You go ahead and drive. I'll just sit back here and try not to talk to anyone. (courtesy of http://www.clevelandleader.com)

Traveling long distance by bus is terrible. How terrible is it? You really want to know? Can I get a “how terrible is it, Norm?” It’s so terrible that it requires a second (and third) post to fully appreciate the heights, err, depths, err, breadth of… well, it’s really bad. And for those wondering, I haven’t run out of unemployment minutiae to jabber on about. We’re only up to post #159; I’ve not yet begun to whine. Besides, my last bus experience bruised my fragile psyche, and I simply must explore it further to avoid further damage and future therapy.

One day I’ll find a job and achieve my goal of never having to ride the bus. And on that day, I’ll happily raise my hand over my shoulder and extend my middle finger as I stroll south from the Port Authority to Penn Station. Please don’t misconstrue this as a personal affront, should you be happen to be within range, unless you’re one of those financial types who turned my retirement savings into a two-week vacation fund, then it applies to you too. But one part of the bus experience will be missed and can never be replaced. The people watching on the bus is some of the best around.

My last trip to Maryland started with an early-morning subway ride to Times Square and a long slog through the underground walkway and wave after wave of commuting humanity to the Port Authority. The line for the Washington, DC-bound Greyhound bus was long, much longer than it tends to be on a weekday morning. It blended with the Philadelphia line; who was in line and for where wasn’t clear. I found what appeared to be the end, dropped my duffel and took out a magazine. There are no assigned seats; everything is first come first served. It looked like the next bus might fill up without me. A woman parked her baby carriage right behind me. Her baby shrieked and cried, occasionally breaking to cough and sniffle. As we waited, the woman edged the carriage closer and bumped my heals. I stepped forward a little, but she did it again. I stepped forward again, and she did it again.

As we played our little game, another woman, dragging her beat-up luggage, approached a couple ahead of me in line. She asked a question, and received an answer. They turned away, and she continued to stand there. It was the old “blend and butt” trick played to perfection. I’ve seen it a thousand times, mostly at the bus station and in France, and when the line is long. The perpetrator associates herself with someone at about the line’s halfway point. Those further up in line will defend their position. But those further back generally don’t care enough to risk confrontation. The perp then makes conversation with someone in line or stands close enough to seem part of the group. As time passes, she becomes part of the line. People notice, but rarely say anything.

The line started to move, and the “Try to Get Norm Sick” game ended. The mother and baby weren’t even in line. So her likely next gambit – sitting next to me and aiming the crying, coughing baby directly at my open mouth – would not come to pass. I was the second to last person onto the bus. And I only made it because a woman and her teenage daughter, not willing to sit apart, got off. The line jumper would have taken my spot. And I would have seethed and waited for the next bus while she rolled down the New Jersey Turnpike.

I took my seat and cleaned my hands with hand sanitizer that I created as a conference promo item for my last employer. Andrew – our hefty and hearty driver – eased the bus through Hell’s Kitchen and into the Lincoln Tunnel. The old lady across the aisle pulled out a sleeve of Lorna Doones – the cookie of choice for grandmas everywhere (including mine) – and ate one. I spent the next 20 minutes plotting how to get one before giving up and falling asleep to The Clientele on my ipod. I woke up when the music stopped; my ipod randomly pauses for no reason. The old lady was pulling out her transistor radio and situating her foam headphones on her ears. I hit play and tried to sleep again. My neck and rear end were already too sore to even feign relaxing.

The bus pulled over at a rest stop just past the Maryland border. People spilled out and rushed inside, returning ten minutes later with coffee and fried chicken and smelling of cigarettes. The bus filled up again, but the couple who were sitting behind the old lady were missing. Through the window, I could see them smoking and relaxing on a bench about 20 feet away. Finally the driver went to talk to them. The conversation got a little animated. It probably went something like this…

Driver: Everybody’s waiting on you dimwits to finish smoking.

Couple: We’re more important than everyone else. Let them wait while we enjoy life’s finer pleasures (tobacco and turnpike rest stops, that is).

Driver: Ok then, we’re leaving without you. Good luck with the walking and the Cancer.

Couple: No wait, we’ll be right there.

Five minutes after the driver returned, so did the couple. The bus left, and the rest of the trip was uneventful.

My dream… to not ride the bus

Adventures in bus riding, part 2

Does this make anyone else think of McDonalds? (courtesy of www.highlands-ortho.com)

Looking for a job is sort of an all-or-nothing deal. Either you find one, or you don’t. I haven’t, for seven months. There’s some comfort to be had in knowing that the job market stinks. Companies continue to layoff employees, and those hiring receive millions of resumes, even for that freelance position scraping burnt gunk off of boiler room walls with a screwdriver. Knowing may be half the battle, but it doesn’t pay the bills. There’s also some satisfaction in getting the occasional callback or interview. Validation that I’m doing something right does give me the warm fuzzies. But it too doesn’t pay the bills.

Job boards are a giant waste of time (though I did find my last job through one). At best they give a decent sense of the current job market and skills needed for a particular type of job. At worst, they help companies gather our personal information and sell it off to marketers who then spam the crap out of us. And where would I be without those more-than-obvious, less-than-useful job search tip emails? Step #1… figure out the type of job you want; step #2… apply for those jobs. I only ever respond to listings for which I’m qualified. My resume is optimized for keywords that appear in these listings. My cover letter describes why I’m the ideal candidate for the job. In my oh so humble opinion, my inquiries kick some major ass. They’re practically lethal. If you come across one in a dark alley, keep your hands in plain sight and back away slowly. And call me as soon as you can, as we will have just discovered where they all go when I hit the send button.

Still I try and try and try, or at least I did. The countless hours slaving over my (and wifey’s) laptop have given me an on again/off again case of carpal tunnel syndrome, or as I call it, “Ouch, My F**king Hand, err, Syndrome” (OMFHeS). The pain is mostly along the back of my right hand and up into the knuckles. It also sneaks around the side beneath the pinkie and up along it on bad days. OMFHeS is brought on by repetitive motion – like scrolling with the mouse track pad through endless, useless job listings and clicking on possibly interesting listings that never turn out to be. Typing doesn’t help. Using a mouse is better, but my hand still aches. The pain disappears when I’m off the computer, but it’s never far from the surface.

A few months ago, I switched up my approach to the job search. Whereas I once devoted serious time to trolling the online listings, now I barely skim the automated searches that appear to my inbox. Sorry, CareerBuilder, none of those 17 Avon positions served up in my last email actually applied, but thanks anyway. My job search is all about networking lately. Starbucks’ second quarter numbers will probably show a spike; I’m keeping half of their NYC locations in business with my informational meetings. I have the third-degree burns on my tongue and the pictures taken of me from a neighboring Starbucks to prove it.

Lucky for me employed types are willing to chat these days. Maybe they want good job search karma, should they get bounced. Maybe they like free coffee, though many don’t even let me pay. Maybe they’re attracted to my winning resume and charming personality like metal to a magnet. Alright, so it’s probably the coffee and karma. But people have been really generous with their time. I’m getting way more informational meetings than I thought I would, and learning a ton of stuff. And I’m meeting many friendly and interesting individuals. Who knew it was just a matter of asking?

There’s one serious drawback. You guessed it… OMFHeS. Shaking hands is really painful, yet unavoidable when networking. It’s how one greets another when they meet. “Hello, my name is…” [shake, shake] “I’m a marketing professional with blah, blah, blah.” In a networking environment, refusing to shake someone’s hand is akin to kicking them in the shin and cursing their mother.  It’s just not the best way to start things off. Explaining that I have OMFHeS makes me look like a weirdo. And no one likes talking to a weirdo, except when drunk in Penn Station at 3:00 a.m., waiting for the train back to Long Island. They definitely don’t want to hire a weirdo and be forced to talk with them everyday, sober, for the foreseeable future.

OMFHeS is bearable in one-on-one meetings. There’s one handshake as a greeting and another as a farewell, with 30 minutes to an hour of interesting conversation in between. Networking events – already painful for other reasons – are the worst. The two requisite handshakes are only separated by a couple minutes of conversation. And everyone there is trying to seem strong and confident (read employable), so they squeeze and shake harder. It’s all about eye contact and a firm grip. After a little while, I have to consciously try not to grimace. As mentioned before, no one wants to work with a weirdo, or for that matter, a wuss.

I’m not a wuss. Let me repeat that, for anyone who nodded off around the 800-word mark and is rejoining us now. I’m not a wuss. These, of course, are the words uttered by someone who is a wuss when faced with their wussiness. But I’m not. I played tackle football. I’ve been beaned with an 80 mph fastball. I can do a lot of pushups and crunches. But OMFHeS really hurts sometimes. And it tends to zap my confidence at the moments I need it most – first impressions. Thanks for the additional obstacle in the job search, unemployment. Next time just send the polar bear, or maybe the black smoke, out of the jungle to get me.