautical terms, such as Dow Jones, capital gains, starboard and, uh, sailboat. I’m proud of my heritage.

Not surprisingly, many of my neighbors are undocumented and/or practice Islam. I don’t know most of them personally. But I see them in line at the store and the bank. I sit next to them in restaurants. I stand behind them on the subway platform. I bump into them on the sidewalk. They’re pretty and ugly. They’re nice and mean. They’re rich and poor. They’re hardworking and lazy. They’re generous and stingy. Every adjective – positive and negative – applies on some level, as it does to every group of people. The people we hate are the same as us. They are us.

So why do we Americans hate ourselves? Where does this self-loathing come from? I wish I knew, so I could give the nation a giant lollipop to allay our national crying fit. There are so many real issues to address, such as the stagnant economy that keeps so many of us un- and under-employed. Instead we go on hating the new guy because he’s different, as we have since the birth of the nation. He threatens to upset the status quo, and slightly change our glorious way of life. And that scares us. We hate because we’re afraid.

I’m scared too. But rather than hate, let me put forth something that I like. I like my neighborhood – Jackson Heights. I like that it’s a true melting pot, in a country that embraces the term yet so rarely achieves the true meaning. I like that it offers an opportunity to people not afforded one before. I like that Jackson Heights is Ground Zero for the American Dream. People from all over the world come here for a chance, and they get it. To hate that is to hate America.

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.

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

Looking for work? Unemployed need not apply

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

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

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

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

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

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

Host:

Tonight they have another dance… another chance. Only one can take the trophy. Who will move a little closer? Live from Washington, this is “Dancing with the Politicians.”

I’m Norm Elrod. Tonight is the semi-finals. Let’s welcome our first star.

Dancing the Political Two-Step, former Texas Congressman, Tom DeLay and his partner, his own stupidity…

Host:

Let’s hear what the judges have to say.

Judge 1:

I’ve seen some of the legends perform this dance… Kennedy, Nixon, Reagan, Clinton. And let me just say that you nailed it. The setup step – what some call the “bait” – was smooth and effortless. You took over the mic and dropped the most salacious quote I’ve heard in years. “All unemployed people want to be unemployed” is so ridiculous that people can’t help repeat it. And repeat it they will. But no Political Two-Step is complete without the walk-away. You teased us with just a vague hint of context. No elaboration… you let the meaningless words speak for themselves. That was pure magic to watch. Tom, you’re truly one of the masters.

Judge 2:

I have to agree. That was artistry in motion. The dance seemed simple in its execution, and the dancer void of a functioning brain. But that’s the uninhibited beauty you bring to it. The easier it looks, the harder it is.

Judge 3:

I felt my hips go boom, boom, boom. And then my stomach turned, a little bile came up into my throat and I tasted that tuna fish sandwich I had for lunch. But in a good way.

Host:

As we say goodnight, let’s thank everyone who makes this possible… the Republicans, the Democrats, the media and everyone who pays attention to politics rather than something useful. See you next week for our grand finale, when Tom shows us the Political Side-Step. Perhaps he’ll claim to be taken out of context. Maybe he’ll go the passive, mistakes-were-made route. Or he could simply claim to have never spoken the words. Tune in and find out.

After all the buildup from the other day, everyone has no doubt been hanging out on my site, refreshing the page every five seconds, waiting for my next post. How do I know? Because I’m watching… always, thanks to Google Analytics and an abundance of free time. Think of me like Big Unemployed Brother, who, rumor has it, sleeps in his parents’ basement these days because he can no longer make rent. Big Mother likes having her boy around. Big Father wants BUB to get out of the spying business and go into sustainable energy. I also know you’re out there refreshing because this is what I do every Sunday during football season. I repeatedly refresh the box score for my fantasy football game to see if Larry Fitzgerald or LaDainian Tomlinson has another touchdown. It’s a way of life in the Internet Age. As of this moment, I’m winning, barely.

So, sorry to keep people waiting. Without further delay or digression, here is my entry for the America’s Next Great Pundit contest…

The words “jobless” and “recovery” are now inextricably linked. Because every ongoing current event requires a snappy name, economic cousins have become bedfellows. Forcing these words to coexist in Gosselin-like harmony – in print, online, over airwaves and in conversation – feels wrong.

A jobless recovery isn’t really a recovery. It’s a stock market rally, an uptick in economic activity or an improved economic indicator blown out of proportion. It’s also unemployment that numbers in the millions and a nation of employees scared for their jobs. “Recovery” suggests improvement. “Jobless” proves otherwise.

Economists first trotted out the term “jobless recovery” in the early 1990s to describe the new post-recession phenomenon of concurrent economic growth and high unemployment. Some experts blamed higher worker productivity born of increased automation. Others pointed to increased labor market slack, as workers switched jobs and industries. Whatever the cause, “jobless recovery” appeared again after this decade’s first recession, and once more earlier this year. The experts who failed to forecast the Great Recession needed a term to signal its end.

Conditions were right for “jobless recovery.” The economy was bottoming out, and everyone was scared. A pervasive need for good news – any good news – provided traction. Stories about unemployment’s slowing growth and stockbrokers turned ice cream men no longer cut it. Consumers needed something more positive to boost their confidence and open their wallets. Because without consumers, who provide 70% of our economy’s spending, actual recovery cannot occur.

But job creation remains non-existent; jobs are still disappearing. The national unemployment rate is approaching 10%. Add in underemployment and that figure is 17%. Include frustrated jobseekers (those who haven’t looked for work in a month), recently minted stay-at-home parents and new workforce arrivals who remain jobless, and that figure passes 20%. Companies, for their part, continue to cut pay and benefits rather than lay off still more employees.

This is the workforce that’s expected to spend money. But they’re not spending. Nor will they be for the foreseeable future. Just ask any retail outlet about its projections for the upcoming holiday season. Companies refilling their depleted inventories and the resulting excitement on Wall Street are driving the perceived recovery. It’s not real. And it won’t be until the public finds gainful employment and a renewed sense of security. The “jobless recovery” will continue. But only because it’s more palatable than “continuing recession.”

And this is why I should win, aside from my general, overall awesomeness…

I am a laid-off marketing professional and former freelance music writer, who has an opinion on everything. And I need a job. My current bout of unemployment is now pushing a year. In that time, I’ve improved my writing and job skills and submitted hundreds of applications. I document my unemployed life on the Jobless and Less blog (www.joblessandless.com) and keep up with the news in my now extensive free time. None of my hard work has paid off yet. Though my wallet (and my wife) tells me that needs to change. I can start right away.

Now back to your regularly scheduled life.

Entering a contest for a job… sound familiar?

What, no free cookies? What kind of establishment are you running here? I may just have to take my business elsewhere.

The Great Recession is over. At least that’s what everyone keeps telling me. The S&P 500 gained 15.2% from April to June for its best quarter since the fourth quarter of 1998. Retail sales rose 2.7% in August. Existing home sales rose 7.2% in July from a year earlier, to a two-year high. Happy days are here again. Uncork the champagne, plate up the caviar and break out the credit cards. The spending party is about to resume? I’ll be at the As Seen On TV store if any employers want to talk to me. There’s a purple snuggie with my name on it, and the Dentist-in-a-Box will save me a little money.

Unfortunately, hiring doesn’t move lockstep with the economy; it historically lags three to six months behind. Some companies wait to see revenues return before bringing on additional staff. Others wait to know exactly what gaps in their depleted workforce need filling the most. National unemployment – currently 9.7% – is forecast to hit 10% by year’s end. There’s one thing I don’t remember from all those economics classes long ago. If consumer spending accounts for the bulk of all spending and consumers are unemployed or scared to spend, how exactly is the economy pulling out of the recession? Anybody care to explain that to me? Uncle Milty… Papa Kruggy… Zeidy Bernanke… anyone?

I’m not even convinced that the job market will be back in any significant way. Worker productivity rose by 6.6% in the second quarter of 2009, the biggest jump since the summer of 2003. Wages remained stagnant, as they have for years. People are doing more work for the same money, and companies are reaping the benefits. Corporate profits are expected to surge; bullish estimates see 12% growth in both 2010 and 2011. That jump in productivity can be viewed as a loss of jobs. Why hire or re-hire someone to perform a task that’s already getting done? Just turn up the heat on the minions. Future innovation may lead to new types of jobs, though no one can say exactly what those jobs will be and to what extent they’ll offset recession job losses.

While things get back to normal (whatever normal will be), I have to deal with the likelihood that my unemployment will continue for some time. There are a few more jobs out there, but companies still receive hundreds of resumes for each position; the ratio of unemployed to openings is 6:1. They interview the best of the best which, given that I haven’t had an interview in a couple months, doesn’t seem to include me. I beg (as well as plead, beseech, entreat and supplicate) to differ, of course. I think I would be an invaluable employee for any company that hired me. So to date, I haven’t been willing to settle for less than I deserve. My previous salary was already on the low end for MBAs with work experience. Compromising seemed unnecessary.

That is about to change. The clock on my unemployment insurance is running down, and the end-of-the-year deadline looms large. This week I began actively seeking jobs that would be a step down. I don’t mean a big, digging in trashcans for recyclables-kind of step. The illegal aliens that roam the Jackson Heights streets with shopping carts collecting cans have that lucrative business locked up. 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. I’d be hard-pressed to turn down an offer – any offer – in online marketing, for example. The MBA will likely come off of my resume, at least one version of it. I’ve also started looking for work outside of marketing. Proofreading – one of my fallback skills – is one option. Sales is another, though I’d really prefer it not to be. We’ll see what kind of results I get in the next few weeks. As the time ticks away, I will widen my scope. That’s how desperation works.

A picture is worth a thousand cliches. (courtesy of revcowboy.files.wordpress.com)

My employer and I parted ways last October. I wasn’t blind-sided or steamrolled by the layoff, but the hit really cleaned my clock and rung my bell. The incident was unfortunate, though inevitable. With the failing economy, the company wasn’t getting the job done on either side of the ball. They were in search of an identity. Management was in the hot seat and under fire (over fire too, I suppose), but in no position to turn on the after-burners. The writing was on the wall, and something had to change. Heads rolled. It is what it is.

The company may not have been the right place for me, and I was looking to explore other options. After all, I need to feed my family and make a living… this is America, where everyone deserves a second chance. But I always gave it my all at work – 110% – leaving everything on the field and nothing on the table or to chance. I came to play, mentally prepared for each day, and worked as if it were my last. I never lost focus, and was never flat. Is it possible that I was part of the problem and not the solution? No. I’m a difference maker, have been at every company I’ve ever worked. I’m a scrappy and unselfish player, but also an impact player who can take over a game. I have great vision, owing to the eyes in the back of my head. Who does the boss call when the game is on the line? Me, the go-to guy, the team player who can carry the team on his shoulders. I’m a proven winner, the real deal. Former employers can’t say enough about me. I may bring a lot to the table, but I’m only human; I’m only one man. My last company was missing some other pieces of the puzzle. They needed to circle the wagons, take stock and get back on track.

I’m not pointing fingers. In the end, my boss did what was best for the team. I tip my hat to him for making a difficult decision at a difficult time; he didn’t want to dig himself a deeper hole. In the end, I can really only blame myself – the man in the mirror – for not taking my game to the next level. Mistakes may have been made. Ultimately continued employment just wasn’t meant to be, nor was it in the cards, stars or offing or written in the sky. I learned a lot in my time with the company and made a lot of friends. I can hold my head high, knowing I did my best. But the time had come to move on, hopefully to greener pastures.

There is no “i” in “team,” or “paycheck,” which I no longer had. There is an “i” in “bills” though, which would continue to show up on my doorstep. Coming off a heartbreaking loss, what would be my next step? Could I pick myself up by my bootstraps? Could I get back in the saddle on that horse and ride, or at least lead it to water? While my job loss was a bitter pill to swallow, I just had to put it behind me… move on with my life. Whatever mistakes were made were in the past, and I’m not here to talk about the past. This was my wake-up call. Opportunity was knocking, and I had to answer the call.

Without a job, I had room to operate and play my game, let Norm be Norm. I had a solid foundation to build on. The first step was to collect my thoughts, get my act together and put my ducks in a row. My resume had to be whipped into shape. It needed to show my mental agility and toughness, along with my depth of character, to silence all the naysayers. The next step was to go out there and execute. If I could bring my A-game while firing on all cylinders, a new job would be as good as in the bag. After all, the game is won and lost in the trenches, where the devil is in the details. I would march right down the field and score, then leave the rest up to God. I could afford to take my time, one day at a time. But I couldn’t afford to milk the clock. I didn’t have all day.

I know how to play the game. I wasn’t coming out of nowhere as a job candidate. I’d been around the block a few times, seen some things and given a lot back to the community. But events of the past year really took the wind out of the economy’s sails. There were no jobs to be had, not even as a speed merchant, field general, play maker or workhorse. Even the best in the business were having trouble navigating these difficult waters. My layoff hasn’t been all bad. It’s let me spend more time with my family and pursue other interests.

These days, I’m down but not out with my back against the wall, in a do-or-die situation behind the eight ball. Things are tough out there. It’s been a long job search journey, with nothing to show for it but an excel spreadsheet filled with notes about all the resumes I’ve submitted. New York City and its employers haven’t exactly rallied around me. Maybe they think I’m past my prime, not a wily veteran or elder statesman, but someone who doesn’t know when to quit. I feel like there’s a monkey on my back and an elephant in the room, both staring me right in the face. The ball just hasn’t bounced my way; I haven’t gotten any breaks. Sometimes that’s just how the cookie crumbles, even for the Norm Elrods of the world.

But I suppose we make our own luck and control our own destiny. So I just have to remember what got me here, dig deep, stay focused, step up and make plays and then play to win. It’s a whole new ballgame, and I will not be denied. I have a strong supporting cast, who have rallied to my side in this time of need. I’m heading in the right direction, playing with confidence and doing all the little things I need to do to win. All that matters is the final score, and the game isn’t over. Finding a job takes time. But I’m just one big play away from the promised land. To get there, I just need stick to the game plan and keep the drive alive. No one’s throwing in the towel just yet. So let’s look on the bright side and call 2009 a rebuilding year. Tomorrow is another day, and the sun will rise. Maybe I’ll find a job… that’s why we play the game.

Who’s ready for some football, and all the laughably cliched interviews that precede and follow each game? I know I am. Go Skins!

A picture may be worth a 1000 words. But this one is actually worth 1055.

People lose their jobs everyday. It happens in good economic times and bad, in every city and town across the country. My day was eight months ago. Someone else’s was four months later or last week. Believe it or not someone was also hired on each of those days, maybe even at the exact moment I was getting canned. At least that’s what gets me out of bed in the morning, in addition to the cat pawing at my face. Every economy has some churn in its workforce, and my time will come.

All those unlucky and lucky someones are the basis for such exciting figures as the unemployment rate. If my vague memory of college Economics classes (or Economics in general) is to be trusted, unemployment should sit right around 5% in a well functioning economy. The natural rate of unemployment is the percentage of the active workforce who should be out of work and looking at any given time. Those lucky 5% change from month to month. Some lose jobs and join the unemployed ranks and others find jobs and leave. If the unemployment rate is lower, than companies and industries aren’t evolving and growing as efficiently as they should. If the rate is higher, then wages are too expensive. At least that’s the theory. These days, as we all know, the national unemployment rate sits around 9.5% and should easily push past 10% before the end of this nationwide, nay, global kerfuffle.

Unemployment numbers and theories are abstract. They look great on paper. They sound great at parties and in the media. And they read great in posts from bloggers who like to think they know what they’re writing about, and occasionally do. What makes numbers and theories scary is their meaning in the real world. Every single someone who loses a job is a real person, as is every someone who finds a job (though the ratio of unemployed to jobs is 6:1, according to NPR). Each person could be you or someone you know.

My last layoff bothered me a bit; maybe you’ve sensed the undercurrent of disappointment in one of my many unemployment tomes. But it was also kind of expected. Whenever the economy gets a little gas, whenever my employer du jour sniffles, I’m kicked to the curb. It’s part of being the new guy (last in, first out) in marketing (the first department cut). I probably deserve some of the blame too. Still the scenario is so common, there should be a word for it in the dictionary. Noah Webster, are you listening? I have a couple of additions for your book. No, no, that’s fine. Go back to being dead. I’ll talk to one of the editors…

norm [nawrm]
–verb
to be laid off repeatedly at the first sign of economic trouble.

–noun
one who is laid off repeatedly at the first sign of economic trouble.

Normian [nawr-mee-uhn]
–adjective
of or pertaining to the plight of Norm and his kind, esp. those who are laid off repeatedly at the first sign of economic trouble.

In the last eight months of job searching and bellybutton gazing via blog, other friends and acquaintances have lost jobs. And a few have found them. The lost part always bothers me. The found part makes me happy and prompts a mental note to guilt the lucky bastard into paying the next time we’re out. These are all people who, from what I can tell, are in my league. They are about as skilled in their chosen fields as I am in mine. Ergo, their job loss tells me that mine isn’t all my fault, and their hiring tells me that mine will soon follow. The employment market may be filling up with competition, but at least it’s a fair fight.

Recently two of my good friends lost their jobs. One – a high-priced lawyer with Ivy League credentials – was laid off earlier this week. He’s been fruitlessly seeking a new position for months. Another – an upwardly mobile media/entertainment exec – lost his job a few months back. He’s now spending time with his kid and slurping mediocre coffee at the local Starbucks. I consider both to be excellent at what they do; wifey and a few others fall in this category too, but they all still have jobs ([fingers crossed] no whammies, no whammies!). Both are impressive. Both have done well for themselves to date. Both are extremely smart and infinitely employable. Both should have jobs, and don’t. Their companies were even willing to let them go. Are things really that bad?

Where does this leave me… marketing professional and unemployed unemployment blogger extraordinaire? Not only are the best and the brightest out of work. So too are the even better and even brighter. I’m not in direct competition with these two friends. Both are in different fields, and one lives in another city. But I am in competition with people like them. Companies are no longer cutting the fat. They’re now cutting the muscle and bone. Do I even stand a chance? Do I even bother trying? Should I just crawl into the corner, pull my knees to my chest, pine for Econ 101, make up more words and rock back and forth until the nice men in white jackets take me away?

I don't know which sport's fans they'll cater to. Maybe jai alai, or competitive cat herding?

The Great Recession is stopping me and millions of people from finding a job. We’ve all seen the unemployment numbers, and they aren’t good. But this doesn’t seem to be keeping entrepreneurial types from opening stores in Jackson Heights. Every time one closes – which seems to be often – another pops up within a couple months. New or soon-to-be new stores are everywhere. It just occurred to me, while munching on a foot-long BMT at Subway and staring out the window at the grandiosely named “La Casa Del Internet,” that opening my own store and putting myself in charge could be this blogger’s ticket out of unemployment. Everyone else around here is doing it. Why not me?

Wifey brings up the idea periodically, usually in a half-joking manner meant to downplay that she’s also half-serious. I only gave the idea much thought once, a few years ago, when I was gainfully employed but not terribly happy about it. At that time, Jackson Heights lacked a decent coffee shop or even a Starbucks. There were plenty of places to get good coffee; Colombian bakeries make a mean cup. But there was no place to meet friends, hang out, read a book, check email or get exiled from. The idea of opening a little cafe has a certain romantic quality. It also has a major downside, as I discovered in the Slate Magazine article entitled “Bitter Brew.” The author methodically tells his story of opening up a Manhattan cafe and how it destroyed his life. That was the end of that pipe dream and the last time I seriously considered opening a store.

Maybe dismissing the idea out of hand was a little rash. I’m a reasonably bright guy, sometimes. I have an MBA and some work experience. I’ve shopped in stores. And I like money. That practically makes me William H. Macy, Joe C. Penny or one of those other department store tycoon types. Besides, three of the more difficult questions – what to sell, where to sell it and what to name the store – have been essentially answered for me.

Jackson Heights only supports certain types of businesses – hair/eyebrow salons, sports bars/chicken restaurants, hoochie mama clothing stores and 99 cent emporiums. If I can incorporate some or all of these under one roof, I’ll be assured success. Gainful employment and early retirement… here I come. The rents on 37th Ave. – the nicer shopping street – are supposedly outrageous. People on the neighborhood message board openly speculate how stores with nary a customer continue to survive there year after year. I like having kneecaps, so I’ll keep my opinions to myself. High rents on 37th Ave. mean my store would have to be on Roosevelt Ave., under the subway tracks. Elevated trains rattling my fixtures every five minutes will just class up the shopping experience anyway. And that’s more money in my pocket. Given my products and location, the store name almost doesn’t matter. I just have to misspell on the sign, as per neighborhood custom.

There we have it… Norm’s Hair and Ibrow Salon Chickon Sport Bar 99 Cent Hoochie Mama Boutick Emporiam is born. I may need a double storefront to accomodate the sign; I’ll have to look into that. Everything will sell for 99 cents, or some multiple of that. Stay tuned to Jobless and Less for info on the grand opening. You won’t want to miss it.