"I'm Fine, Thanks"

As I've been discussing here and here, I'm one of the newest members of the unemployed class. I'm keeping myself busy with reading, writing, housework, and also looking for a job. Per my last post, I have become disillusioned with the idea of meeting with startup people who are 15-20 years younger than me with the hope of proving that "yes, I'm cool enough to be your co-worker". There have been enough failures in that area for me. I have seen the futility in repeatedly trying something that is not destined to work out for me in the hope that the next opportunity will work out differently. I'm looking at a new idea: to teach what I've learned in over 10 years of experience with the hope of finding a few freelance opportunities.

In the midst of all of this re-evaluation, I finally got around to watching the film "I'm Fine, Thanks" by Grant Peelle that was made with the help of a number of Kickstarter donors (including me). Peelle is a realtor who, somehow along the way, took a detour from his dream of making films to settle into The Script: go to school; get married; get job; get kids; wait until you're retired to follow your dreams (if you're lucky enough to make it). He reaches the breaking point of living a life that is not genuine to him and decides that he is going to follow his dreams and become a filmmaker. "I'm Fine, Thanks" is the manifestation of that dream. In the film, he and his crew interview dozens of people who are in varying degrees of discomfort with the concept of living the traditional rat race life and decide to do something about it. The subjects are not concerned with financial reward- they have a higher, more fulfilling purpose. As one person puts it, "If you live a life cut off from your heart, that's not really living." That line really hits home for me. I have no interest in pounding the pavement in search of another job like those I've had in the past that tend to burn me out after a year. Like the saying goes, the definition of insanity is "doing the same thing repeatedly with the same result in the hope of getting a different outcome." None of the people interviewed in the film are motivated by money. In fact, most of them accept that the key to a fulfilling life is in detaching yourself from material things. I always thought that once I earned a six-figure income that I'd be truly satisfied with myself. Once I got there I was just as miserable as always. In fact, if I were to list the most fulfilling things in my life, money would not be in the Top 5.

I have to admit that I am still on the journey to figure out what I should be doing with my life. I'm taking the advice in Steve Jobs' famous Stanford commencement speech where he talks about finding the things you like with the faith that you will be led down the correct path. I'd like to say that I can define the One Thing that I think I was put on this planet to carry out but I'm not there yet. "I'm Fine, Thanks" has provided me with a much needed shot in the arm to find the courage needed to get off the hamster wheel and onto a much brighter path.

The film has not been widely released yet. More info is at http://cranktank.com/im-fine-thanks/.

Pounding The Pavement

Due to recent events, I've been looking for a job. I've always nurtured the fantasy that if I were laid off I could spend my days in artistic pursuit without the hinderance of a boss or a place of employment. I'm officially employed for two more days but I don't have to come to the office anymore. I check in via smartphone and send a few sporadic emails as needed. Despite the fact that I haven't officially entered the world of unemployment, I'm already antsy. I have to keep lists of things to do so I don't end up spacing out on the couch. I've learned over the last several months that life is more about balance than the quest to cast aside everything that does not seem to be part of the so-called master plan. I have been able to pursue my passions while still kowtowing to The Man. As I like to say, I may not be that crazy about The Man, but I sure do love his benefits and paychecks.

While I've been in Still Employed But Not Really Working Limbo I was lucky enough to land a couple of interviews at a hotshot startup (name deleted for obvious reasons). My initial phone screen was a breeze as was the first round of in-person interviews (or so it seemed). Unlike other startup interviews, I was asked about my actual job experience. It was clear to me that I could do the job with ease and add a lot of value. I left the office with the usual dash of uncertainty but could say that I wasn't nervous and calmly presented myself. Unfortunately, the company did not agree with my self-assessment. I'm pleased that they proactively reached out to tell me that they're moving forward with someone else as I've been left completely in the dark by other companies who chose not to update me or return my queries for status.

Sure, I'm not too psyched to be rejected but this was a job that I really wanted. It was the first opportunity in a few years that I was eager to pursue. In the past, I reluctantly accepted offers of employment because I was ready to get off the couch and breathe some fresh air. As I thought about it, I realized that the people who interviewed and rejected me were probably 9 or 10 years old when I started my career. It's both humbling and humiliating. For a while, I've been telling myself that I want to “go back” to the cool dot-com scene where people come to work dressed however they like, partake of the free food and beverages, and generally feel good about being inside the Internet Palace that so many people wish they could enter. I'll be honest- it's a great feeling. When I thought about all of this last night, the words “go back” really struck me for the first time. I heard “go back” as “go backwards” to something I've already done. It occurred to me that I've been trying to get into companies overrun by 20-somethings when I haven't been a 20-something for more than a decade. In my last cool dot-com job, the only people older than me were the CEO and the head of HR. Almost everyone else was younger than me, including my boss.

I'm not suggesting that I'm too mature or that these younger people are not as smart as me. In fact, the young people I've worked with are among the most talented people I've had the pleasure to be around. I sure as hell wish I had it together like them when I was their age. But I wonder if this dot-com quest is another way I've been clinging to the long-faded ideal of youth. Have I been chasing these jobs down because I want to feel young by coming to work in super casual dress?  I don't sit around and think of myself as an old guy but there are differences between people in their 20s and people in their 40s. As this is all new I'm still processing these thoughts. However, I'm starting to wonder if it's time to get out of the sandbox and start playing with kids my own age.

Laid Off

As I’ve discussed previously, I’ve been in a job for the past year that I never liked. For most of the time, I had to drag my feet out of the elevator and down the hall to my seat.  About four months ago, I had an epiphany:  the job is neither sucky nor great; it simply IS.  Along with that epiphany was another insight: I can choose to let my job define who I am OR I can consider my job to be the place where I have to pass the time so I can get the paycheck I need.  Ever since that time, I’ve come into the office without a care in the world.  I’ve also found numerous opportunities to explore the things I’m truly passionate about. My creativity has soared as a result.  All of that came crashing down last week.  

Over the last few weeks, there have been two mysterious men in our office who turned out to be consultants hired to get this sinking ship of ours back on track.  As soon as I realized that most of the meetings they had were with HR, Legal, and Finance, it became obvious that Step 1 of the resuscitation of the company was going to be in the form of “weight-shedding”.  About a week ago, I received a BCC email regarding a mandatory update meeting at 1PM.  The person across the aisle received a BCC email invite to a 2PM mandatory update meeting.  My neighbor received an invite for a 4PM all-hands meeting that I didn’t receive.  At that point, I emptied my desk and took a walk to kill some time.

At the appointed hour, I showed up to the conference room with my packed bag.  About 6 or 7 other folks streamed in afterwards.  On one side of the table were the two mysterious men.  As people entered, they made awkward pleasantries (“How’s your summer going?”  “Watching the Olympics?”). They eventually announced themselves as consultants who were hired to take over the company to finally achieve profitability.  The rest of the meeting was so by-the-numbers that I felt like I was in a movie:

• Overview on how the company is at a critical juncture
• Announcement that “unfortunately, your jobs were affected”
• Statement that this wasn’t about personalities and how “hard this is”
• Reminder of non-disclosures and non-compete clauses
• Gregarious gesture to go home for the rest of the day
• Another reminder of non-disclosures and non-compete clauses
• Offer to provide job placement assistance
• Q & A
• Dismissal

Since then I’ve been coming in for a few hours a day, soon to trail off to a couple of days per week.  As I’m not hustling to get here early, I’ve been spending more time in the gym working on the extra five pounds I gained by eating chocolate all day.  I consider myself a Dead Man Walking.  Everyone at work knows that I’m one of the “affected resources” so they don’t really pay me much mind as they know I’ll be gone soon enough.  The collar of my shirt was tucked into my shirt and no one seemed to notice.  While a couple of folks have been kind enough to ask how I’m doing, some people are afraid to talk to me or look me in the eye. They treat me like I’m a cancer patient, as if my affliction may affect them if they get too close.  Perhaps my predicament is reminding them of their own mortality.  As almost half the company was let go, the survivors may be waiting for the other shoe to drop.

As I walk around here, I feel like a ghost.  I can see what’s going on around me but no one seems able to see or hear me.  I’m a completely detached observer to everything around me in the office. It doesn’t matter if I’m sitting here or not- their day will not be affected in the slightest by any action I take.  It’s not the warmest feeling in the world but I’ve been occupied with thinking about the next chapter and taking advantage of the fact that I’m being paid to do whatever I want for the next few weeks.

I’m not panicking at all.  In fact, I’m looking forward to ending this chapter and moving to the next thing.  The feeling of claustrophobia that I’ve had for the past year is gone.  Instead, the world is feeling wide open to me right now with a myriad of choices to make.  I haven’t felt this empowered in years. 

Happy Birthday, Jer

I recently watched an old “Mad Men” episode that involved the death of Marilyn Monroe and the intense emotional reaction of the women at Sterling Cooper. Roger Sterling expresses his befuddlement over the fact that the women are reacting very strongly about someone they didn’t know. He clearly doesn’t understand the way that people attach themselves to their popular culture icons. This particular episode came to mind as I sat down to write this.

Ol’ Jer would’ve been 70 years old today. Later this week is the 17^th anniversary of his death. I’ll admit that I cried when I heard the news. At that time there was a lot of drama in my life. I think that the occasion of Garcia’s death was the catalyst I needed to release a torrent of stress and misery that had been building up for me. Over the subsequent years since Jerry left us, we’ve learned how his drug use destroyed him slowly. As someone said around the time he died, what he really needed was his own Grateful Dead type of escape where he could find the joy that he brought to many of us. I’ve often wondered what would’ve been if, as expressed in his last Rolling Stone interview, he was able to take a year or two off to get out of the hamster wheel and recharge his spirit. By that point in time, the band became such a huge enterprise that the livelihoods of dozens of people would’ve dried up and I suspect that Jerry had a very hard time accepting all of that.

Of course, I have no idea what Jerry thought about anything. As with many people who are fans of the Dead (or Springsteen or Dylan or any number of musicians), we assume that we have deep insights into a person we’ve never met merely because we can recite lyrics perfectly or walk around with an internal encyclopedia of the person's body of work. In Garcia’s case, I’ve thought about what it must’ve been like to drive around and see your face on other people’s bumper stickers and t-shirts. Jerry was very clear about the fact that he was not interested in being a hero. In fact, he expressed some disappointment over the fact that many people were unable to find anything in America more adventurous than following his band around. All he really wanted was to play music and may have been content if the Grateful Dead never happened and he was forced to hustle coffeehouse gigs and give guitar lessons to pay the rent.

So do I miss him? Not in the way I might miss an old friend who died but there is still a feeling of loss and yearning for what once existed.  Garcia’s passing was, for me, symbolic of the end of a certain period of my life that was full of highway adventures, roaring laughter, and even a life-threatening experience or two. When I listen to his music, there’s a part of me that celebrates those episodes from years past. The other part is all about embracing the joy and the passion in his playing that is stirred up in me even after listening to the same shows dozens of times. I'm grateful tonight for all of the people who took it upon themselves to record as much of the journey as possible so that people like me could revel in it. I feel lucky that I was able to make a connection to the music of a relative stranger and find a little pocket of peace and joy whenever I need it.

Wherever you are tonight, Ol' Jer, a lot of us are thinking of you and saying “thanks”.

"American Graffiti" And The Yearnings Of Summer

As much as I love “Star Wars” (episodes 4-6, anyway), if I had to choose which of George Lucas’ films I’d like to have with me on a desert island, I think I’d have to pick “American Graffiti”.  Lucas captured that end-of-summertime yearning better than any other film I can think of.  Having grown up in a small town, I can certainly relate to the feeling of driving around aimlessly at night, filled with the desperation of hunting down a truly spectacular experience.  I’ve always identified with the Richard Dreyfus character.  He spends his last night before flying off to college prowling around town with the hope of meeting the mysterious woman in the white T-Bird who he spots momentarily at a red light.  As the night progresses and his chances slowly evaporate, his frustration grows.

Most of my summer nights ended with the same empty feeling that accompanied the inability to fill the void with the conquest of love or the completion of some grand journey.  My defeat was sealed once I arrived at home where I had to tip-toe nervously up the stairs of my parents’ house.  As the stairs were old and creaky, I had learned over time the correct pattern for walking on them so as not to hit the sweet spots on each step that would trigger the squeak alarm and wake my parents.  Some steps creaked on the left side and others creaked on the right so I performed a delicate little dance, shoes in hand, deftly maneuvering from one side of the staircase to the other.  No matter how many times I shuffled up those stairs without the victory I aimed for at the outset of the evening, I never lost hope in the magic of summer.

As a kid, summertime seemed like this endless entity.  Days would creep along, seemingly dragged out by the scorching sun and heat. By the time evening approached, everyone was home from work, summer school, or wherever they hid out all day and the phone calls would commence.  Being that this was before Facebook or texting, you had to be glued to the phone to ensure that you didn’t miss out on whatever the evening’s main event was going to be.  You always held out hope that the night could take a series of twists and turns, propelling you from yet another mundane night on the town into something that felt truly epic.  “American Graffiti” took that ideal and ran with it.

Now that I’m all grown up, summer has lost some of its luster.  The time speeds by in the blink of an eye and the most notable thing about this time of year besides the greater amount of daylight hours is that I have to wear short sleeves to work so I don’t melt into a puddle on the subway platform.  These days, I’m not looking for grand sweeping epic moments to make myself feel validated and alive. It can happen by lying in the hammock on the weekends staring out at this:

The magic happens as soon as I arrive at this destination and take my first deep breath of non-citified air.  My life no longer has to resemble an old Bruce Springsteen lyric about heading out to some vague Somewhere Else where I’ll be free of my demons.   I’m not sure if that means I’ve given up on dreaming big dreams or if I’ve found a different definition of satisfaction. Or perhaps, I’ve found that peace and contentment is more of an inside job.

Ty Segall Band- Slaughterhouse

 "Slaughterhouse”, the newest release by Ty Segall Band, is permeated with an echo-laden psychotic vibe that will make you feel like you're trapped in a madhouse for the full 36:24 that it takes to listen from beginning to end. "Death” starts off with approximately one minute of reverb-drenched guitar feedback before snapping into place with a psych-garage groove and guitar riffing that evokes Deep Purple. Continuing the terror-garage vibe is the title track with 1:36 of frenzied guitar and reverb vocals that sound like what the album cover (above) looks like.  “Muscle Man”, with its chunky chugging melody, adds a touch of Childish to the party while the super-fuzz overdrive re-invention of “Diddy Wah Diddy” is a rocket ride that launches Bo Diddley into the stratosphere.

"Slaughterhouse" is the perfect background accompaniment for your next psilocybin-enhanced haunted house excursion.

Image courtesy of intheredrecords.com

My '69 Chevelle

     

     She looked like she sprung herself from the cages of a Bruce Springsteen song and roared through the Badlands on her way to the hilltop in Seattle where I lived.  This was no gleaming machine from a dealer’s lot.  The lady in question was a 1969 Chevrolet Chevelle that was born before the advent of unleaded gasoline.   Her dark blue skin was blemished all over the place from almost 25 years of hard living.  She was built like a fullback- not too tall but wide enough to make her presence known.  On many occasions, I had to jump the solenoid as the car wouldn’t always turn over with the key. In order the jump the solenoid, one has to open the hood and jam a screwdriver in just the right spot in order to get juice to go from the battery directly to the engine.  I'm amazed to this day that I didn't end up as one of those cartoon people who turn into x-rays and levitate when zapped with a surge of electricity.  That car took me on some amazing adventures, including the Oregon Country Fair and the Grateful Dead shows in Las Vegas.  As much as those adventures are stories unto themselves, what I'll remember most was her smell.

     My girl was born in an era before the EPA and other pesky legislators poked their noses around and decided that cars should have things like “environmentally sound emissions”.  Every time I started her up, huge clouds of smoke would bellow out of the exhaust and cover the entire street like it was a KISS concert. Because the floor had holes in it, the smoke would enter the car and make me cough if I was driving for a while.  After one long road trip, I could taste the exhaust on my tongue as I drove. When I  took a shower that evening and rinsed my hair, the water turned black.  There are times where I find myself amazed, almost 20 years later, that these long fume-drenched trips didn't earn me a tumor or two.  The real concern I had every time I took this car out on the road was whether the car would die on me or if it would be impounded for being a public menace.

     She survived an inquiry by the Washington State Police somewhere near the town of Ellensburg.  On my way to Las Vegas, they pulled me over after smelling me drive past them.  I didn’t get a ticket for the emissions as I happened to be driving without insurance but thankfully, I was able to connive my way out of that situation.   One of my neighbors used to leave notes on my windshield threatening to call the police if I didn’t do something about the clouds emanating from my tailpipe.  I was eventually forced to get an emissions test so I could renew my auto registration.  Somehow, perhaps via divine inspiration, the car passed.  Shortly thereafter, I was starting her up and putting on another KISS show in the street when my neighbor began pounding angrily on my driver’s side window.  As he yelled at me, I revved the engine and shoved the emissions test results up against the glass, taunting him with gleeful shouts of “I passed!  I passed!”

    Sadly, as is inevitable with used cars, the only thing she couldn’t dodge was Father Time.  There were a few visits to my local garage, some via tow truck.  I had already replaced the brakes and a few other components as part of the process where all used car owners are forced to justify to themselves yet another expense for their aging vehicle.  One day on my way home, the car was wheezing and lurching as I tried to get up the hill.  I got as far as the mechanic before the car died.  A couple of days later, the mechanic declared her dead as in “you can either buy a brand-new engine and spend more than the car is worth or say goodbye”.  Euthanasia seemed like the logical choice.  I left the car on the side street around the block and said I’d figure out what to do.  As I walked down the street past the spot where the car now resided, I would steal little peeks as if it were an ex that I really didn’t want to see but had to glimpse at anyway.

     After a month had passed, I received a phone call from the mechanic.  Not only was he tired of seeing the car, there was a new odor emanating from the trunk.  I ventured down the hill and opened the trunk to discover a cooler full of mucky water that used to be ice.  Floating in the water was a pile of what used to be ground beef. I cleaned everything out, walked around the corner to the mechanic’s office and handed over the title so that he could either dispose of the car or bring this rusting Lazarus back to life for his benefit.  I never learned what the mechanic did with my car but I never saw (nor smelled) her again.

Photo courtesy of blogcatalog.com