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.

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.

This morning’s career fair was scheduled to start at 10:00. About that time I was sitting on a stalled downtown V train reading ads for law firms and lottery tickets and thinking John Roland and the Take 5 Little Bit of Luck guy might be related. They’re definitely both creepy. Traffic was light for morning rush hour, probably because I was on a local train. Others also wore business suits. I wondered if they had jobs or were heading to the same place I was. I felt like a kid in his Sunday best playing grownup, and failing.

The line of waiting job seekers extended all the way down the block, around the corner and up that block. Sales people worked the line plugging discount health insurance and thinly veiled pyramid schemes – predators preying on the injured, like “Animal Planet” in business attire. That’s the capitalist spirit! Jobs must really be hard to come by these days. You’d think there was some kind of economic crisis going on… silly rabbits. The line moved quickly.

My expectations were low from the outset. I go to these things during every job search (typing that makes me cringe) and never have anything resembling success. After the last career fair, I swore them off for good. But there I was, two years later and another layoff under my belt. Fresh copies of my resume – printed on good paper – were in my bag. Maybe this time would be different.

The cast of companies and the types of jobs are always about the same. This event’s lineup included life insurance and makeup companies, along with some education companies and, of course, the military. It just wouldn’t be a career fair party extravaganza without the military. The jobs are usually sales-related, and that was especially true this time around. Companies seem to come to fill positions they can’t fill in other ways. Why again would I want a job that no one wants? Oh right, a paycheck. Got it.

Companies were arranged in two rows, each at a foldout table with a generic sign hanging from a curtain backdrop. The scene resembled a really scaled-back conference that no one wanted to attend. The major difference (aside from the distinct lack of free pens and squishy balls) was that the hard-sell sales pitch went the other direction. My job, when I reached the front of each insanely long line of job seekers, was to sell myself. Their job was to listen, give me some corporate info and move me along.

The first company seemed the most promising. Their openings are all over the job boards, and their business has to be booming right about now. And they’re not McDonald’s. I introduced myself to the rep and gave my spiel (marketing professional, MBA, market research and packaging experience, blah blah blah). She asked what blah blah blah meant and passed me along to a colleague who could give more insight into relevant openings. I waited patiently to talk to him. An odd older woman who was neither affiliated with the company nor in search of work started asking me random questions. When she wandered off, I exchanged WTF glances with the person next to me. The second rep was more knowledgeable than the first; the jobs were in his department. He made it clear, in an informed but pleasant way, that I really wasn’t qualified for the two marketing openings. He encouraged me to convince him otherwise via email. He was right, I’m probably not qualified. But I may try anyway. It’s only time.

The second interesting organization – someplace I actually temped once – turned out to be not at all interesting. And the line was so long and slow-moving that a few people in it asked me to kill them, begged me even. One woman actually grabbed my leg and wouldn’t let go. It was kind of embarrassing. I declined all death requests, of course, claiming that I couldn’t risk damaging my suit. I needed it for future interviews. Interview… me… that’s rich. Luckily the career fair pamphlet actually listed the jobs this company had available. There was nothing in my field. There wasn’t even anything that began with the same first letter as marketing, at least nothing that didn’t end in “aintenance.” I skipped their table altogether.

The third company on my list was only interesting because I have a good friend who works there. He’s way too senior to be manning a table at a job fair, never mind that he lives in another state. But at the time it seemed possible he could be there. He wasn’t, of course. I left.

An overcast morning had turned into a beautiful Spring day. I put on my iPod and strolled to the subway. Fare card swiped, I descended the steps only to see the sign for Brooklyn-bound trains. This was the wrong direction. Catching the Queens-bound train required leaving the station and entering on the other side. When I did, the turnstyle wouldn’t let me through. It was too soon to swipe an unlimited fare card again. I leaned against a pillar and waited. I wasn’t going anywhere.

If I had to name one entity that would not layoff employees, I would go with NPR. For all of you who live under rocks, they’re a left-leaning news organization that syndicates content to public radio stations all over the country. I get much of my news from their New York affiliate, WNYC. Anyway, here’s why this surprises me…

1. NPR has (had?) tons of money, including $5 from me every month (thank you very much). And a few years ago they received a large donation from some widow whose husband created some restaurant. I’d never heard of it personally.
2. NPR is run by bleeding-heart liberals, which means, theoretically, that they like their employees and want to do right by them. This could even mean incurring a little short-term debt so as not to leave people jobless (or at least, very worried) at Christmas.
3. They’re a non-profit, so they’re not beholden to shareholders on a quarterly basis. They probably have a board, but boards tend to be more lax and let things float longer.

The article goes into more depth. And frankly, from a business standpoint, the layoffs sound like the right move. It’s still disturbing. Happy reading…

Hit by Recession, NPR to Lay Off Seven Percent of Staff