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.

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.

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.

I should have just been a fruit guy, the guy that sells fruit during business hours on many Manhattan street corners. Life would’ve been so much easier. And the career choice would’ve saved me years of going to school, looking for work and toiling away for companies that eventually downsize me out of a job. Not to mention hundreds of thousands of dollars in tuition, expenses and lost wages.

The other day I had a routine doctor’s appointment in midtown Manhattan. The plan was to workout at a branch of my gym nearby (a nice change of scenery), grab an overpriced sandwich somewhere and have my checkup. On the corner of 54th St. and Madison Ave. – a block from the subway and a block from the gym – I passed a fruit guy. He wasn’t just any fruit guy. He was the same fruit guy (on the same corner) who’s stand I frequented when I first moved to New York almost ten years ago and have seen periodically ever since. That’s what I call job security.

One of my first jobs here was at an internet start-up in Brooklyn, which (you guessed it) ended with a layoff. The commute from my apartment in Astoria, Queens was a trek, broken in half many mornings with a workout in midtown. For those of you following along on your handy MTA subway maps, that’s the N train from Ditmars Blvd. to 5th Ave. and then – after lifting – the F train from 53rd St. and Madison to York St. in Brooklyn (the F used to run along the V line and continue past the 2nd Ave. stop). After every workout the fruit guy sold me melon, sometimes grapes or an apple. He always seemed to have customers and be in a good mood. We weren’t BFFs or anything, but he always remembered what what I wanted, asked after my job or my family. He called me “boss,” as in “how’s it going, boss?”

A few temp gigs followed the internet start-up job. I still frequented the same gym, and sometimes grabbed an apple as a post-workout snack. My next full-time job, at a big Midtown company, put me very close to my gym. By then I was also in grad school and logging very long days. My travels didn’t take me by the fruit guy’s stand. I laid awake nights worrying what he’d do without my thrice-weekly $.50 purchases. It turns out he managed just fine.

In early 2004, I moved from Astoria to Jackson Heights, also in Queens. My new commute again took me by the fruit guy’s stand, allaying my fears. But having discovered the glory of the fruit smoothie as a breakfast option and that I could create said glory in my own kitchen, I no longer needed to make a purchase. Sometimes I even avoided that street corner – crossing Madison before I got there – because he still recognized me. There he stayed, day in and day out, month after month.

After my second layoff in early 2006, I quickly found employment outside of Manhattan. So Midtown – and thus the fruit guy – was never on my itinerary. That company laid me off in early 2007, bringing me back into the city and opening up my schedule. The fruit guy was in his usual spot for most every weekday gym visit. Occasionally I bought something, but he’d forgotten me by this point. My next full-time employer hired me in late 2007, putting me closer to a better branch of my gym.

I didn’t see the fruit guy again until yesterday, in the same spot he was ten years previous. He’d grown older – from what I could tell walking by – maybe reaching 40. His stand seemed to carry the same stuff, seasonality aside, of course. And he was still employed, in the same job, in the same location and apparently earning enough to make it worth his while. Or he’s independently wealthy and sells fruit because he loves the social aspects of Midtown sidewalks during business hours.

Assuming he has to make a living like the rest of us, his choice seems to have worked out. He works for himself, makes a livable wage and can eat all the fruit he wants. He even gets to spend beautiful days outside. And his business is pretty recession-proof; people need to eat and fruit is a necessity, not a luxury. On the downside, the hours are long and bathroom breaks seem to pose a logistical problem. Traffic exhaust isn’t the most pleasant thing to inhale all day. And if he doesn’t work, he doesn’t get paid.

One thing’s for sure though, the fruit guy wins when it comes to job security. And ten years of job security is looking pretty attractive to me right now.

Seeing Clint Eastwood in action yesterday got me to thinking. Maybe I need a job that harnesses my significant intimidation skills. I haven’t seen any openings for superheroes at the Hall of Justice. Besides, my “Unemployment Man” character needs a superpower beyond surfing the internet really fast and coming up with synonyms on the fly. (I’m open to suggestions…) I’d work at the Legion of Doom, if it weren’t so far from the train. I’m already more qualified than some of the villains they have on staff anyway. I mean, come on, Cheetah, with her cat-like reflexes? My cats fall off of things everyday. And Scarecrow, with his fear gas? I eat a lot of Mexican food, so you can only imagine the fear my gas instills.

Fighting (or committing) crime is probably too taxing anyway. I’d rather just be an everyday kind of guy, but with a mean streak, and license to use it. Then someone forwarded this to me…

Henchmen/Henchwoman Needed 6 Month Contract

It’s perfect, and I’m qualified. After all, I live in gritty Queens, near above-ground tracks where all kinds of strange people hang out. I push old ladies and take their seats on the subway everyday. (They usually have it coming.) My technique for getting people to move out of my way – stepping on their heals and swooping by while they turn around – is unmatched. After four layoffs, I have an attitude problem and an axe to grind. And I look positively sinister with my head shaved. Oh yeah, and I have two little brothers, which means years of practice in the art of small torture.

This job is so mine.

Unemployed and all alone. And there are wolves after me.

Money issues aside, it’s pretty easy to forget about unemployment over the holidays. There’s just so much to do. And everybody who would otherwise be working is around and, barring family commitments, willing to hang out. This year, with Christmas and New Years on Thursdays, the calendar lined up nicely. Even those who didn’t get off the last week of December had two four-day weekends in a row and possibly a couple more half days. I started to forget that my wife even had a job, other than playing Prince of Persia, that is. We got to sleep late and hang out. To quote Office Space, “I did absolutely nothing, and it was everything that I thought it could be.”

But the holidays are over, and the distractions are gone. Everyone is back to work, and here I am – at home, alone and still unemployed. The cats keep me company; they’re sort of like people – little furry people who barf a lot. I can hear the neighbors clomping around through the walls. And the occasional comment or funny link comes through on IM. But really, it’s just me here.

Putting it this way sounds so depressing, so hopeless, so pathetic – like I’m the only unemployed person on the face of the planet. This, of course, is not true; that’s what I keep telling myself. The government maintains that 6.7% of working-age adults are jobless. The percentage is probably closer to 10-11% when factoring in those who’ve stopped looking for work. And the jobless masses will likely keep growing. I encounter or hear about unemployed acquaintances all the time. Some of the people I see on the street are unemployed too. Maybe the person sitting right next to you this very moment… unless you’re reading this at work, in which case, nevermind.

The jobless are everywhere. And they’ve all got at least one problem. So things could be way worse.

Sometimes I just get to feeling sorry for myself. Us unemployed types are prone to that. It’s perfectly normal, even healthy, to wallow a little, if I keep my perspective. I got a bad break or four. But at some point feeling sorry ceases to be indulgent and just becomes counterproductive. I have to suck it up, rub some dirt on it and be a man.

I frequently go through some variation of this cycle – feeling sorry, wallowing and bucking up. It’s common enough that I recognize it happening, and know how to push through. This latest bout was mild and probably spurred by the rain and post-holiday letdown. Surfacing wasn’t hard. I just rationalized my way out of it. More severe bouts can require some effort (and junkfood) to break. Whatever works…

Looking back or looking down is much easier than looking forward. But it won’t get me anywhere. That’s also what I keep telling myself.

Businesses continue to fail in Jackson Heights. It’s sad to watch. Every walk down Roosevelt or 37th Ave. reveals a recently vacated store. Some I’m happy to see go – like all the cell phone places or the shop at my corner selling cheap umbrellas, NYC t-shirts and an assortment of useless junk. My wife and I get way more enjoyment out of speculating what businesses could fill the voids in a perfect world (New York Sports Club, Barnes & Noble, are you out there?) than we ever did out of the now-closed stores. But there are no new stores coming in, just padlocked security gates and “For Rent” signs. I’d rather have the crappy stores back.

The KB Toys on 82nd St. is in the process of closing. There’s something extra sad about a toy store going out of business. It’s downright depressing when that toy store goes out of business right after Christmas, the biggest shopping season of the year. And it’s almost suicide-inducing when you have to watch its demise – from Christmas through New Years – from your bedroom window while looking for a job yourself.

Were sales so bad that even the holidays couldn’t keep the store afloat? In a neighborhood swarming with kids, did that few parents buy presents? Did the owners just delay the inevitable long enough to make what money they could? As it turns out, the company is bankrupt and shuttering all 460 of its stores. I’ve been watching the sale signs get more and more desperate day by day. Now they’re up to “everything must go.” Before too long they’ll start selling the furniture and fixtures.

One day soon it will just be a KB Toys sign and an empty store. And that’s how it will stay, for a very long time, or at least until a mega hair/nail/eyebrow salon takes over. The toy store’s employees will venture into unemployment or, if they’re lucky, other employment. I’ll be in my apartment searching the internet for a job. And when I look out the window, I’ll see that depressing reminder of my neighborhood’s struggling economy. I’m not looking for work near where I live (yet), but it doesn’t make me excited about my prospects.

I tend to be all business at the gym and, for that reason, not terribly social. Still there are two people that I’ve become friendly with. The first – an older and recently retired gentleman – I met when he shared just how amazed he was that someone else at our gym read The New Yorker. The second is a pudgy Asian guy who is about my age and also unemployed. I don’t remember how we met.

I see the unemployed guy a few times a week. He always asks after my job search and laments the state of his. (He’s an engineer who’s been unemployed for about seven months.) We might then discuss when the job market will pick up again (mid to late 2009, if we’re lucky) or what other types of jobs I could pursue (sales or something trademark-related). He’s dead set on working as an engineer, so I suggest companies and geographical areas where he might have more luck.

Today we happened to be on adjacent elliptical machines. After breezing through the usual topics and then discussing why the government is better than the private sector (mainly job security), we got onto the topic of Unemployment Insurance. He had recently reached the 26-week point and noticed the balance in the history section of his account was $0. But he’s still receiving payouts.

As I understand the system to work, the original term for which the jobless could expect payouts was 26 weeks. It was extended by 13 weeks and then, on November 20, by another seven weeks. So what that means to me is that he (and I) can make claims and receive payouts for 46 weeks. After that, barring another extension, both of us would be out of luck.

His understanding is a little different than mine. As he explained it, the extensions don’t mean an unemployed person receives more money. They allow for that person to collect the same amount of money over a longer period of time (46 weeks as opposed to 26 weeks). For example, an unemployed person who collects the maximum in New York ($405/week) will collect a total of $10,530 after 26 weeks. The extensions allow that person to spread that amount over a time period up to 46 weeks. He also believes that any money collected beyond the 26 weeks puts your account into the negative. So once you’re employed, you have to repay this.

I think he’s wrong, and here’s why. First of all, the system as he understands it could potentially leave the unemployed worse off. If I were to voluntarily take less money each week to extend the term of the payouts and then find a job before maxing out my benefits, I’d end up with less money. It would make more sense to take the maximum payouts each week and bank whatever I don’t use for when the benefits run out (not that there’s ever extra money). There’s one line of reasoning that makes a tiny bit of sense. People tend to spend what they have, so reducing the benefit and extending the term would help them manage their budget so they’d have money for longer. But that can’t possibly be enough reason to set up Unemployment Insurance this way. His assertion that an unemployed person’s account goes into the negative after 26 weeks is also faulty. Unemployment is funded by a tax on employers not employees.

Still the possibility scared me enough to look into it further. I found nothing to substantiate his understanding of how the unemployment extensions will work. It simply seems that New York state hasn’t updated the wording on the site (except to add a separate page about the extensions) or adjusted its online system. My account still shows that unemployment lasts for 26 weeks too. Maybe the extensions require a claimant to file again. That’s a question I’ll have to ask.

For your reading pleasure, here’s the wording about the extensions on the NYS Department of Labor site…

“On November 20, 2008, Congress passed legislation to extend the Emergency Unemployment Compensation (EUC) allowing an additional seven (7) weeks of benefits, for a total of 20 weeks of EUC. This 7-week extension is referred to as Extended EUC, and is based on New York State’s unemployment rate. The first week of benefits that can be paid under this 7-week extension is the week ending November 30, 2008. Unemployed individuals may claim benefits for this week from Sunday, November 30, 2008 through Saturday, December 6, 2008 by using this website or by calling our toll-free Tel-Service number at 1-888-581-5812 (New York State residents), 1-888-864-9920 (out of state residents), or 1-877-205-3119 (TTY/TDD equipment users).”

“Under current legislation, new claims for Emergency Unemployment Compensation (EUC) can be initiated through the week ending March 29, 2009. No EUC can be paid for any week that begins after August 30, 2009. The weekly benefit amount paid for EUC is the same amount the individual received for regular unemployment benefits.”

I did discover one thing that concerns me. My 46 weeks would extend past the August 30 cutoff date. I could theoretically lose a few weeks of unemployment. It may end up a moot point if the job market worsens and Obama extends benefits. I’ll still be calling the Department of Labor bright and early on Monday to find out just what the deal is.

Last week a letter arrived from the NY Department of Labor. Despite my advice to open anything from them immediately, that letter sat in a pile of unopened mail until Sunday night, when I finally got around to it. Really, my hand was starting to cramp up from playing Pathwords, and I was feeling a little guilty for slacking on my job search over Thanksgiving. Lucky for me I opened it when I did.

The NY Department of Labor was requesting (read “requiring”) that I attend career training. Failure to do so would lead to a loss of unemployment benefits. Though not an idle threat – they docked a friend of mine once – I had never before been summoned. So this morning at 9:00 a.m. I found myself in a desk, in a classroom, in a nondescript office building, in Flushing, Queens.

Let’s wind this back a little, so you can get the full effect. Because all you people who have jobs kind of wish you didn’t sometimes (don’t lie to me, I’ve been there too).

I was the only person on the platform for the outbound 7 train at around 8:30. The inbound platform filled up with commuters. It was kind of weird and depressing to be heading the other direction; the metaphor wasn’t lost on me either.

Downtown Flushing is like downtown Seoul, possibly with more hustle and bustle. But the block where the Department of Labor lives was empty of pedestrians. A few loading dock workers lingered about, and 50 or so people had lined up at the entrance. I flashed to those pictures of breadlines during The Great Depression, obviously an overreaction. But it turned out the Social Security Administration is right next door and everyone was going there.

Inside the Department of Labor office looks like government offices often do – fluorescent lights, drop ceilings, sterile floors, metal and plastic furniture. People waited in rows of chairs for their turn at the counter. Guards sat at foldout tables watching over things. Beyond the counter, cubicles abounded.

I was directed down the hall to room 2, where I filled out a simple form asking my employment preferences. I gave that to the service rep along with my resume and the longer form mailed to me previously and waited for the festivities to start.

As I sat there, slides in a loop projected job search tips on the front wall. The classroom filled up with other unemployed people. There was a wide range of ethnicities, this being New York City (and Queens, in particular). Ages seemed to range from recent high school graduate to senior citizen, class from working to middle. Some were on edge, like the single mother of three next to me recently laid off from a bank. Some were bored, like the young woman in the corner who slept through it all. On the whole, everyone seemed pretty average, pretty normal.

At 9:15, a service rep who looked like a humorless and younger Mel Brooks handed out a packet of job search materials. Pages in the packet – blurry, misaligned and stapled in the wrong corner – outlined the following:

• Job search websites
• Basic skills workshops (resume writing, intro to computers, how to look for a job)
• NYJobZone.org (career management website)
• Tips for re-entering the workforce
• Workforce 1 career center locations (a city government initiative, I suspect)

Then Mel turned off the lights and reviewed the materials using another Powerpoint projected on the front wall. He recommended that we visit NYCareerZone.com and pick up a copy of What Color Is Your Parachute? He also harped on WinWay Resume Deluxe as better than Word for creating a resume (really?… really?). The internet connection was really slow, which made the presentation drag. And the other service rep conducted individual conversations in his regular talking voice, making it difficult to hear.

By 9:50 – 35 minutes later – I was on my way back to the train, having preserved my unemployment benefits but learned nothing. The info was probably useful to some people there. And a young, black, female war veteran spoke highly of indeed.com and simplyhired.com, which I will give another chance at some point. Either one of those could lead to something, I suppose. And I did learn that NY’s Unemployment Office has 130 people to handle up to 160,000 calls per week (no wonder no one can get through).

The problem is that the seminar has to teach to the inexperienced on a basic level. And I just have too much experience looking for work – for better or worse. I don’t mean to suggest that I’m good at it; given my track record for layoffs, I should be better. I just do it a lot. I’d much rather just be working.

Unemployment can be a blow to the ego. It can undermine your confidence and make you question things you never before thought to. It sucks on many levels. But don’t feel sorry for yourself. Things could be a lot worse.

This morning I was walking down Queens Blvd. to the gym when the man in front of me had a seizure. He staggered and convulsed as his body tensed up. Unable to keep balance, he pitched sideways, leaving his Crocs on the pavement and slamming his head into the hood of a parked car. His body came to rest splayed over the curb with his head against the front tire.

I asked if he was okay, if he needed help, but got no response. I waved my hand across his face but got no reaction. He didn’t move or communicate in any way. His eyes were blank. Snot spilled out of his nose, spit out of his mouth. Then his body tensed up again, and he went into another seizure. His back arched as his arms reached out to nothing in particular. His hands instinctively balled into fists, but some fingers stuck out in odd directions like spokes of a broken umbrella.

I called 911, gave them the location and explained the situation. Then I waited for an ambulance to arrive. In that time – maybe ten minutes – I watched the man from a few feet away. He was wearing dirty sweatpants and a mismatched sweater with the sleeves rolled up. His hair was gray, and his body frail-seeming. Scabs dotted his arms. A fresh plastic bag holding his stuff read New York Presbyterian Hospital.

Many people looked over in curiosity or out of concern before going about their business. Some didn’t seem to notice at all. Two people stopped and waited with me. The man didn’t move.

The paramedics rolled him onto a board and strapped him to it. With a three-count they lifted him onto a gurney and strapped him to that as well. One held the man’s hand as he had another seizure. Then they put his bag and shoes on the gurney with him and loaded it into the ambulance.