He wasn't wondering.

Reindeer boxer shorts rest limply on Conor Buckley's desk chair. It's June, so this is to be expected. The idea that someone would purchase underwear only for a particular season or holiday is ridiculous. He's had to explain this to a variety of overnight guests. He would be better served to use his breath on perhaps explaining why being such a slob helps him focus on his work. However, Conor can't actually do that. He can't do that because he has had "Art Block" for a week, and always does when his life's a mess.

Conor started off college as an English major, hence the borrowing and re-appropriating of the term "Blank Block." Conor would sooner say he had "Sex Block" when he inevitably failed at showing the ladies why he was an OK choice for the night (feel free to substitute: week or month, nothing more than that, obviously), than to admit that he's not always the most suave.

He's not-not suave. He's just, a — a guy — a guy in his twenties. And, he's figuring it out, just like the  rest of them...the guys, the rest of the guys in their twenties. Obviously he's excepting those who got tricked into a young-just-out-of-college-marriage. Everyone has a pair of friends like that, or rather, has a friend who has a wife or husband that you've had to become friends with because apparently they're going to be around for the long haul, probably longer than you in the end.

Conor's apartment definitely looks as though someone lives there, but not as though he plans on living there for longer than three months. Nothing hangs on the walls, but there are framed posters of Fight Club and Warrior leaning on them. The idea was there, it's the execution that's a consistent fail.

"Hey dude," Conor says to Patrick, his roommate, who's sitting on the couch Patrick's mom purchased for the apartment eight months ago. She came to visit from New Hampshire, had nowhere to sit when she "popped by" to say hello, so went to Pottery Barn and "made it right."

"Hey," Patrick returns. "How was yesterday?"

Yesterday? Patrick was referring to their mid-week debauchery. Conor had recently been let go from his job at some call center downtown, so decided to blow a hundred bucks like he had it.

"Fine — Jenn was there." Of course she was.

"Yeah, I saw her."

"Yeah."

Conor walks over to the pantry, opens it, looks into it for a bit, then closes it taking nothing out.

"She was with Katie," Conor continues. Jenn and Conor had never dated. They'd always teetered on the line. Sure, they'd made out. Sure, Conor had invited her over to his house after parties. Sure, they've seen each other naked. But, dated? No. "It's everything but the label," she had said when she explained why she couldn't do it anymore. "It's not the label, Conor, it's the lack of one."

It's not as though Conor thought he blew it with Jenn. By his calculation, he'd been the one rejected.

Flash to last night:
"Hey, there," Jen said, but, really it was more like a shout, from down the bar.

"Hey, hey," Conor said, smiling. "How've you been?"

Conor crossed over to where she was.

"I'm good. I'm fine. Katie's here."

"Yeah, I know. I saw her from the balcony."

"How mysterious..."

When Jenn smiles, she shows all of her teeth. She smiles, and she laughs. And it makes the people around her do the same. Conor never understood the phrase laughter's contagious until he met Jenn.

"So mysterious."

"How've you been?"

"Pretty good. Just working." Conor paused remembering he'd been let go. "I mean, I'm looking for work right now. Feels like a job. But I'm painting, and stuff. So..."

"Tell me about it."

"I just did." The two laughed.

"Funny. Anyway, I should get back —"

"Of course. Good to see you."  Jenn turned to go, then spun back around quickly. Conor was still looking in her direction.

"I'm here with someone."

She said it like he was wondering. But he wasn't wondering. And that's what's made the moment so awkward.

"That's great," Conor said, then smiled out of the side of his mouth.

They looked at each other, said goodbye again, and Conor proceeded to spend money like he had it.

"Anyway, she looked good," Conor said.

"Not a surprise, man."

Conor walks back into his room, closes the door, collects last night's clothes from the floor, then puts them on his bed. He picks up his jeans, examines them, smells them, then slides them on. He does the same with a green-grey t-shirt, then sits down at his desk, looks at his sketch pad, his reindeer boxers still on the seat-back.

Un-unique

Elaine Terre, Ellie to her friends, leaned gracefully over her egg white porcelain sink. Her eye make-up smudged all over her upper and lower lids. Trapped in the corners of her hazel eyes were the remnants of tears she was attempting to wipe away.

"I'm just done." She thought it out loud. "I'm just," a pregnant pause, an exasperated sigh, "done."

She'd been fired. It felt like a glorified dumping. Broken up with by the career that didn't want her anymore. Left alone on the skirts of Unemploymentville Co. Population: her. She felt like a cliché, and all of her thoughts backed that feeling up.

It happens to everyone. The phrase echoed in her head from a conversation she'd finished earlier that evening with her sister. Her sister, Carolyn, was an attractive young woman, aged 29, single, with a semi-high-powered career on the way to an actual high-powered career in fashion merchandising. She had little empathy for anyone when it came to relationships, jobs or general livelihood, likely due to her lack there of.

Carolyn and Elaine had a tumultuous relationship growing up, not unlike most sisterly relationships. Elaine, being the younger, found talking to Carolyn exacerbating, and would dodge opportunities to do so regularly —that is she until Carolyn would figure out a way to corner Elaine into conversation, often by trapping her in actual corners.

During the summers the pair would play a game in their country club swimming pool called, Spider. Essentially, one of the girls would hold onto the sides of the pool, often in a corner, with their legs spread while the other would have to attempt passage through the triangulated legs and arms of her sister without touching. If one indeed touched, even a hair, a strike would be marked. Three strikes and you would have to run around the perimeter of the pool. It doesn't sound as bad in retrospect, but summers in the midwest still brought about a cool air that made the pool a warm sanctuary once you were in, as the outside world remained an icy fortress.

Ellie thought about all those memories as she starred past her own reflection, wiping away her history and whatever Revlon still clung to her cheeks. Still, more tears clouded her vision.

Was I wrong? She questioned for the nth time. But she knew the answer. No, she wasn't wrong. And, she shouldn't have been as upset as she was.

It happens to everyone, El. 

done

--> There’s a place I’ve been where the walls are wearing skin

Where no one lives inside, it’s just an empty hollow hide

The snow falls briskly, leaving you thin, so prickly

Where short, short skirts tend to silken shirts

and we are all so low.

There’s a place I’ve been where you would only hear that pin

Where no one says hello, how dare you consider your friend your fellow

The sky turns purple, orange, red, you might as well rip yourself to shreds

Where wavy hair meets a woman’s stare

and she whispers hello, goodbye.

There’s a place I’ve been where all you want is out

Where children fear

and I tear

Where there is no air

and I tear

Rip it. Deface it. Call it Nothing.

There is a place I have been.

Arc of Time: Life is weird and amazing.

I am not built for a 9-5, and I have no idea why I ever thought I might be.


Arc of Time, Bright Eyes

You can make a plan
Carve it into stone
Like a feather falling
That is still unknown

Until the clock speaks up
Says it’s time to go
You can choose the high
Or the lower road

You might clench your fist
You might fork your tongue
As you curse or praise
All the things you’ve done

And the faders move
And the music dies
As we pass over
On the arc of time

So you’ll nurse your love
like a wounded dove
in the covered cage of night
Every star is crossed
by phrenetic thoughts
they separate and then collide
and they twist like sheets
‘til you fall asleep
and they finally unwind
it’s a black balloon,
it’s a dream you’ll soon
deny

I hear if you make friends
With Jesus Christ
You’ll get right up
From that chalk outline

And then you'll get dolled up
And you'll dress in white
All to take your place
In his chorus line

And then in you’ll come
With those marching drums
In a saintly compromise
No more whiskey slurs
No more blonde hair girls
For your whole eternal life
And you’ll do the dance
That was choreographed
At the very dawn of time
Singing “I told you son,
The day would come,
You would die, you die, you die, you die…”

To the deepest part
Of the human heart
The fear of death expands
‘til we crack the code,
we’ve always known
But could never understand
On a circuit board
We’ll soon be born
Again, again, again, again…

5 Things I love

A few months ago I started writing down a few times a week five things that I love. It really helped me see things in perspective, and I'd encourage you to do the same. For a while I was pretty distraught at feeling like (slash being) a know-nothing, unemployed sucker who went to college only to get diddley. So, it really was necessary for me to write down all the good things that were going on — because there actually were and are a lot of good things going on. So, here's a taste of what I'm talking about. Here are some of the things I collected from different lists I wrote this week in no particular order:

1. 5 minutes after my alarm goes off, all snug in my warm sheets.
2. When things work themselves out.
3. Rebecca, sad she's leaving for Spain, but so happy for her.
4. Sending postcards and cards.
5. Reading on the train.
6. My walk to work, it smells like chocolate and brownies.
7. Catching up on shows with Brian.
8. Talking about the book I'm reading.
9. Seasonal drinks at coffee shops.
10. Larry, Colleen, Sean, Timmy, and Kevin.
11. Options.


What's funny is when I was working in the cubicle I actually wrote Things I Do Not Love lists, which isn't good, but can be funny to go back and read. Here's one of those:
1. Losing jewelry and knowing it's around here somewhere, but still no luck.
2. Cision, my job at Cision.
3. When Corner Bakery runs out of chocolate chip cookies.
4. Not having a pen and paper when I need one.
5. Kankersores.

Wisdom & Working

"They weren't born like that, you know. The self-made millionaires, the now-famous who started with nothing...They learned the skills that brought them to the top, then they practiced, and through practice they changed their behavior — and their behavior made them different people; wholly different. You can be different too — any way you want to be..."

-originally from paragon-athletics

I read this in an e-mail a good friend sent to me about a month ago. Since then I have tacked it up in a cubicle, carried it around as a bookmark (in my Personal History book) and read it nearly a hundred times. It helps me.

The thing is, I've realized that through keeping an on-going list of all the books I've read this year that my most enjoyable have all been either autobiographies or biographies. Even the fiction works I've read all fall into a sort of realistic fiction where something reads as if it could have happened. But, what's more important is that it's through seeing my enjoyment in reading real-life stories that I've come to want to live a life worthy of recounting (slash I've always wanted that, just affirmation). It seems unfortunate to me that many people lead lives that (perhaps I unfairly judge) seem mundane to me. There's a sort of rhythm to life I've noticed as evidence in taking the Chicago Metra train to work every day. People sit in the same spots, wear the same self-given or office-given uniform and talk about their lives by the copy machine, how their significant other is being difficult, how they wish they could take off the afternoon, skip out early on a whim and go on a trip to Lake Geneva. I never wanted the pinnacle of my day to be leaving work.

See, I figure if you're going to be somewhere for 40 to 60 hours per week, you should like it. Maybe that's a development akin to recent years of easy-living for the under 30s, but I don't care. Why shouldn't you like your life away from and at the workplace? It seems a bizarre notion that every day, in order to be productive, has to be recounted in an excel spreadsheet with a regimen that looks, feels and is exactly the same.

Fortunately for me, I've been able to surround myself with people that have higher hopes, and more so, expectations than that — and even still the ability to carry out those passions. Thankfully after sending out an e-mail letting friends know I was leaving behind Cubicle City for some fresh air, I didn't receive any "Are you insane?" messages back. That's just a testament to good friends, good character and like-mindedness, that unfortunately many aren't accustomed to.

History (see autobiographies and biographies) has time-and-again proved that real success doesn't come from sitting on the sidelines. Waiting out the big dogs. Or sitting in a cubicle waiting for someone to give you the go-ahead. I don't want to keep my head down and act natural. There's something to be said for biding your time, but there's also something to be said for knowing what you want, and knowing what you don't want. And if you can be decisive, then be that.

Working

Here's a parred down version of excerpts from an e-mail I sent a few people regarding the day-to-day grind of my first real-real-real job working in a cubicle and my subsequent rejection of that life with built-in inner turmoil. All I can say is, time-wasting is the worst type of waste, so if you know you want to change something, get to it.

"I've just started this new job, I thought it pertinent information to let you know I am quitting.

"Yes.

"You read that correctly...

"I had been chatting with my dad [about my stint on the job so far, and really could only say],"Meh" about it. And it was bizarre. Larry, the man that just wants his kids to get jobs and fall in [the corporate] line, says to me: "Bridge, if you're not happy there, don't do it. You'll get something else." He didn't even encourage me to give it a little more time. Seriously. He went into a spiel about [his first job out of college, describing how he would] just get antsy. That's like me, antsy...

"What's weird is, I went out with some kids from [the company] the other day after work and while walking to the restaurant learned that mostly everyone who works [there] at the same position as me haven't even realized how long they've been at the company. They're content in a sort of job coma. I mean, it's got to be the benefits! I swear, none of the fun jobs offer them. My suspicion has me thinking that perhaps it's a way for the fun jobs to weed out the faint of heart. But. That said. What good is a healthy body, if it's only to serve as a shelter for a broken heart and a job comatose soul?

"Note: I am going to use it eventually in my book: My Life as a Non Journalist."

Other tales of working woes:
John

Susan

Middleness

There's even a whole website devoted to venting about your job. People need to man-up and leave what they don't like. Stagnant. Content. Interchangeable. I don't like that. If you google "I hate my job" in quotes you get over three-million sites. That's sad. It seems other people are less acclimated to life in a paid-to-go-to-a-place-that-feels-like-a-punishment.

cartoon voices

Sometimes I get on a "voice" roll. What this means is basically I develop the voice of what I think someone should or would sound like. I think I could make a killing working for Pixar, Dreamworks or Disney — if only I knew how to become friends with Robin Williams and somehow implement my voices into Aladdin Return of the King and the Genie and Raja (the tiger), coming to theaters never. I should have knocked on Sir Williams' door when we both were living in San Francisco. A shot at fame missed.

Periodically I burst out into comedic voices. I have a couple of characters: one named Bernice, the other her best friend Hermione. Then I've got my umpire voice "You're Outta here!" and a few other ditties, most recently a home gnome who sounds more akin to a baby as all talking is really just goos with intonation. It's gotten some praise from Brian's roommate Danny. Almost all friends in college have experienced my gremlin voice, and one friend, Elizabeth Steele, actually made it her ringtone. I'm 99 percent positive that any time someone heard it they attempted to download a version of it from Ring Tone Nation.

I typically start throwing out my old British lady voice when inebriated. Friends in France can attest to this. Others can also attest to my creepy child laugh, which has somehow morphed into an animé character giggling.

Anyway, most of you have heard these various characters at one point or another. So, this is all to say that I've been told by a few people so far that I should become a voice actress. Every time I hear this I just want to scream, "YES!" and periodically, I do actually scream "YES!" So, consider this my notification Cartoon Movie/Television: I'm coming. One way or another.

So, does anyone know how to break into the industry? I've got a few Hollywood connections, but nothing in the animation world.

Oh, and I should also mention I do a bad ass impersonation of Macy Gray, yeah, the one hit wonder. "Games, changes and fears/ When will they go from here?/ When will they stop?/ I believe that fate has brought us here...I try to say goodbye and I choke/ I try to walk away and I stumble." She may not rock so much, but I do.

What Came First, the Chicken or the Egg?

What do employers want from me? I have about one thousand sent items to companies, corporations, publications and anything else in between, and dammit: I don't know what these people want from me.

How do you convince Jane No Name and her colleagues that you're totally, utterly, and completely, the lost individual they've been searching for all this time...without saying just that. Subtlety. I don't have it, I guess. I mean, seriously. I don't know Jane. I know her company, her brand of human, and I can imitate it all I want, but that doesn't mean that I fit, or even that someone will take the time to sift through the thousands of emails that funnel through 7 seconds after posting on Craigslist.

Thank Ed2010.com for that one. I look on that journalism job site, along with JournalismJobs.com and MediaBistro.com about a zillion times per day, week, month, yadda yadda yadda. It tells me who's looking, and today for the first time it told me why they weren't looking for me.

Other than the fact that being over qualified is now a turn-off, I'm not that surprised. [Also, I don't 'get' the whole over-qualified. Why is being ahead a bad thing, why is having a lot of experience a deterrent? John McCain and I ponder this every day.] But at the same time, even if you don't make one of these 10 careless errors, you and your silly letter will still be neglected. Lost in the Email Abyss, sorry to say. I came to a conclusion that made me highly depressed.

Basically: there's nothing I can do about it. My life is out of my hands all the time, and it's spinning out of control.

I don't like it.


For More on Joblessness and Out of Control College Graduates, check out: http://www.middleness.wordpress.com

lacking caffeine and that life zeal business

Hi. I've been a bit lackadaisical about updating this bad-boy right here. Sorry. I can't believe it's been about two weeks since. Much has happened. Here's the bulleted list.

a. Kerstin, my friend since 3rd grade, visited San Francisco over this past weekend. [went to Alcatraz, shopped, dined, bar-hopped, and had a party for my housemate, Nancy.]

b. The weekend prior I was in Chicago visiting my family and friends and going to my cousin Maureen's wedding. It was beautiful. I also managed to pick some apples, grab dinner with my girls and boy and bonded in Rebecca's living room.

c. I've got about a month left of my internship here at Ode. It feels good to know how this place ticks, adding in my own two cents in the possibilities section. Really, I'll miss it when I'm gone.

d. I'm going to Vegas this weekend. Brian is meeting me at the Las Vegas airport, and Meagan and Dan Walsh (our married friends, weird) are going to pick us up for a fun weekend. Planning on a little skydiving, some Black Jack, sassy dresses and a show!

e. Already I am being harassed by my mother about not having a full-time job lined up post internship. It's stressful enough as it is. Damn all my smart friends who went back to graduate school.

f. I think that's it. Whew. Oh, and I'm planning a trip to LA post Ode in November before heading back home. Should be a fun time.

And, of course, a story: Monday I waited for Marco for 45 minutes only to find out that he was at the chiropractor. I called my other possible ride about 6 times before getting a hold of her. All I had to do was walk/bus to this way far corner. I think I lost a pound before 9 am Monday. I probably sped walked 3 miles in a 1/2 hour. I might as well have been running. I did manage to hop a bus and didn't even have to pay because I got off before I could make it to the front of the bus to drop my change. There's nothing quite like beating the system. That buck-fifty was mine!

Today

Notes on Today.

-I took my coffee to work in a washed-out tomato jar. Explanation: My roommate nabbed my to-go mug, thus causing me to search the kitchen for a re-sealable container. Tomato jar was the only option.

-I reviewed the job applications I sent last night: One to U.S. News & World Report. (I accidentally wrote "form" instead of "from." That's a bummer. I can never decide if I should email them letting them know I found the error, or not email them and hope they didn't notice. If I emailed them and they didn't notice, then I'd just be drawing attention to this error. OR. They noticed and they wanted me to email them saying I found the error, thus showing my wonderful skillz as a journalist. It is toward the end, so if they got that far in the cover letter, perhaps they decided they wanted me, but then changed their minds once seeing "form." Damn. If only it wasn't 11:23 p.m. when I shot it off last night.

-I can no longer do multiplication. I tried to figure out how much a year $12/hour at 40 hours a week would get me. Somehow I came out with $13,040. I was about 10 grand off. Good thing I'm not studying to be a mathematician. (Note: the word "mathematician" looks not unlike martian. Concordance? Anyone?)

A Nation of College Graduates

Sure, I'm a fan of higher education. I'm a college graduate myself. But these days, college degrees don't mean a whole lot. Unfortunately. Actually, education in the United States at least (prepare yourself for a sweeping generalization) doesn't mean that much. This afternoon I read this piece on The Star Ledger's website HERE. Well, it's nice to see that students are doing well on SATs and such, but standardized testing doesn't mean that much either. See. In the article the school touts the testing system as a valid form of measuring success. But from my perspective, having gone to a state school, gone through the motions of public elementary and secondary education, these tests only measure clearly commonplace status: "average."

"This year's SAT averages in themselves are not all that notable, as they were close to those in 2007 and typically change little from year to year.

Nationally, the averages didn't shift a single point from last year: 515 in math, 502 in reading, and 494 in writing, each out of a maximum 800."
-The Star Ledger

The article also makes mention that most if not all of the students from the particular school in New Jersey intend to go to college, and actually plan on going to instate colleges. The principal of the school had the audacity to say it might be that they don't want to travel too far or it "might" be that higher education is expensive. Of course that's why they're going to instate schools. College is extraordinarily expensive, especially when you measure the gains of going. Yes, you're more intelligent, but upon graduation, since so many people are going to colleges there literally aren't enough jobs to go around. And for how many seemingly blank checks students are filling out to no end, there should be jobs that pay more than the crippling dolla-dolla-bills that young graduates are might be getting out of college. Depending on which internship one accepts or not.

As a graduate with a liberal arts degrees in both Journalism and English, I can say with certainty that the education system in the United States cares more about the institution — those it employs and ever-increasing profit margins — than the students attending the school who are emptying out their piggy bank's worth of life savings just to be there. I went to the University of Iowa, and I worked hard. I enjoyed my college experience, but that's what it was, an experience. I worked all four years (yes, I finished in four years); I participated in clubs and organizations ranging from the Newman Center to University Choir; I wrote for The Daily Iowan, was Executive Editor, Managing Director and writer at Content Magazine and was a DJ at KRUI 89.7; I worked summers. I tried hard, all in the name of getting a career rolling. I did well.

Crossing the stage, shaking hands of the professors and various university officials (all making well into the $50k-$150k range, I thought of them at their graduation. I thought of who their terrible speaker was, of who they thought they were going to be 20, 40, 60 years from their meager 20-something days. Ten professors were honored for over two hours, the last hour was dedicated to the thousands of students that paid the most expensive price of admission to that basketball stadium. For a few seconds we were honored, but it didn't seem like it was about us at all.

Now I am living in California for a short stint interning for penny's (more than many of my peers are making as they intern for free, see Reality Bites below). As I attempt to flee working a dead end job that will at least give me health care, I'm here without any real cash — save for my piggy bank. I have to dig deeper into debt, because that seems to be the only way to get ahead in this world. You have to spend money to make it. And it's ridiculous. Everyone is trying to make money, but in their desire to gain a bonus they're essentially robbing the very people that make their company go-go-go. And, for the most part, company executives don't do this intentionally. Many people have mouths to feed and bills to pay, and to each his own, right? Take care of self first, right? The only way to sustain existence, right? As a 22-year-old University of Iowa graduate, Lake Forest High School graduate, Deerfield Junior High graduate, as a learned person, as someone worth employing, why does even a $35,000 job make it hard to make ends meet? By the time rent's spent, groceries bought, health care paid for, general appliances cashed out, and maybe a little tucked away for savings or a rainy day — why then, why is there still not much left? Most jobs are 40 hours a week, then another two hours in transportation time, so that's 10 hours a day, leaving between 4-5 hours left a day for life outside of sleeping and working. We're killing ourselves to get jobs that don't pay and steal our time. Our. Precious. Valuable. Time. Check out the October issue of Ode Magazine when it comes out for a peak into what a NYC schoolteacher thinks of the education institution post teaching days. I also put together a Q&A with the teacher to be put on the Web as well.

For those students graduating from high school, please head onto college, but know that even that won't be enough to get you the white picket fence, the brick house, the good neighborhood, the nice clothes. It will only get you average, and when you think of average, think nothing special. As individuals we need to think of ways to be special, to get what we want, but not at the expense of someone else. We need to be more conscious in our actions, and please, don't reward the status quo. That's a surefire way of rewarding no one.

"Everyone's special, Dash."
"Which is another way of saying no one is."
-The Incredibles

One Down. 15 to Go.

After quite a busy week at Ode Magazine, I think I can finally say I'm getting acclimated. We're getting set for the September issue, which I will have a few things in, so it's been an interesting week to begin work. I received an internship at Ode Magazine. There I get to write, edit, research, and copyfit various stories. It's pretty neat to be part of an international magazine: it's based in the Netherlands and California, with writers scattered about the globe and an executive editor who lives abroad in London.

Each day I begin my morning bright and early, grab a bite in the kitchen, then head down eight blocks to 22nd and Van Ness. I hop into the car of my managing editor and head North, to Mill Valley, as the magazine's headquarters are there, rather than in downtown San Francisco. Though it's not the most convenient place to live, the Mission district, is really fun, eclectic and always, always bustling with activity. It's about two stops away of downtown when using the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART), and about 35 minutes from Mill Valley by car—2 hrs, roughly by using three types of public transportation. Speaking of which, last week my ride and I were out of luck when his car had to be taken to the shop. We had intended to get a ride from a coworker, but she had to leave early, leaving us with her suggested route home: by boat.

Yes, we were to take the ferry from the North Bay to downtown, then hop from there onto the BART, head to the Mission, walk eight blocks, and then, and only then, arrive home to my cozy, green Victorian flat. Well, we missed the boat. Quite literally, and ended up waiting for a taxi in the tourist town of Saulsalito to take us back to our abodes.

My first week on the job was good. I was busy, with real work, which is what I wanted. I didn't want to be fetching coffee and filling up ink cartridges. In short, I'm glad I'm not Andy in The Devil Wears Prada. Yikes.

Speaking of which, in honor of starting my job, I had intended to watch it all week. I've been watching bits and pieces for a week now, as each night I am so tired from my 8-10 hour day, plus about 1.5 hrs in transit. Now, after a fun weekend visiting with a friend from my study abroad in France, I will finish it. I will. No if's, and's, or but's. It's getting done, alright. Now, I just have to figure out what to watch over the course of seven days this week.

Bridge-Bits of Information:

-For more on Ode Magazine, just click this LINK.

-For more on traveling from San Francisco to outside San Francisco without a vehicle: Don't do it. No seriously.

Hunting. Or at least that's what this was going to be about.

I was in Michigan over this past weekend. Colleen, my 25-year-old sister, and I headed up to the Upper Peninsula late Saturday to meet my parents who had arrived the day before. Col hadn't been to our northwoods home in three years, since before she left for the Peace Corps. Sometimes I imagine myself doing something like the Peace Corps, but then I realize all the things she had to do, those she couldn't do, and how scary it is to be alone. I enjoy alone time, I do, but it's, well, lonely, when it's not self-imposed. I guess it would be mildly self-imposed though, in the Peace Corps case, as you'd be the one to sign on, but still.

Anyway, we were heading to the outward bounds. It's so beautiful up there. Fresh. Things are literally clearer. I'm set to move to San Francisco next week to take some leaps into my future. Ode Magazine offered me an enticing internship at their California office, so I took it. Early bird catches the worm.

No one in my family is really that encouraging about it though, which was expected. Journalists make no money unless you're someone like Katie Couric, or a journalist who somehow managed to meet a money maker spouse.

Colleen's doing something similar, but it's in Los Angeles, and it's a screenwriters workshop. I think it will be good for her, providing her with the necessary skillset she'll need if she's truly serious. I think the same of my adventure, and yes, it's an adventure and a test in resilience.

Driving up to Michigan Colleen and I discussed the reasons for our sudden departures for warmer weather and fulfilled dreams, or I guess an attempt at reaching both. And it wasn't until talking with her that I really noticed how similar we think. Entitlement generation or not, one has to at least try to gain something beyond the status quo. We realize that if we really, truly wanted to, we could get jobs at offices within the corporate world. And we would probably find a love for it and a passion, but there would always be that, "What If?" And that's what makes life worth it. It's your life, I continually remind myself. You need to do what you want with it, or else you're a slave to it.

Classrooms to Social Class

So, I've often heard it said that life goes in cycles, but I never really believed it to be true.

Now that I seem to have loads of time on my hands, which for anyone who knows me in the slightest knows I do not enjoy, I've used some of it to reflect. [I'm more of a busy body who detests the silence, and revels in the quick-witted world of journalism.] Honestly, at this point I have no choice but to reflect.

You see, jobs are scarce. And yes, I am capable. Yes, I am intelligent. And yes, of course, I can deliver a beautifully crafted 500-5000+ word story for a vast readership. But no. There is no opportunity for that. I get it. I know I can't simply call up my buddy Sam Zell and actually receive a job chalk full of benefits and a company car. I knew that when I signed on as a journalism major, applied to the School, and subsequently graduated with honors. But this whole cycle business -- well, isn't it about time for it to cycle some more? I'm not advocating a mass withdrawal of babyboomers from the jobs that I desire to be mine, but I am advocating for some sort of position open specifically to post-students like myself, and not just one here and there.

Capable. Talented. Intelligent. And really, someone who is unwilling to ditch her dreams to become another desk-riding worker in some office somewhere. It's not even so much the dream of becoming a reputable reporter, but in all honesty, that's what I am trained to be. This is what I paid for, with not only money, but effort and long hours writing, reporting and studying.

As has become obvious with the Bush administration and multiple media outlets finally calling the "subtle beginnings" of what "may be" a recession, it is clear there are going to be a lot of layoffs and much more of what's already started in the job market. However, there should always be room for talented, hardworking people.

I am not living in a dream world -- unless I believed everyone is capable of attaining the American Dream, which I don't subscribe to. Failure happens. Social Mobility happens. Success happens.

The President has used the influx of students released from universities out into the disappearing workforce as a scapegoat for why jobs are seemingly evaporating into thin air, with all this summer heat around, and what not. But I do not buy it. The work force cycles, comes in waves just as everything else, but it probably won't go back this time. Not to how it used to be. We're living in a global economy. Jobs are outsourced, and it's more than just Qwest Internet connections forwarded to India. It's everywhere.

But where is journalism in all this? Should we be effected the same way? It's all that Internet, right? It's newspapers slashing newsrooms 19% like the Chicago Sun-Times. "It's competitive," they say. Or at least they say after we've walked out of the classroom for the last time.

Journalism

I think I would even be ok with a job that may be as miserable as Andy Sach's job was in "The Devil Wears Prada."

I don't even care about of difficult it would be. I just want to work somewhere.

Part of Home

I'm at L. Marshall Roofing & Sheet Metal at the moment. It's pretty ridiculous that I always get roped into working for my father when I'm home on break. I thought this was the time to sit around and do nothing. But, instead, I opt for making some hard earned cash.

Today was spectacularly busy though, except for now, as I write this. I finished with this intense mailing list for the Archdiocese of Chicago. L.P. Marshall is the #1 roofing contractor for all churches in the Chicagoland area. It's actually pretty cool, especially for a man who's token angry phrase is, "Jesus, Mary & Joseph!"

Anyway, I'm not in the mood to start anything new right now. I could finish up with this database project I've begun. So far I've finished nearly a decade's worth of roofing jobs with a grosse earning of over ten grand.

Our family business has helped put six kids through college among other things, and it's really only within the last few years that I've even taken the time to learn about it. It's caused a number of problems as well, but on the whole, it's provided shelter for our family. Growing up my siblings and I would always look at how stressed a self-run business has made my father, so we'd always assumed when my dad was done with it, we'd be done with it. Honestly, I just can't get over what life with this business has amounted to. My grandfather started it after he returned from France where he served in WWII. From there it has morphed with each new job. I don't know, being here sometimes is ridiculously monotonous, but really, I'm so proud of what my father has made this company into. I'm just proud of my dad.

Anyway, I'd just been pondering about this little piece of home.

Buckle Up for Safety

I've seriously got to buckle down and figure out the days before me. I need a job. A real one. Not just some side adventure in retail. I need one which involves dental and a health plan, something I love would be great. But really, I just want to go something worth while that also utilizes all of my attributes to the best of their ability. I'm having a difficult time feeling optimistic, but that's that. There's no choice in the matter. I need to find a career.

jobs

what i hate about jobs is not the actual applying, getting, working---no, it's much more than that. it's annoying that i have to

1. apply to more than one place and

2. the ones that i only sort of want to get, i get, and the ones i get maybe later if at all, are then pushed away because i already have the other one.

i dont like that i have to choose among jobs after applying many places. i would feel bad saying "yes" somewhere and then getting the better job later, and saying "yes" to them and then going to tell the other place "actually, just kidding" shrug. it's a difficult life. i wish i could just apply one place that i really want and they would give it to me. no questions asked.