Not much is going on in my life so I don’t have anything to write about.
So I decided to write about having nothing to write about.
But writing about having nothing to write is writing about something, so it’s sort of a paradox. Like those future movies where you kill off your grandparents. If you did you wouldn’t be there to kill off your grandparents. If I had nothing to write about I wouldn’t be writing. Those kinds of movies always give me a headache.
Not having anything to write about gives me a headache as well. But since I am writing about something,i.e. having nothing to write about, you will be happy to know that my head is doing fine so far. The nice part about writing about nothing is that you don't have to know anything which plays to my strong suit.
I don’t think it is what they call a writer's block. A writer’s block is when you can’t write….because you are blocked. Fascinating things can be happening to you, but you can’t write them. In my case, if I had something to write about, I would be able to write about it…..I think.
I usually like these essays to be about 500 words. Let’s run our little word counter tool and see where we are at now. I have reached 185 words. That’s depressing because I have a long way to go. I am starting to get a headache. I am also running out of things to say about having nothing to say. How many words is that?
Wow. I just cut out my whole next paragraph which has really put me in a hole.
I think the problem here is that the last few days have been very boring. I have settled into a mind numbing routine of working on the computer, sending out resumes, taking my walks and generally not accomplishing much of anything. Sounds like retirement to me. I did do a Full Body Immersion when I was fishing the other day, but let’s not go there. Right now, I am waiting for the cable guys to finish getting our cable telephone installed. As usual This Old House we live in is fighting them to the finish. Working on this place is like trying to clip the nails of a pit bull. There Will Be Blood. At least they are cursing in Spanish so they’re not upsetting the neighbors.
Well, that’s all I have to say on that subject. I am sure you have your own grisly cable story.
Oh! Here’s something that is about to happen: I am getting a haircut at 4:00. Kathie is concerned because this will be my first venture to a local barber. I used to get my haircut in New York. She fears they will give me a mullet.
I hope you appreciate the risk I am taking here. I have exhausted a subject. What am I going to write about the next time I have nothing to write about? I am getting a writers block just thinking about it.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
The Unemployment Office
The notice was clear. On July 10 I was required to report at the New York Department of Labor, Unemployment Division, for employment counseling. It reminded me a little of my draft notice in its officiousness: “This is mandatory. Failure to appear will result in the loss of your unemployment benefits.”
So off I trudge to the Big Apple for the first time since June 5.
I arrive at 2:30 sharp, my appointed time, and check-in. I am told to join the group that is just going into the conference room. A break, I think, because this might be the 2:00 group just getting started.
The conference room is packed. Rows and rows of long tables fill the room. I take one of the last seats in the last row. A swarm of Gray Ladies are busily handing out questionnaires and collecting the ones we were required to bring with us.
The head Gray Lady reminds me of Sister Helen Maurice, my third grade teacher. “No one will be allowed to leave the room without turning in your forms!”, she cackles. “No one will be allowed to leave without an exit interview! No eating or drinking!” I am thinking “defrocked nun.”
I am desperately trying to concentrate. I have to confess that I break down in the face of bullying bureaucracy, and questionnaires are not my strong point. I turn mine in to an oriental Gray Lady. She takes one look at it and slams it down in front of me. “Write,write!,” she says. Apparently she doesn’t have the vocabulary to explain my deficiency further. I am sweating bullets as I look at my paper and see all of the questions answered. I can think of nothing to do but add a few lines to one of them and hand the paper back. “Write,write!!,” she barks again plopping my paper down in front of me. Now panic sets in. I am back in grammar school with sister looming over my desk. I will never be allowed to leave the room until I satisfy Write-Write Lady.
Suddenly the man next to me saves the day. “She wants you to write down what you have been doing to find a job,” he explains. I look at the form and see no question to this effect. I write my response on the bottom of the page. This satisfies Write-Write Lady and she drifts away.
I thank him. He is a salesman from New Jersey and he seems to have done this before. “They are just trying to make us feel like shit for collecting our benefits,” he explains.
The woman in the row ahead of us turns and says: “You two are going to get detention if you keep talking like that.”
Sister Helen is now in front of the room and about to begin her presentation. She asks if there are any veterans present. One man raises his hand. “You can leave and see one of our counselors on the way out. There is no reason for you to sit through this,” she says.
Now my mind is racing. What are they going to put us through that even a battle hardened vet cannot endure? Suddenly a wild thought enters my head: a physical!!
Long suppressed memories of my army physical come storming back. Maybe they want to make sure we are physically fit for employment. I begin scanning the doorways for the appearance of a white smock clad doctor with a box of rubber gloves who will utter those dreaded words: “Drop drawers and bend over.”
Sister Helen is speaking. There is a power point presentation projecting on a green wall that is unreadable from where I am sitting. She does not explain it except to say that it is important. Will there be a quiz?
She is now talking about how she has no computer or technological skills and still has a dial up phone in her house. I am thinking “defrocked cloistered nun.” She then begins a rant as to why she will never set foot in Walmart. I wonder what this has to do with anything. Maybe it is to make us feel better about ourselves: if someone like this can hold a job, there is hope for us.
She announces that this ends the formal presentation and that each of us will be called up for an individual exit interview and counseling. Four Gray Ladies divvy up the pile of questionnaires and resumes. Two set up shop in the conference room, and two lead their victims off to the rabbit warren of cubicles outside.
There are 32 of us in the room as this begins. Gradually, as names are read out the crowd thins. Salesman is on my left and Vicky from New Jersey is on my right. Soon, we are the only ones in our row. We begin to wonder if our earlier chit chat is being held against us.
Salesman says “I hope we get that mousy chick in front of the room. She is turning them over fast.” I guess this shows how much he esteems the counseling one receives here.
Finally Vicky and Salesman are gone along with everyone else. I am alone. A team of two counselors have been involved for what seems like forever trying to sort out a banker's resume. Mousy Chick is deep in conversation with another applicant. It is 4:30. If they don’t get to me, will I have to return?
Mousy Chick finishes. She turns, surveys the empty room as though she is searching for someone in a sea of faces and calls out in a loud voice “Gerard Andersen.” I don’t correct her but spring from my seat to join her.
She looks at my resume. “This is long,” she opines. I explain that I have shorter versions desperately hoping to divert her from reconstructing my resume at this late hour.
“What is this organization you worked for…a union?”, she asks. I tell her that it is a trade association, a group that represents manufacturers rather than workers. “Oh, I never heard of that,” she says. Now I am in full flight mode. What kind of advise can I expect from someone who has never heard of what I do?
“I see you started in 1973…..25 years is a long time,” she says as she reads further. I tactfully point out that 1973 was 35 years ago. “Oh, I never was good at math,” she responds. “I was in high school then,” she adds. Yeah, and I bet you didn’t get asked to the prom.
Finally, she asks what kind of employment I am seeking. I say I would like to join another non-profit. She makes a graceful gesture with her hand that resembles a bird in flight and says: “Those union jobs are gooooooooing awaaaaaaay.”
With this nugget of counseling firmly lodged in my head I bolt for the door and home.
So off I trudge to the Big Apple for the first time since June 5.
I arrive at 2:30 sharp, my appointed time, and check-in. I am told to join the group that is just going into the conference room. A break, I think, because this might be the 2:00 group just getting started.
The conference room is packed. Rows and rows of long tables fill the room. I take one of the last seats in the last row. A swarm of Gray Ladies are busily handing out questionnaires and collecting the ones we were required to bring with us.
The head Gray Lady reminds me of Sister Helen Maurice, my third grade teacher. “No one will be allowed to leave the room without turning in your forms!”, she cackles. “No one will be allowed to leave without an exit interview! No eating or drinking!” I am thinking “defrocked nun.”
I am desperately trying to concentrate. I have to confess that I break down in the face of bullying bureaucracy, and questionnaires are not my strong point. I turn mine in to an oriental Gray Lady. She takes one look at it and slams it down in front of me. “Write,write!,” she says. Apparently she doesn’t have the vocabulary to explain my deficiency further. I am sweating bullets as I look at my paper and see all of the questions answered. I can think of nothing to do but add a few lines to one of them and hand the paper back. “Write,write!!,” she barks again plopping my paper down in front of me. Now panic sets in. I am back in grammar school with sister looming over my desk. I will never be allowed to leave the room until I satisfy Write-Write Lady.
Suddenly the man next to me saves the day. “She wants you to write down what you have been doing to find a job,” he explains. I look at the form and see no question to this effect. I write my response on the bottom of the page. This satisfies Write-Write Lady and she drifts away.
I thank him. He is a salesman from New Jersey and he seems to have done this before. “They are just trying to make us feel like shit for collecting our benefits,” he explains.
The woman in the row ahead of us turns and says: “You two are going to get detention if you keep talking like that.”
Sister Helen is now in front of the room and about to begin her presentation. She asks if there are any veterans present. One man raises his hand. “You can leave and see one of our counselors on the way out. There is no reason for you to sit through this,” she says.
Now my mind is racing. What are they going to put us through that even a battle hardened vet cannot endure? Suddenly a wild thought enters my head: a physical!!
Long suppressed memories of my army physical come storming back. Maybe they want to make sure we are physically fit for employment. I begin scanning the doorways for the appearance of a white smock clad doctor with a box of rubber gloves who will utter those dreaded words: “Drop drawers and bend over.”
Sister Helen is speaking. There is a power point presentation projecting on a green wall that is unreadable from where I am sitting. She does not explain it except to say that it is important. Will there be a quiz?
She is now talking about how she has no computer or technological skills and still has a dial up phone in her house. I am thinking “defrocked cloistered nun.” She then begins a rant as to why she will never set foot in Walmart. I wonder what this has to do with anything. Maybe it is to make us feel better about ourselves: if someone like this can hold a job, there is hope for us.
She announces that this ends the formal presentation and that each of us will be called up for an individual exit interview and counseling. Four Gray Ladies divvy up the pile of questionnaires and resumes. Two set up shop in the conference room, and two lead their victims off to the rabbit warren of cubicles outside.
There are 32 of us in the room as this begins. Gradually, as names are read out the crowd thins. Salesman is on my left and Vicky from New Jersey is on my right. Soon, we are the only ones in our row. We begin to wonder if our earlier chit chat is being held against us.
Salesman says “I hope we get that mousy chick in front of the room. She is turning them over fast.” I guess this shows how much he esteems the counseling one receives here.
Finally Vicky and Salesman are gone along with everyone else. I am alone. A team of two counselors have been involved for what seems like forever trying to sort out a banker's resume. Mousy Chick is deep in conversation with another applicant. It is 4:30. If they don’t get to me, will I have to return?
Mousy Chick finishes. She turns, surveys the empty room as though she is searching for someone in a sea of faces and calls out in a loud voice “Gerard Andersen.” I don’t correct her but spring from my seat to join her.
She looks at my resume. “This is long,” she opines. I explain that I have shorter versions desperately hoping to divert her from reconstructing my resume at this late hour.
“What is this organization you worked for…a union?”, she asks. I tell her that it is a trade association, a group that represents manufacturers rather than workers. “Oh, I never heard of that,” she says. Now I am in full flight mode. What kind of advise can I expect from someone who has never heard of what I do?
“I see you started in 1973…..25 years is a long time,” she says as she reads further. I tactfully point out that 1973 was 35 years ago. “Oh, I never was good at math,” she responds. “I was in high school then,” she adds. Yeah, and I bet you didn’t get asked to the prom.
Finally, she asks what kind of employment I am seeking. I say I would like to join another non-profit. She makes a graceful gesture with her hand that resembles a bird in flight and says: “Those union jobs are gooooooooing awaaaaaaay.”
With this nugget of counseling firmly lodged in my head I bolt for the door and home.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Spam I Am
FYI: I am not checking my regular e-mail anymore, just my spam file.
Here’s why: regular e-mail = bad news; spam=good news
There is never anything good in my regular e-mail just resume and article rejections, would-you-do-this-for-me’s, and when-can-we-expect-payment notices. My spam folder is a wonderful little world full of cheerful stuff and people trying to give me money and improve my life.
Sadly though I must have passed over some demographic line because I no longer get the dozens of Viagra and penis enlargement offers that I used to receive. I guess they think I am beyond all that now.
Here is a sampling from my spam of the last few days:
• Robert Mueller, Director of the FBI, has been in touch. It seems he is in Nigeria now. He doesn’t say why. He wants to send me an ATM card with $800,000 on it that I can use any way I choose. He cautions me to be careful because there are a lot of phony FBI people out there who claim to be investigating e-mail scams. He also suggests that I ignore any notices that my credit card or ATM is being abused because the FBI is already on the case.
• The United Nations has contacted me and it has been agreed that all persons who have been scammed by international e-mail plots will be compensated. My share is $500,000.
• I have won the UK National Lottery 3 times in the last 3 days. This by someone who has never even won the table center piece at a wedding.
• By my account I am the sole survivor and beneficiary of at least 20 Nigerians who have died in the past few days. That’s a side of the family I guess my Norwegian/Irish relatives lost touch with after the great out of Africa migration 100,000 years ago.
• I received many diet offers including one that promised I would lose 9 pounds in 11 days. I am waiting for a better offer, like 20 pounds in a day. One thing the Nigerians have learned, if you are going to make false promises, make big false promises.
• Another Nigerian gentleman has stuffed a box with $1,500,000 and will ship it to me immediately. He says that he will label the box as “old clothes” to fool the customs people. I don’t think that will work. Who will believe that Africans are exporting old clothes to needy Americans?
• Everybody wants to put me and my computer to work making money at home. To hell with that. With all of this money pouring in from Africa, I’m all set.
• By the weirdest of coincidences, three widows of wealthy men who died in U.S. raids on terrorists, all of whom are dying of breast cancer, want to give me sums of money ranging from $8 million to $12 million. Hey, I guess it’s no more of a long shot than winning the lottery 3 times in 3 days.
• By my count, I have 12 laptops and 15 Palm Pilots waiting for me to claim free for nothing.
• My favorite name of a Nigerian scam artist: Reverend Earnest Oh.
So, this is the world I will be living in until further notice. If you want to reach me, make me an offer that is too good to be true.
Here’s why: regular e-mail = bad news; spam=good news
There is never anything good in my regular e-mail just resume and article rejections, would-you-do-this-for-me’s, and when-can-we-expect-payment notices. My spam folder is a wonderful little world full of cheerful stuff and people trying to give me money and improve my life.
Sadly though I must have passed over some demographic line because I no longer get the dozens of Viagra and penis enlargement offers that I used to receive. I guess they think I am beyond all that now.
Here is a sampling from my spam of the last few days:
• Robert Mueller, Director of the FBI, has been in touch. It seems he is in Nigeria now. He doesn’t say why. He wants to send me an ATM card with $800,000 on it that I can use any way I choose. He cautions me to be careful because there are a lot of phony FBI people out there who claim to be investigating e-mail scams. He also suggests that I ignore any notices that my credit card or ATM is being abused because the FBI is already on the case.
• The United Nations has contacted me and it has been agreed that all persons who have been scammed by international e-mail plots will be compensated. My share is $500,000.
• I have won the UK National Lottery 3 times in the last 3 days. This by someone who has never even won the table center piece at a wedding.
• By my account I am the sole survivor and beneficiary of at least 20 Nigerians who have died in the past few days. That’s a side of the family I guess my Norwegian/Irish relatives lost touch with after the great out of Africa migration 100,000 years ago.
• I received many diet offers including one that promised I would lose 9 pounds in 11 days. I am waiting for a better offer, like 20 pounds in a day. One thing the Nigerians have learned, if you are going to make false promises, make big false promises.
• Another Nigerian gentleman has stuffed a box with $1,500,000 and will ship it to me immediately. He says that he will label the box as “old clothes” to fool the customs people. I don’t think that will work. Who will believe that Africans are exporting old clothes to needy Americans?
• Everybody wants to put me and my computer to work making money at home. To hell with that. With all of this money pouring in from Africa, I’m all set.
• By the weirdest of coincidences, three widows of wealthy men who died in U.S. raids on terrorists, all of whom are dying of breast cancer, want to give me sums of money ranging from $8 million to $12 million. Hey, I guess it’s no more of a long shot than winning the lottery 3 times in 3 days.
• By my count, I have 12 laptops and 15 Palm Pilots waiting for me to claim free for nothing.
• My favorite name of a Nigerian scam artist: Reverend Earnest Oh.
So, this is the world I will be living in until further notice. If you want to reach me, make me an offer that is too good to be true.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Tummy Dearest
I never really appreciated you, my loyal, trusty stomach until you crapped out on me during our recent trip to Vermont.
I knew things were not right when, as I studied a plate of rib eye (medium rare), scalloped potatoes, and baby string beans, you groaned up to me that you were not able to participate. I can’t even recall the last time you could not answer the call to duty.
You have always been my reliable, eager partner in our gustatory shenanigans. Every buffet, cocktail hour, cookout, was a challenge you welcomed. “Bring it on”, you would say in your husky grumble. Try the goat? Sure, you would gurgle.
You swelled with pride when Kathie would pat you and say that she thought you could grind down pig iron. You jiggled with glee the time the waiter at the Spanish restaurant asked if we would like to pack up what was left in our Paella pot. Upon seeing there was nothing there he said: “Oh, you ate it all. Most people don’t.” It was one of our finest moments.
You have always had my best interests at heart, but I have let you down on too many occasions. You know that we may have hit a bumpy patch with me being jobless, so you, like the good half Irish stomach you are, have been bulking up for the Starving Time. And how do I thank you? Would it kill me to go to a larger pants size so you can have a little comfort? My false pride says no, so you are forced to dangle beyond the beltway exposed and alone.
And you have always had the best interests of mankind at heart, as well. You knew, as our Mom told us, children in China would starve if we didn’t clean our plate. A lifetime of clean plates? China an economic juggernaut? Coincidence? I don’t think so!
Still, in the words of Kenny Rogers, You Picked A Bad Time To Leave Me, Lucille.
On vacation, no less...On the American Plan, no less...gourmet meals every night, no less. If I didn’t know you better, I would say it was spiteful, almost bilious, on your part.
Still, I am sure it was something that I did to upset you. Kathie blames my using the old ice cubes in the personal fridge that was in our room. Maybe so, but how was I to chill my glass of wine without walking 100 feet to the ice machine? I would have had to put my shoes back on. You know me better than that.
I am proud of you though. You rallied on the last night and made short work of a shrimp scallopine and finished with a flourish by downing the carrot cake.
What is that you say? Isn’t the damn chicken done yet? That’s my boy!
I knew things were not right when, as I studied a plate of rib eye (medium rare), scalloped potatoes, and baby string beans, you groaned up to me that you were not able to participate. I can’t even recall the last time you could not answer the call to duty.
You have always been my reliable, eager partner in our gustatory shenanigans. Every buffet, cocktail hour, cookout, was a challenge you welcomed. “Bring it on”, you would say in your husky grumble. Try the goat? Sure, you would gurgle.
You swelled with pride when Kathie would pat you and say that she thought you could grind down pig iron. You jiggled with glee the time the waiter at the Spanish restaurant asked if we would like to pack up what was left in our Paella pot. Upon seeing there was nothing there he said: “Oh, you ate it all. Most people don’t.” It was one of our finest moments.
You have always had my best interests at heart, but I have let you down on too many occasions. You know that we may have hit a bumpy patch with me being jobless, so you, like the good half Irish stomach you are, have been bulking up for the Starving Time. And how do I thank you? Would it kill me to go to a larger pants size so you can have a little comfort? My false pride says no, so you are forced to dangle beyond the beltway exposed and alone.
And you have always had the best interests of mankind at heart, as well. You knew, as our Mom told us, children in China would starve if we didn’t clean our plate. A lifetime of clean plates? China an economic juggernaut? Coincidence? I don’t think so!
Still, in the words of Kenny Rogers, You Picked A Bad Time To Leave Me, Lucille.
On vacation, no less...On the American Plan, no less...gourmet meals every night, no less. If I didn’t know you better, I would say it was spiteful, almost bilious, on your part.
Still, I am sure it was something that I did to upset you. Kathie blames my using the old ice cubes in the personal fridge that was in our room. Maybe so, but how was I to chill my glass of wine without walking 100 feet to the ice machine? I would have had to put my shoes back on. You know me better than that.
I am proud of you though. You rallied on the last night and made short work of a shrimp scallopine and finished with a flourish by downing the carrot cake.
What is that you say? Isn’t the damn chicken done yet? That’s my boy!
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Me & Tubby PC
The TV ad for Macintosh characterizes the PC as a somewhat overweight but neat and prissy man. The Mac dude on the other hand is slim, young and contemporary.
I’m cool with the Mac guy, but I disagree with the PC portrayal. He should be a big, fat, whiney slob who is also a nag and a pack rat. He also is prone to hardening of the arteries.
I have always had Macs at the office and at home. A year or so ago, Kathie and I purchased a Dell PC laptop thinking that this was the way the world was going. As usual, the world is going the wrong way.
I hate the damn thing. My Mac was just like the guy in the ads. He was cool and laid back and just let me do my work. Tubby PC is always yapping at me about something: “you must get this update NOW!”
He also has his own agenda. My favorite is when he announces that something that he has just done, totally without my permission, has been completed and the computer will shut down in 2 minutes. Hello, I’m still working here!
He’s fat because he eats too many cookies. This apparently has had a very negative impact on his circulatory system. He has slowed down now to a speed that even the designers of the original Univac couldn’t bear. When you ask him to do something, you can hear his little gears grinding away as he struggles to get it done. He’s like an obese guy trying to mow his grass with a push mower. You can practically hear him huff and puff.
Sometimes like me when I am standing in front of the refrigerator trying to remember why I am there, he forgets what he is doing and nothing happens. Then I have to reclick the icon to remind him and start the huffing and puffing all over again.
He also has a sarcastic sense of humor. The little hour glass he displays on the screen while he slowly labors is a constant reminder of my life slipping away.
I asked my brother-in-law who was a systems analyst before he retired and is still into computers why it behaves like this. He explained that it picks up all sorts of extraneous stuff, i.e. cookies from the internet that slow it down over the course of time. His fix for this is to buy a new computer.
My fix is to swear at Tubby PC and to weigh my chances of reaching the neighbors pool if I hurl him like a discus.
This didn’t happen with my Mac. Apparently the nefarious sorts who produce cookies, viruses, worms, etc. can’t be bothered with Macs because there are too few of them. That’s fine with me. Let them keep picking on the fat kid.
I will buy a new Mac laptop at the earliest possible moment, i.e. when I have the money.
Of course, I will have to go to the store to do it. It would be asking too much of Tubby for me to try to order it over the internet.
I’m cool with the Mac guy, but I disagree with the PC portrayal. He should be a big, fat, whiney slob who is also a nag and a pack rat. He also is prone to hardening of the arteries.
I have always had Macs at the office and at home. A year or so ago, Kathie and I purchased a Dell PC laptop thinking that this was the way the world was going. As usual, the world is going the wrong way.
I hate the damn thing. My Mac was just like the guy in the ads. He was cool and laid back and just let me do my work. Tubby PC is always yapping at me about something: “you must get this update NOW!”
He also has his own agenda. My favorite is when he announces that something that he has just done, totally without my permission, has been completed and the computer will shut down in 2 minutes. Hello, I’m still working here!
He’s fat because he eats too many cookies. This apparently has had a very negative impact on his circulatory system. He has slowed down now to a speed that even the designers of the original Univac couldn’t bear. When you ask him to do something, you can hear his little gears grinding away as he struggles to get it done. He’s like an obese guy trying to mow his grass with a push mower. You can practically hear him huff and puff.
Sometimes like me when I am standing in front of the refrigerator trying to remember why I am there, he forgets what he is doing and nothing happens. Then I have to reclick the icon to remind him and start the huffing and puffing all over again.
He also has a sarcastic sense of humor. The little hour glass he displays on the screen while he slowly labors is a constant reminder of my life slipping away.
I asked my brother-in-law who was a systems analyst before he retired and is still into computers why it behaves like this. He explained that it picks up all sorts of extraneous stuff, i.e. cookies from the internet that slow it down over the course of time. His fix for this is to buy a new computer.
My fix is to swear at Tubby PC and to weigh my chances of reaching the neighbors pool if I hurl him like a discus.
This didn’t happen with my Mac. Apparently the nefarious sorts who produce cookies, viruses, worms, etc. can’t be bothered with Macs because there are too few of them. That’s fine with me. Let them keep picking on the fat kid.
I will buy a new Mac laptop at the earliest possible moment, i.e. when I have the money.
Of course, I will have to go to the store to do it. It would be asking too much of Tubby for me to try to order it over the internet.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Pass the Veggies
I think I might do okay as a vegetarian.
The reason this came up is that my son, Kris, recently announced that he is becoming a vegetarian. He read a book about all of the yucky stuff they put in meat these days. He apparently has not yet read the book about all the yucky stuff they put in vegetables these days.
Kris is very disciplined about things like diet and exercise, so this may, in fact, be a life style change.
So this got me thinking about how I might do as a vegetarian. Well, the first barrier has already been cleared: there are no meat products in a martini. In fact, I could not think of one single alcoholic beverage that contains meat. There might be one that’s made from distilled pig’s knuckles or something. I wouldn’t put it past the Germans to come up with something like that, but I’m not going there anyway.
That critical baseline having been established, I am also good on some of the other staples of my diet: there’s no meat in pretzels, potato chips, pizza, cookies, pasta or cake. Now I know what you vegans are thinking: you have to watch out for your egg products, cheese, shortening, etc. To which I respond, go chew on a twig. Vegans are like Orthodox Vegetarians. I am setting my sights on becoming more like a Reformed Vegetarian.
This brings us to that other staple of the vegetarian diet: beans. I am so cool with beans. I like them baked, refried, sautéed, you name it. I will miss those big chunks of pork fat that come in the canned baked beans, but come on, some sacrifices are necessary. Also, since the invention of Beano, some of the social consequences of over bean indulgence have been mitigated.
Fish and bread are also good in the Reformed lexicon.
So, you are starting to get the picture: you can be a vegetarian without actually having to eat a bona fide vegetable. I think if more guys realized this, more of us would be vegetarians.
I have always viewed vegetables under the best of circumstances as a necessary evil and a way to cleanse the pallet and conscience after downing a pound and half of meat. I can remember as a boy negotiating with my mother exactly how many peas I would need to eat before I would be allowed to leave the table. The agreed upon number was twelve.
Under the worst of circumstances there is broccoli, Brussels sprouts, and cabbage. I will still stamp my feet and clamp my mouth shut if any of above appears on my plate. I am not alone in this. The first George Bush hated broccoli as well and famously observed: “I am the President of the United States and the most powerful man in the world. I don’t have to eat broccoli if I don’t want to.”
I am thinking of starting my own form of vegetarianism: Reformed Reformed Vegetarian. Under this system it is permissible to eat the flesh of animals that are vegetarians, i.e. grazing and grain fed critters. They have already done the heavy work of converting the unsavory vegetation into tasty protein. Why re-invent the wheel?
Of course, animals that eat the flesh of other animals are off the menu. No more cat burgers or dog chops for me. Tough, but it’s for my own good.
The reason this came up is that my son, Kris, recently announced that he is becoming a vegetarian. He read a book about all of the yucky stuff they put in meat these days. He apparently has not yet read the book about all the yucky stuff they put in vegetables these days.
Kris is very disciplined about things like diet and exercise, so this may, in fact, be a life style change.
So this got me thinking about how I might do as a vegetarian. Well, the first barrier has already been cleared: there are no meat products in a martini. In fact, I could not think of one single alcoholic beverage that contains meat. There might be one that’s made from distilled pig’s knuckles or something. I wouldn’t put it past the Germans to come up with something like that, but I’m not going there anyway.
That critical baseline having been established, I am also good on some of the other staples of my diet: there’s no meat in pretzels, potato chips, pizza, cookies, pasta or cake. Now I know what you vegans are thinking: you have to watch out for your egg products, cheese, shortening, etc. To which I respond, go chew on a twig. Vegans are like Orthodox Vegetarians. I am setting my sights on becoming more like a Reformed Vegetarian.
This brings us to that other staple of the vegetarian diet: beans. I am so cool with beans. I like them baked, refried, sautéed, you name it. I will miss those big chunks of pork fat that come in the canned baked beans, but come on, some sacrifices are necessary. Also, since the invention of Beano, some of the social consequences of over bean indulgence have been mitigated.
Fish and bread are also good in the Reformed lexicon.
So, you are starting to get the picture: you can be a vegetarian without actually having to eat a bona fide vegetable. I think if more guys realized this, more of us would be vegetarians.
I have always viewed vegetables under the best of circumstances as a necessary evil and a way to cleanse the pallet and conscience after downing a pound and half of meat. I can remember as a boy negotiating with my mother exactly how many peas I would need to eat before I would be allowed to leave the table. The agreed upon number was twelve.
Under the worst of circumstances there is broccoli, Brussels sprouts, and cabbage. I will still stamp my feet and clamp my mouth shut if any of above appears on my plate. I am not alone in this. The first George Bush hated broccoli as well and famously observed: “I am the President of the United States and the most powerful man in the world. I don’t have to eat broccoli if I don’t want to.”
I am thinking of starting my own form of vegetarianism: Reformed Reformed Vegetarian. Under this system it is permissible to eat the flesh of animals that are vegetarians, i.e. grazing and grain fed critters. They have already done the heavy work of converting the unsavory vegetation into tasty protein. Why re-invent the wheel?
Of course, animals that eat the flesh of other animals are off the menu. No more cat burgers or dog chops for me. Tough, but it’s for my own good.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
My Resume
I have been trying to put my resume together and, boy, is it a challenge.
A “recruiter” recently told me that the two biggest obstacles I face in my search for employment are my age and the “one dimensional” nature of my experience. By this he means, basically, I’ve had the same job for 35 years. It’s going to take some literary magic to re-package a one dimensional old bat like me.
Of course, for a mere 5,000 bucks he would take a shot at it. It’s nice to know that my life can be made marketable for about the cost of a root canal. It would be even nicer to know I had 5,000 bucks.
He suggested that I “de-emphasize” my age by chucking the chronological approach to resume writing. For you first time readers, I am 63.
He suggested going with an accomplishments and skills approach rather than a year by year list of positions and activities. Of course, using this technique, while factoring in my one dimensionality, I am left with a one line resume. Pithy, indeed.
I am not sure I agree with this. If your resume has no references to years and dates, I think the average employer will catch on that you are hiding something. I mean these people are employers, not employees, for a reason.
A friend of my thinks I should just lie about my age. When I asked her what she thought I could get away with, she said 61. Not only does this not help, but it also hurts my feelings.
Another approach I have considered is to pretend I really don’t know how old I am: “I was raised by a family of seals in the South Atlantic. They didn't have calendars.” This would be confirmed by the layer of blubber around my mid-section. Or maybe I will have a section on my resume called The Lost Years. It would be blank, of course. This would perhaps give me a certain romantic cache, while clouding the whole age issue.
Maybe I should deal with it head on. Let’s face it the major reason corporate brass doesn’t want to hire seniors is they are afraid we will go face down in our pudding in the company cafeteria upsetting everyone.
I can assure them that I am in sound health, except for that vagueness thing, and bring many things to the dance like experience, wisdom and one dimensionality.
My mere presence can raise the morale of the entire staff by making them feel superior: “At least I’m not like him, I have a future.”
And besides, many of the younger set find uncontrollable flatulence humorous.
A “recruiter” recently told me that the two biggest obstacles I face in my search for employment are my age and the “one dimensional” nature of my experience. By this he means, basically, I’ve had the same job for 35 years. It’s going to take some literary magic to re-package a one dimensional old bat like me.
Of course, for a mere 5,000 bucks he would take a shot at it. It’s nice to know that my life can be made marketable for about the cost of a root canal. It would be even nicer to know I had 5,000 bucks.
He suggested that I “de-emphasize” my age by chucking the chronological approach to resume writing. For you first time readers, I am 63.
He suggested going with an accomplishments and skills approach rather than a year by year list of positions and activities. Of course, using this technique, while factoring in my one dimensionality, I am left with a one line resume. Pithy, indeed.
I am not sure I agree with this. If your resume has no references to years and dates, I think the average employer will catch on that you are hiding something. I mean these people are employers, not employees, for a reason.
A friend of my thinks I should just lie about my age. When I asked her what she thought I could get away with, she said 61. Not only does this not help, but it also hurts my feelings.
Another approach I have considered is to pretend I really don’t know how old I am: “I was raised by a family of seals in the South Atlantic. They didn't have calendars.” This would be confirmed by the layer of blubber around my mid-section. Or maybe I will have a section on my resume called The Lost Years. It would be blank, of course. This would perhaps give me a certain romantic cache, while clouding the whole age issue.
Maybe I should deal with it head on. Let’s face it the major reason corporate brass doesn’t want to hire seniors is they are afraid we will go face down in our pudding in the company cafeteria upsetting everyone.
I can assure them that I am in sound health, except for that vagueness thing, and bring many things to the dance like experience, wisdom and one dimensionality.
My mere presence can raise the morale of the entire staff by making them feel superior: “At least I’m not like him, I have a future.”
And besides, many of the younger set find uncontrollable flatulence humorous.
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