By the time mid-February rolled around, I had already become pretty dismayed by the job search process. Every report that I read or caught on the news claimed that the class of 2002 faced the worst job market that any group of college graduates had faced in 12 years. No one was calling me back about jobs, when I called to follow up on my resume I was often informed that the position had already been filled.
In the midst of this all, my ever-supportive parents were completely renovating the first floor of my childhood home. They had converted the basement into a saw dust covered bunker where they cooked meals on a $9.99 hot plate, a George Foreman grill and in a microwave so old it guaranteed that all the food was contaminated with carcinogens. This was a pretty bleak environment to live in. Workmen occupied the house all day and I took refuge in the den where I more than made up for many years of not watching television and continually raised the high score (eventually to somewhere around 160,000 points) on our family Gameboy version of Tetris.
I needed a break from this all, and friends who attended relatively nearby colleges were more than happy to play weekend host. One weekend, I stormed through the Tundra-like flatland of Wisconsin to visit my friend, and former co-summer camp counselor, Meg, at St. Norbert’s College in DePere (pronounced Da Pier). Why I would opt to go further north in the dead of winter is a bit beyond me.
The following weekend I headed out to Iowa City, Iowa to visit a high school friend, Carrie. As I drove into town I was immediately struck by the number of blonde people that were around me. I felt like my dark brown hair made me stand out. However, I was pleased to find that Iowa City is a surprisingly cool little town with some chill record stores, some decent rock shows, and as any Big Ten town has ample booze and obsession with college sports.
In some ways, going to college in New York (or probably any big city) denies you the opportunity to experience the conventional concept of college. Although, in Iowa City I did witness a pretty large “dykes only” game of spin-the-bottle, which probably isn’t the standard, or at least not traditional, sense of a Big Ten college town. In addition to that viewing experience, I was introduced to the offensively compelling world of “Elimidate” and I learned how to play racquetball. I was so enthusiastic about the game (racquetball, not Elimidate) that I walked around for a week proclaiming that my new life’s ambition was to become a professional racquetball player.
Saturday afternoon,, Carrie and I had reserved a court in order to do battle once again and my new favorite sport. As I was getting ready in the bathroom, I heard my cell phone ring, but I missed the call. A bit later, I picked up the phone and checked to see if the caller had left a message.
To my surprise, and soon to be chagrin, I found that not only did the caller leave a message, but that there were about 7 other messages on my voicemail dating back as far as two weeks. The one that was two weeks old was a non-profit organization in Washington, D.C. saying that they would like to set up an interview with me.
For weeks I had been moping around that no one wanted to hire me and it turned out that someone did, but I had messed up, big time. I eventually figured out that I had somehow deactivated the function that notified me when I had messages on my phone. I was frantic. I called the organization back (on Saturday afternoon, of course, no one was there) and left a frazzled message saying that I was currently out of town, but I had just received the message and I was very interested in the job.
I obsessed over the whole thing the rest of my time in Iowa City. And I waited and hoped that the organization would call me back. I hadn’t heard anything by Thursday afternoon, so I called them. I apologized profusely and explained my technical inadequacies. The guy on the other end, Rhett, relayed that they hadn’t yet filled the position, but were in the second round of interviews. He said that I had been one of the strongest candidates on paper and they would still be willing to meet with me, the only problem he foresaw was that I was in Chicago and they were in D.C.
I inquired, “when would you like to interview me?” He responded “Monday afternoon.” I replied, “that shouldn’t be a problem. Can I call you back to confirm in about an hour?” He said yes. The first thing I did when I hung up the phone was instant message my friend Chad who lived just outside of D.C. in Maryland. I asked him if I could crash on his couch for two nights. He agreed, then I ran over to AAA and got maps of the drive from Chicago to D.C. Finally, I called my parents and told them that I planned to drive out to D.C. that weekend. On Saturday morning I climbed into my car and was off.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Giving In
I hate cell phones. Hate is not a word that I use lightly, but there is nothing I find more annoying than sitting in a lecture hall or a movie theater and hearing the familiar cackling screech of technology beckoning its owner to be readily available at all hours as I attempt to better understand Jurgen Habermas’s theories or enjoy a three dollar movie. There is nothing more rude than being stuck in close quarters, like one elevator that I had the displeasure of riding in, and listening to some hysterical 20 year old woman yelling into her cell phone at her boyfriend. Or possibly my worst experience with a cell phone was being seated next to a woman on the bus while she divulged her sexual exploits, in detail, to someone on the other end of the line.
I’ve proselytized about the evil of cell phones to my cadre of friends with little success. Most of them remind me that there are, of course, many advantages to having one: long distance calls are cheap, they make driving or late night walks home safer, they can be incredibly convenient.
During the end of January I gave in and bought a cell phone for, at least in some self-absorbed way I like to think, all the good reasons. I chose a compact, durable model that the salesman told me was made of the same plastic used in NFL players’ helmets and was popular with older folks who had trouble reading small numbers. I was psyched to have chosen the cheapest and least hip model. If I was going to give in to the cult of people who could be accessed at any given moment of any given day, I wanted to do it in the least narcissistic way possible.
Five months later, I try my best to remember all of the things I don’t like about cell phones. It’s my only phone so it works great for many a long distance call and when I’ve driving long distances, it’s certainly been functional.
But, however many ways I try and defend the decision, I know a little piece of my rebellious, idealized youthfulness died the day I entered the Sprint PCS store in Deerfield, Illinois and emerged with a Kyocera phone…a little piece of innocence I can never truly regain.
I’ve proselytized about the evil of cell phones to my cadre of friends with little success. Most of them remind me that there are, of course, many advantages to having one: long distance calls are cheap, they make driving or late night walks home safer, they can be incredibly convenient.
During the end of January I gave in and bought a cell phone for, at least in some self-absorbed way I like to think, all the good reasons. I chose a compact, durable model that the salesman told me was made of the same plastic used in NFL players’ helmets and was popular with older folks who had trouble reading small numbers. I was psyched to have chosen the cheapest and least hip model. If I was going to give in to the cult of people who could be accessed at any given moment of any given day, I wanted to do it in the least narcissistic way possible.
Five months later, I try my best to remember all of the things I don’t like about cell phones. It’s my only phone so it works great for many a long distance call and when I’ve driving long distances, it’s certainly been functional.
But, however many ways I try and defend the decision, I know a little piece of my rebellious, idealized youthfulness died the day I entered the Sprint PCS store in Deerfield, Illinois and emerged with a Kyocera phone…a little piece of innocence I can never truly regain.
Sunday, January 7, 2007
So Young, So Capable, So Unemployed
After three and half years at college, I found myself back where I had started: in my parents’ house.
When I had originally crafted the grand plan to graduate a semester early, my intention was to squander my life savings on an epic road trip that would lead me to new destinations (namely, the Southeast) and through some of my favorite parts of the country (namely, the West) for approximately 4 months before returning to New York City to placate my mother by participating in the ritual of graduation.
But, I soon recognized, after a pretty significant hike/heart-to-heart conversation with my father, that there was no way that the type-A personality that I had cultivated for 21 years, only to briefly attempt to destroy in my junior year of college, thus leading to its revival and application into realms like freelance writing and zinemaking, was not going to handle unabashed freedom and inconsistent schedules well. Maybe my dad put it best as we hiked (and eventually got a bit lost ) on a trail in Scottsdale, Arizona, “I just see you getting really bored after a couple of weeks of traveling.”
The statement really struck me because, well, he was right. Thus, when I returned from my last “winter vacation” with my parents, I began the process of looking for a job.
The problem with having well-defined political and social beliefs as well as with being fiercely, bordering on snobbishly, academic is that most jobs sound exceedingly boring. (That whole line should be read with an affected British accent) And even when a job does sound interesting, there is the barrier of the Human Resources officers who can’t see beyond the fact that my degree is not in something professionally applicable like “business” or “accounting” or, at least, “economics.” Having earned my degree in biological anthropology proved to be restrictive. Eventually, I reduced my major to solely anthropology, mainly due to the fact that 99% of the populous has no idea what anthropology, let alone biological anthropology actually is.
The other problem with my job search is that I had the Lloyd Dobbler syndrome. Lloyd Dobbler, the protagonist in Cameron Crowe’s 1989 movie Say Anything was eating dinner with his over-achieving, Valedictorian girlfriend’s father when dear old dad asked what he planned to do with himself after graduation. To paraphrase, Lloyd (played by the utterly awesome Evanston, Illinois native John Cusack) replied “I don’t want to buy anything sold or processed, sell anything bought or processed; or process anything bought or sold.”
I pretty much felt the same way when it came to describing the type of job I desired. Of course, this job description proves pretty limiting in a capitalist economy. From what I could discern, I was left with non-profit organizations and government work. And to make things just a wee bit harder on myself, I knew that I didn’t want to work in Chicago or New York, the only two cities where I had ever lived and where I had the most “connections.”
During the course of my junior and senior year of college, I had compiled a list of potential cities to move to: Madison, WI; Seattle, WA; Portland, OR; Omaha, NE; Minneapolis, MN; Boise, ID…and during my last semester of school I had even, rather seriously, considered moving to Santa Monica, CA with a cool boy who I had befriended (he later opted to move to Hawaii.) Nowhere, never, did I consider Washington, D.C…
When I had originally crafted the grand plan to graduate a semester early, my intention was to squander my life savings on an epic road trip that would lead me to new destinations (namely, the Southeast) and through some of my favorite parts of the country (namely, the West) for approximately 4 months before returning to New York City to placate my mother by participating in the ritual of graduation.
But, I soon recognized, after a pretty significant hike/heart-to-heart conversation with my father, that there was no way that the type-A personality that I had cultivated for 21 years, only to briefly attempt to destroy in my junior year of college, thus leading to its revival and application into realms like freelance writing and zinemaking, was not going to handle unabashed freedom and inconsistent schedules well. Maybe my dad put it best as we hiked (and eventually got a bit lost ) on a trail in Scottsdale, Arizona, “I just see you getting really bored after a couple of weeks of traveling.”
The statement really struck me because, well, he was right. Thus, when I returned from my last “winter vacation” with my parents, I began the process of looking for a job.
The problem with having well-defined political and social beliefs as well as with being fiercely, bordering on snobbishly, academic is that most jobs sound exceedingly boring. (That whole line should be read with an affected British accent) And even when a job does sound interesting, there is the barrier of the Human Resources officers who can’t see beyond the fact that my degree is not in something professionally applicable like “business” or “accounting” or, at least, “economics.” Having earned my degree in biological anthropology proved to be restrictive. Eventually, I reduced my major to solely anthropology, mainly due to the fact that 99% of the populous has no idea what anthropology, let alone biological anthropology actually is.
The other problem with my job search is that I had the Lloyd Dobbler syndrome. Lloyd Dobbler, the protagonist in Cameron Crowe’s 1989 movie Say Anything was eating dinner with his over-achieving, Valedictorian girlfriend’s father when dear old dad asked what he planned to do with himself after graduation. To paraphrase, Lloyd (played by the utterly awesome Evanston, Illinois native John Cusack) replied “I don’t want to buy anything sold or processed, sell anything bought or processed; or process anything bought or sold.”
I pretty much felt the same way when it came to describing the type of job I desired. Of course, this job description proves pretty limiting in a capitalist economy. From what I could discern, I was left with non-profit organizations and government work. And to make things just a wee bit harder on myself, I knew that I didn’t want to work in Chicago or New York, the only two cities where I had ever lived and where I had the most “connections.”
During the course of my junior and senior year of college, I had compiled a list of potential cities to move to: Madison, WI; Seattle, WA; Portland, OR; Omaha, NE; Minneapolis, MN; Boise, ID…and during my last semester of school I had even, rather seriously, considered moving to Santa Monica, CA with a cool boy who I had befriended (he later opted to move to Hawaii.) Nowhere, never, did I consider Washington, D.C…
Friday, January 5, 2007
The Requisite Letter to the Reader
Dearest Reader,
“Home is where the heart is, that’s what they always say. Then my heart lies in broken pieces scattered along the way”-Steve Earle
I’ve always thought that there was some great wisdom in those lyrics from country troubadour, Steve Earle. I haven’t traveled the world extensively, but I’ve tried my best to explore the U.S., even many of the parts that the left and right coasters have ignored. And I feel like there are little pieces of me in Green River, Wyoming and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, in London and Costa Rica, and of course in Glencoe, Illinois, New York, NY, and now maybe in Washington, D.C.
Issue 2 of Anecdotal Evidence takes on a far shorter, and more recent period of time than its predecessor did. It was also written while I was employed (and working ungodly hours, to boot) I’m not sure that it’s as good or as funny or outrageous as the first, but it’s the truth as I have experienced it, with a little hyperbole thrown in for good measure.
After college I went home to my parents. I didn’t follow through on my plan of traveling the country in my car. But, what I did do was something that scared the crap out of me. I moved to a new city which I had only visited as a tourist twice before and where I only knew 2 people. And I started a semi-adult life for myself.
So, this is for anyone who has ever done something that scared the crap out of them. And for anyone who hasn’t yet, I suggest that you do.
A.K. Gold
July 2002
“Home is where the heart is, that’s what they always say. Then my heart lies in broken pieces scattered along the way”-Steve Earle
I’ve always thought that there was some great wisdom in those lyrics from country troubadour, Steve Earle. I haven’t traveled the world extensively, but I’ve tried my best to explore the U.S., even many of the parts that the left and right coasters have ignored. And I feel like there are little pieces of me in Green River, Wyoming and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, in London and Costa Rica, and of course in Glencoe, Illinois, New York, NY, and now maybe in Washington, D.C.
Issue 2 of Anecdotal Evidence takes on a far shorter, and more recent period of time than its predecessor did. It was also written while I was employed (and working ungodly hours, to boot) I’m not sure that it’s as good or as funny or outrageous as the first, but it’s the truth as I have experienced it, with a little hyperbole thrown in for good measure.
After college I went home to my parents. I didn’t follow through on my plan of traveling the country in my car. But, what I did do was something that scared the crap out of me. I moved to a new city which I had only visited as a tourist twice before and where I only knew 2 people. And I started a semi-adult life for myself.
So, this is for anyone who has ever done something that scared the crap out of them. And for anyone who hasn’t yet, I suggest that you do.
A.K. Gold
July 2002
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
Fin
It all ended very regularly. I took my last exams, packed up all my stuff, and went to the airport where check-in for my flight home took an hour and a half.
Then, the woman working security thought a jar of coins that I was carrying in my backpack looked suspicious. I was detained for nearly 10 minutes as she examined the jar’s contents to make sure that there were no weapons hidden amongst the quarters and nickels. The band stickers that covered the tomato sauce jar’s glass surface probably didn’t help things, but all I could do was stand by patiently and watch the two members of airport security personnel examine the jar as if it were a great archaeological find. I just hoped that I would have enough time to pick up some mindless magazine to read on the plane.
But, by the time I had jumped through all the flaming hoops, and the security folks determined that the jar contained “just coins” my flight was in the final stages of boarding and I had no time to pick up a copy of People. On this day, I wouldn’t get to read the true stories which fill People’s pages. The ones with dramatic narrative arches and heartwarming endings like in the movies.
Maybe it was for the best. In real life, things almost never end like they do in the movies.
Then, the woman working security thought a jar of coins that I was carrying in my backpack looked suspicious. I was detained for nearly 10 minutes as she examined the jar’s contents to make sure that there were no weapons hidden amongst the quarters and nickels. The band stickers that covered the tomato sauce jar’s glass surface probably didn’t help things, but all I could do was stand by patiently and watch the two members of airport security personnel examine the jar as if it were a great archaeological find. I just hoped that I would have enough time to pick up some mindless magazine to read on the plane.
But, by the time I had jumped through all the flaming hoops, and the security folks determined that the jar contained “just coins” my flight was in the final stages of boarding and I had no time to pick up a copy of People. On this day, I wouldn’t get to read the true stories which fill People’s pages. The ones with dramatic narrative arches and heartwarming endings like in the movies.
Maybe it was for the best. In real life, things almost never end like they do in the movies.
Monday, January 1, 2007
What Was it Like Being In New York?
Over the last five months, I’ve had a lot of people ask me about September 11th. I used to say that my experience in New York City was a lot like most people’s across the country. I was glued to the television, finding out all my information from Peter Jennings and CNN. I didn’t see the crashes and didn’t even know about them until an hour later.
But, truthfully, to say that my experience of that fateful day and the many weeks that followed was like the experiences of people not in New York City just isn’t true.
Having lived in New York for three years, I had amassed a group of friends who I needed to check on. Some were students, some were people I worked with, some were people I just knew. I was lucky that I didn’t know anyone who was lost in the WTC attacks. But, I have friends who lost people. And I know too many people who were supposed to be there that day, or had been there the day before.
I could see the smoke from my building. I tried to give blood, but all the blood banks were overcrowded. I rounded up all the extra sweaters and blankets in my room and donated them as soon as I could.
But mostly, we sat around, despondently watching the television which provided no respite. Image after image of destruction and death rolled across the screen. And the smell lingered in the air for weeks: faintly five miles north of Ground Zero where I lived, heavily in the area nearer to the site which I frequented. And every night around midnight, a parade of relief equipment would caravan down Broadway below my window. For the first week, I would look out and watch the trucks and cranes drive by. But, at some point I didn’t or couldn’t look anymore.
I never went to Ground Zero. There seemed something wrong about making it into a tourist attraction or a spectacle. I didn’t want to be one of the people staring at the wreckage where so many had lost their lives. After a while, I could barely handle watching the news or seeing
the fliers plastered on building walls and lamp posts, the color photocopies of people smiling, real people who might never have been found.
The people who died were real, even if I hadn’t known them. I read their profiles in the New York Times for many days until it became too much. And I respect the fact that they lived and breathed and ate and slept and laughed and screwed and yelled and cried just like I do. And I recognize that they each died a more terrible death than anyone deserves. So, for that reason, I never went to Ground Zero. I refused to make real people’s deaths into an attraction.
But, truthfully, to say that my experience of that fateful day and the many weeks that followed was like the experiences of people not in New York City just isn’t true.
Having lived in New York for three years, I had amassed a group of friends who I needed to check on. Some were students, some were people I worked with, some were people I just knew. I was lucky that I didn’t know anyone who was lost in the WTC attacks. But, I have friends who lost people. And I know too many people who were supposed to be there that day, or had been there the day before.
I could see the smoke from my building. I tried to give blood, but all the blood banks were overcrowded. I rounded up all the extra sweaters and blankets in my room and donated them as soon as I could.
But mostly, we sat around, despondently watching the television which provided no respite. Image after image of destruction and death rolled across the screen. And the smell lingered in the air for weeks: faintly five miles north of Ground Zero where I lived, heavily in the area nearer to the site which I frequented. And every night around midnight, a parade of relief equipment would caravan down Broadway below my window. For the first week, I would look out and watch the trucks and cranes drive by. But, at some point I didn’t or couldn’t look anymore.
I never went to Ground Zero. There seemed something wrong about making it into a tourist attraction or a spectacle. I didn’t want to be one of the people staring at the wreckage where so many had lost their lives. After a while, I could barely handle watching the news or seeing
the fliers plastered on building walls and lamp posts, the color photocopies of people smiling, real people who might never have been found.
The people who died were real, even if I hadn’t known them. I read their profiles in the New York Times for many days until it became too much. And I respect the fact that they lived and breathed and ate and slept and laughed and screwed and yelled and cried just like I do. And I recognize that they each died a more terrible death than anyone deserves. So, for that reason, I never went to Ground Zero. I refused to make real people’s deaths into an attraction.
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