Wednesday, September 28, 2011

If you want to get really depressed about the state of humankind, tune in to TLC. On any given night, you can peruse a gallery of carny freaks.

This is the network that brought us Sarah Palin’s Alaska, the former VP candidate’s show about roughing it up by Russia. It’s the network that introduced us to über-mom Kate Gosselin, first with Jon & Kate Plus 8 and then sans Jon in Kate Plus 8. It’s the network that has let us into the lives of polygamists, prepubescent beauty queens, pregnant women who don’t know they’re pregnant, little people named Bill and Jen, and a variety of poor souls with, as TLC puts it, “unique sexual conditions.”

But as Cole and I discovered tonight while we were channel surfing, TLC has one offering that stands above all others: Extreme Couponing. After a few minutes of watching in disbelief, Cole said, “Who are these people?”

Good question. Apparently, they devote their lives to clipping coupons in order to stockpile more food than they could possibly eat before it turns bad. The extreme couponers Cole and I watched procured thousands of dollars of groceries for, like, 20 bucks.

They seem to do it mostly for gluttonous sport, but I saw something else. I stared into the raging abyss that is Extreme Couponing and—sweet mother of mercy—I saw myself.

I’ll be five years into my unemployment, I thought, and this will be me. Forget my once-thriving career as an editor and writer—I’ll be scrounging up coupons to get by. And I’ll haul my goods to my van by the river.

This horrific vision brings me to my next point. More than a few people have told me they feel pangs of guilt for enjoying my blog. To that, I say: Don’t feel guilty—I’m just glad anyone takes the time to read it. I officially give you permission to have a chuckle or two at my expense.

Sure, I’m sometimes crippled by fear on this weird journey of mine. Sure, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, look at the ceiling with bulging eyes, and think, I’m screwed. Sure, I’m reminded that the economy is cratering every time I turn on the TV. Sure, this whole thing sucks in so many ways.

But it’s much better to laugh than to flinch when staring into the abyss. If we can’t keep smiling, then we really are all screwed.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Don’t get me wrong—working at home has its advantages. (Okay, I’m not technically working, but I do have some freelance assignments, and I sure feel busy.) Anyway, the commute to the dining room table is five seconds, and no one is the boss of me.

On the downside, it’s a solitary pursuit. Save for intermittent conversations with my wife and my cats, I can go hours, sometimes even an entire day, without talking to anyone. In today’s virtual world, communication occurs primarily via email, texting and the like.

Sometimes cyberspace feels like a vacuum, especially where the job hunter is concerned. Remember ding letters? If not, here’s a refresher: They were typed pieces of paper that were placed in envelopes and delivered via what annoying people call “snail mail.” Ding letters were real bummers at the time—they were rejections from prospective employers after all—but compared to today, they may as well have been badges of honor. They signified that you had interacted with a human being.

No such acknowledgements exist today. The human element has been sucked out of the marketplace. Online want ads generally contain no contact person, no phone number—nothing that might facilitate reaching out to your fellow man or woman. After you press the “send” button, your job application is little more than a wisp in the ether.

This is the Age of Connectivity, yet we’re more alone and isolated than ever. I mean, let’s be real: A Facebook friend is not a friend—it’s a collection of data.

But enough of my soapbox ramblings. Today was actually a pretty good day. There were no traffic delays en route to my dining room table, I didn’t have to pretend to like my boss, and—get this—I talked to someone on the phone for a while about a freelance assignment. It beat the hell out of talking to my cats.

September 25, 2011-September 26, 2011

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Henceforth, I shall refer to the girls as The Girls. There isn’t a better way to pay tribute to them. Not only did they stay out till 4:30 last night, but they also seem none the worse for wear this morning.

It’s 9 a.m., and Karen is in the kitchen cooking homemade gummy bears with Liv. Meanwhile, Sharon and Sue are at the dining room table regaling me with tales of their Rush Street escapades.

Shortly before noon, The Girls depart. They’re perfect ambassadors for the indefatigable city of Cleveland—I’m tired just thinking about them. I laze around for the rest of the day and build up my strength. Week 4 of my metamorphosis into something or other awaits.

Monday, September 26, 2011

It occurs to me that I’ve been going about this thing all wrong. I’m a bundle of nerves, which isn’t healthy. Maybe I need a little less ass-kicking and a little more Zen.

Enter my Fender acoustic guitar.

The newest addition to my set-up
at the dining room table.

Before proceeding, I want to be perfectly clear: I suck at guitar. But for the purposes of this blog entry and my life in general, that’s not important. I know I’m never going to be Jimi Hendrix or even his brother Leon. Playing guitar is simply a stress reliever for me, a great escape.

Anyway, it took a long time to reach that point. When I was a kid, my parents made me try an orchestra pit’s worth of instruments—piano, cello, trumpet, baritone, tuba—and I hated every one. All I really wanted to do was raise a little hell on guitar, but my parents had other, more refined ideas.

Everything changed about five years ago. Spurred on by creative boredom at Crushed Soul Publishing and midlife angst, I finally took up the guitar. (This is where I must give a nod of appreciation to Cassie and the kids, who bought me a little starter Starcaster for Christmas and have probably lived to regret it.)

After a year of noodling around on my own, I signed up for lessons with a guy named Lem, who stands about 6-5 and has long, frizzy hair and a ZZ Top beard. Through a mixture of encouragement and intimidation, Lem took me as far as he possibly could. I never progressed beyond being a campfire strummer, but I was still smitten (with the guitar, not Lem).

Guitar Center became my home away from home. In addition to the aforementioned Fender acoustic, I bought an Epiphone Joe Pass hollow body, a nasty Squier Stratocaster with hot-rod pickups, and a Gibson SG. I also purchased a little four-track TASCAM recorder and began writing songs.

I wrote “Booby’s in the Laundry Room,” a ditty that has a cameo by my cat Friday, who is nicknamed Booby; I wrote “Suck Me, Joe,” which is about Joe the Plumber’s rise to fame during the 2008 presidential campaign; I wrote “Satan’s Daughter,” my tribute to the lyrical stylings of Robert Plant. I wrote a lot of songs, many of which are best left unheard.

Until last Friday, however, I hadn’t so much as looked at my collection of guitars since being laid off. Given these dire times, I didn’t feel as if I could justify an escape or a distraction.

But like I said, I’ve reconsidered that strategy. I now keep my Fender acoustic right next to me at the dining room table, and I stop to play it whenever I feel the stress building. I don’t know about you, but that’s how I roll.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Karen, Sharon and Sue are making plans to head downtown for another night of revelry. Their commitment to excellence is enviable…and exhausting. After last night’s Running Still show (which, by the way, kicked ass), Cassie and I are played out.

We agree, however, to stop with them at newly opened Rivers Casino before their evening begins in earnest. It's an all-too-close seven miles from our house, and this is my first trip there.

Me and the girls.

Common sense dictates that casinos and the frugality that accompanies unemployment aren't a stellar combination. My hunch is confirmed early on, when a slot machine swallows up the first of my twenties quicker than I could have burned it. Wanting my precious cash to last a bit longer, I venture over to the two-cent slot machines, but I fare only marginally better.

On a certain level, I admire the capitalistic brilliance of this place. Its window dressings—the savory (though cheesy) restaurants, the glittery (though cheesy) bars—almost make you forget that it was built for only one purpose: to take your money with ruthless efficiency.

Cassie and the girls don’t have much luck either, so we nurse our wounds with a round of drinks in one of the glittery (though cheesy) bars. Afterward the girls go to Rush Street, and Cassie and I go home.

While the girls party the night away, I fall asleep to Saturday Night Live. Pathetic, I know—but I don’t mind. I’m in a low-key mode these days. The girls roll into the house at 4:30 a.m., and I stir for just long enough to think, Better them than me. Then I roll over and drift back into a wonderful slumber.

September 22, 2011-September 23, 2011

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THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 2011

Around this time each week, I seem to grow tired of pontificating on the nuances of my life, so much so that I wonder why I started this silly little blog in the first place. I mean, after I was laid off, I didn’t want to talk about it with anyone, not even my family. Now I’m sharing the most intimate details of my soul-searching journey with any Tom, Dick or Harry who stumbles upon them. Go figure.

At any rate, I’m not going to talk about myself for the next couple days—I’ll talk about other people. (Sorry, other people.)

I’ll start by talking about my wife. (Sorry, wife.) Cassie’s done the work-at-home thing for a little over a year, and I have no idea how she’s pulled it off without going batshit crazy. Between listening to the kids, doing stuff for the kids and driving the kids from one end of town to the other, it’s nearly impossible to cobble together an uninterrupted day of work.

Just today, for example, Liv was practicing her trombone…in the room next to mine. I laud dear sweet Liv’s commitment to excellence—I honestly do—but after 15 horn-filled minutes, I wanted to stick my head in the oven.

Now I’ll talk more about Liv. (Sorry, Liv.) She had a volleyball match tonight, and although her team didn’t win, she was a model of concentration and determination. This was her best game of the season, and her papa, though concussed from the trombone ordeal, couldn’t have been prouder.

Now I’ll talk about Cole. (Sorry, Cole.) I dropped him off at the Y before Liv’s volleyball game so that he could lift weights with a friend from school. He’s really taken to pumping iron. In a P.E. test at school this week, he bench-pressed 140 pounds 10 times and leg-pressed 500 pounds. For a kid who wasn’t interested in much beyond video games a year ago, he’s developing into quite the ass-kicker.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 2011

Now I’ll talk about Sharon, Karen and Sue. (Sorry, ladies.) They all hail from Cassie’s hometown of Cleveland, and they’re coming here today for a visit.

Sharon is the ex-wife of Cassie’s younger brother, Georgie, who died in a motorcycle accident a few years ago. (More on that someday—I don’t have the heart to get into it now.) Karen is married to Cassie’s older brother, Donny. And Sue is a longtime friend of Sharon’s. Apparently, Sue has a shoe-storage room in her house that’s roughly the size of Minneapolis. (Sorry, Sue.)

This is Sharon’s first trip here since Georgie passed. Back in the day, Georgie and Sharon would come all the time. My fondest memory of those visits might be a night Georgie, Sharon, Sue, Cassie and I saw Social Distortion at the House of Blues. We drank a ton and stayed out way too late, and Georgie nearly picked a fight with some poor shlub he mistakenly thought had put his arm around Sharon.

I’m excited to see the folks from Cleveland, but they’re behind schedule, maybe because Sue had to load some extra shoes into the car. (Sorry, Sue.)

Now I’ll talk about Running Still. (Sorry, Still). Running Still is my friend Bennett’s band. It was formed during high school by a drummer everyone affectionately calls DeRo, and it kicked some adolescent ass until everyone grew up and went his separate way.

Enter everyone’s midlife crisis. Eight years ago or so, Still reformed for a high school reunion weekend, and it’s been together ever since. Nevertheless, things are different now—and not just because the band members have less hair and softer bellies. DeRo, the heart and soul of Still, moved to Colorado about a year ago.

Running Still is playing tonight at a golf club near my house, and Cassie, Sharon, Karen, Sue and I plan to go. This will be the first time I’ll see the band with its new lineup.

Yes, things will be different tonight—no Georgie standing next to us with a Budweiser in hand, no DeRo merrily jamming onstage—but we have no choice but to make the best of it. I, for one, plan to make it a kick-ass night.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Back in my days covering sports, I wrote a feature article on “Smokin’” Joe Frazier, the onetime heavyweight champion of the world. I went to his hometown of Philly, and we spent a couple days touring the ghetto from which he sprang. It was a truly edifying experience, providing valuable lessons in perseverance. Smokin’ Joe told me something that applies perfectly to my current bout against unemployment: The most important thing a boxer can do is keep his feet moving at all times.

Actually, on second thought, Smokin’ Joe never told me that. It just popped into my head. No matter. It’s pertinent nonetheless: If you want good things to happen, you can’t be caught flat-footed—you must press the action. That’s why boxers jump so much rope. It trains them to keep their feet moving.

Today I jump a lot of rope, starting at 7:30 a.m. when we go to Liv’s school to help train the journalists of tomorrow. I’m assigned a seventh-grader named Josh, or maybe it’s Jacob or Jerry or Jake—Christ, I can’t remember—who has just completed the first story of his journalism career. I unsheathe my red pen and take a swipe at the paper. And another swipe. And another. And another. Before long, the sheet is covered with red lines.

Jeff or Jude or whatever his name is doesn’t know what to make of all that red ink, so I explain each scratching to him. Afterward, I say, “Nice job, especially for you first story.” He’s a good kid. He’ll be back.

On the way out of school, Cassie asks if I want to stop at Caribou Coffee. I’m stressed about all the stuff I need to do for the freelance gig that doesn’t pay great but is steady, so I try to decline. I want to keep my feet moving.

Cassie rolls her eyes and says, “Even if you have more to do than me—which you don’t—you need to learn how to relax. Taking five minutes to grab a cup of coffee shouldn’t be a big deal.”

She has a point. We drive to Caribou, and I try not to twitch when the car is forced to idle for a few minutes because of a train. Christ, it’s not like we’re going to sit there and drink the coffee. We’re just grabbing it to bring home.

For my lunchtime workout, I decide to run a couple miles around a golf course that’s next to our house. Man, do I move: I clock the two miles in about 16 minutes, which is about as good as it gets for middle-aged me.

I show no signs of slowing as the day wears on. In addition to my freelance work, I pick Cole up at school and then drop him off at the Y in the evening for his swim practice. I go back to the Y a little early to pick him up so that I can sneak in another workout.

After training budding journalists and doing a bunch of freelance work and working out and doing a bunch of freelance work again and working out again, you’d think I’d slow down in the wee hours of the night. Not a chance. I wake up around 3:30 a.m., and my mind is racing. There’s nothing else to do but go to my computer and tap away for a while. My feet are still moving, but I’m starting to get annoyed. I wish they’d stop.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

When I broke the news to my mom that I had been laid off, she asked, “Can you protest it?” She wasn’t joking.

God bless my mom, and God bless moms everywhere. They’re the only people who will love you unconditionally. No matter what you do, they’ll think the best of you. So you just got busted for knocking off a bank? Everyone else will call you a criminal, but Mom will say you’re entrepreneurial. So you’re living under a bridge? Everyone else will call you homeless, but Mom will applaud you for living within your means.

At any rate, I’m neither homeless nor a criminal—I’m just an unemployed guy trying to figure things out. My mom, God bless her, isn’t quite as fatalistic about the situation. She’s pissed at the people who did this to me, and I’m pretty sure she wants to get on the phone and give them all shades of hell. I wish I had my mom’s fortitude. Forget Crushed Soul Publishing—I’d rule the world.

My mom volunteers at Liv’s school to teach the kids about art. There’s an art-lady planning meeting tonight, so she and my dad stop by our house beforehand for dinner. My face is still pasty, my eyes are still glassy, and my fleece is still covered with cat fur, but my mom tells me she’s proud of me. I believe her.

Do I need the scotch to (1) forget that
I don't have a job or (2) forget that
I'm watching the Chicago Cubs?

As we’re sitting down to dinner, a friend from the neighborhood, Todd Gray, pops in with an addition to my I’m-down-on-my-luck bounty: four tickets to tomorrow’s Cubs game.

“I can’t go, and I figure these will go well with your Blue Label scotch,” he says.

There’s no doubt about that. If you’re watching the Cubs, you definitely don’t want to do it sober. A blackout level of intoxication is the way to go, especially this season. I appreciate that Todd is thinking of me, but I won’t be able to use the tickets. I have hours of work to do tomorrow on the freelance gig that doesn’t pay great but is steady. In other words, I plan to be productive.

And that puts me a step ahead of the Cubs, who haven’t done anything productive in more than a century. As I think about the Cubs, my plight doesn’t seem so bad. I mean, I might be down on my luck, but I’m confident I won’t require 100-plus years to turn things around.

Maybe we should send my mom in to manage those sad sacks. Lord knows, they need it.

Monday, September 19, 2011

This flu bug, or whatever it is, isn’t getting any better. My face is pasty, my eyes are glassy, and I feel like I’m floating. Yet I brew some coffee and forge ahead. What else am I going to do?

I start the freelance gig that doesn’t pay great but is steady. (For a refresher, see the “September 16, 2011” entry.) It involves writing a continuous stream of business profiles. To make it worthwhile over the long haul, I’ll need to work both swiftly and cleanly, two of my strengths. In the short haul, however, I’m feeling neither swift nor clean. This flu bug, or whatever it is, really has me out of sorts.

Cassie’s Uncle Bruce is in town on business, and she’s supposed to meet him for lunch at a Potbelly near the airport. Since I can’t muster the will to go to the Y for my usual lunchtime workout, I tag along to Potbelly.

Cassie and I arrive early, of course—she, too, is obsessively early about pretty much everything. The place is empty at first, but it fills up quickly after the clock strikes noon. I gaze at the people waiting in line and focus on a corpulent, bald guy who’s wearing an ill-fitting golf shirt. Wow, talk about unprofessional, I think. He can’t possibly have a job, can he? Apparently he does, because some ridiculous company logo is sewn onto his golf shirt. I spot a woman with a hairdo that can best be described as a mullet and think, Okay, there’s no possible way she’s gainfully employed. But apparently she is, because I overhear her talking to a friend about office politics.

I wonder what they must think of me. The answer I conjure isn’t pretty: Hey, look at that boob slumped over the table. He has a pasty face and glassy eyes, and he’s wearing a fleece that’s covered with cat fur. Does he live with his mom and her 43 cats?

Thankfully, Uncle Bruce arrives. The beauty of Uncle Bruce is that he talks nonstop. As long as you’re still kicking, he’ll keep coming at you. Even once you’ve stopped kicking, he’ll probably keep coming at you. That’s just fine on a day like today, because I’m barely kicking. I simply grunt a syllable here and there, and good old Uncle Bruce takes care of the rest.

When we get home, I do the unthinkable: I lie down on my bed in the middle of the day, the middle of a workday. Fluffy pins me there—and adds more fur to my fleece—when he jumps onto my stomach. (Incidentally, Fluffy has rebounded magnificently in the past several days. The antibiotic shot the vet gave him has worked wonders. Fluffy is now spry and mostly alert, and he isn’t biting us as often. Liv even noted that his coat seems softer.)

After about 30 minutes, I free myself from the bed and from Fluffy, and soldier through the remains of the day. That evening, I trudge to Liv’s volleyball game. It’s Liv’s first year of volleyball, and she’s been having problems serving. Heading into this game, she has yet to hit a serve over the net. But Liv isn’t the type to give up easily—she’s been practicing constantly. And tonight she gets not one, not two, but three serves over the net.

There's a lesson somewhere in that triumph, but I'm too done in to figure it out. Instead, I limp home and crawl into bed.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

My cold has turned into a mild case of the flu, and the weather is gray and damp. It’s a perfect day to do a whole lot of nothing, but R & R isn’t part of the agenda. I’ve told Val Russell that I’ll meet him at Cog Hill in suburban Lemont for the final round of the PGA’s BMW Championship, so I’m out the door at 8 a.m. (In case you can’t remember or haven’t been following this blog all the way through, I edit Val’s local golf paper, Chicago Area Golf.)

Val and I are supposed to catch up in the media center at 10 a.m. From there, he’ll introduce me to some folks who might be able to assist me in my job search. I arrive at Cog Hill an hour early, of course—I’m obsessively early about pretty much everything.

 As I walk the grounds while waiting for Val, my mind takes me back about 20 years to the first pro golf tournament I ever covered, the LPGA’s Corning Classic in upstate Corning, N.Y. In those days, I was sports editor of a daily newspaper in the area called The Leader, and this tournament was a big deal. The entire region rallied around the Classic—everyone was watching—so we had to be at our best.

Most of all, we didn’t want to be outdone by our competition up the road: the cads in the sports department at the Elmira Star-Gazette. It was like the Sharks vs. the Jets in West Side Story, with a couple notable exceptions: (1) No one sang, and (2) we carried pens and notepads instead of switchblades.

But there was still plenty of drama. We’d exchange cutting words in the buffet line and glare at each other menacingly across putting greens. And when all was said and done—when the final words had been written about the tournament—our sports section had shredded their sports section to pieces. That’s my story anyway, and I’m sticking to it.

My Cog Hill excursion is decidedly different from those Corning Classic rumbles. Val and I chat about Chicago Area Golf and hobnob with some people in the media center. Afterward, we walk to the perfectly positioned BMW box (to which we gain entrance because Val flashes his BMW key ring) and take in splendid views of a cluster of holes. Then we head back to the media center for a first-rate lunch and more chitchat. All in all, it’s a pleasant and mildly productive day.

But as I’m driving home, it occurs to me that something significant was missing out there at Cog Hill: the thrill of battle, be it against the black hats from the Star-Gazette or the deadline for a project. This realization might sound like a bummer, but it’s really not. At least I know I still have the fire.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Nothing says friendship like a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. Seriously.

Blue Label is a specially blended scotch that goes for around $200 per bottle. At Binny’s Beverage Depot, I sometimes gaze upon the bottles of Blue Label, which sit in a locked case. I imagine that a choir of angels will start singing whenever the case is opened.

During headier times last spring, we went on a Caribbean cruise with several other families, including the Plelis (more on them in a sec). Intoxicated one night from the glorious sea air, not to mention several cocktails, I decided to splurge. For $28, I ordered a Blue Label on the rocks. The bartender had to call down to another floor, whereupon a shot of the precious elixir was escorted up to me. I think I heard angels sing as it arrived, and I know I did as I drank it.

That was my one and only Blue Label encounter…until the Plelis invited us over last night. After we’d been there about an hour, they handed me a bag that held—you guessed it—a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. The bag also contained a card that was even better than the scotch.

A note from Steve read: “Good luck in your new career as a male escort. Make them pay for the goodies.”

Can you hear the angels singing?

A note from Jane read: “I cannot help you get a job, but I can help you forget that you do not have a job.”

To which I responded: “I should get shit-canned more often.”

Yup, good friends help you through the tough times, something I’m reminded of again tonight when I go to Gibby’s for his barbecue. Alan and Bennett are also there with their families. All told, 11 kids are running around.

We play catch with a football and shoot some hoops. We toss a Frisbee to Gibby’s trusty pooch, Red. We eat a food spread prepared by Gibby that’s so abundant, it looks like something out of King Henry VIII’s court.

After dinner, while the women chat inside and the children bond by roaming around the neighborhood together, my old friends and I adjourn to the deck, where we spin the usual tall tales about our youth. According to our memories, the days of yore were one swashbuckling adventure after another. And all the girls we dated were supermodels.

Driving home, I'm feeling pretty damn upbeat. Good friends—they get you through the tough times.

September 15, 2011-September 16, 2011

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 2011

As I’m driving home from dropping Liv off at school, the epic Thin Lizzy tune “Fighting My Way Back” comes on WXRT. I drink in the anthemic chorus—“Fighting my way back…”—and the hard-charging drums and guitars. An ass-kicking tone has been set for the day.

This is Pete Townshend's
Woodstock guitar.
Or is it?

Yes, I plan to take a couple swipes at my novel. Every writer keeps something in his or her back pocket, and this is mine. It’s a dream I’ve quietly been turning into a reality. Those of you who know me won’t be surprised to learn that the plot centers on Pete Townshend’s Woodstock guitar. (For those of you who don’t know me and live under a rock, Pete Townshend is the guitarist for The Who, the greatest band ever.) If the novel sounds kind of strange and not very compelling, well, I understand. But it all makes sense—you’ll have to read it and see.

If I ever finish it, that is. In the year prior to my layoff from Crushed Soul, my book became something of an obsession. I set aside a day each weekend to write it; my lunch hours at Crushed Soul were consumed by it; I would even scribble away on it at red lights during my commute to and from the office. By the end of August, I had written a whopping 90 pages—I was about one-third done. Then the bell tolled for me at Crushed Soul, and I was forced to channel all of my efforts into other stuff, like finding a job.

Today will be different, but first I figure I should spend at least a couple hours tending to the tedious business of survival. One thing leads to another—though, unfortunately, not to a job—and before I know it, the clock reads 12:15. Time to go to the gym.

When I return, I’m rejuvenated and ready to crank on my beloved novel. Before I can get started, though, I’m redirected by pangs of guilt. I’ve been putting off filing for unemployment, and I really won’t be able to write with a clear conscience until that’s out of the way.

On the one hand, I feel weak for filing, like I’m an unproductive member of society. On the other hand, I’m grateful for this humane mechanism. I’ve done everything pretty much according to the manual—I’ve worked hard and paid my taxes. Things beyond my control went badly astray, and now some help will be there if I need it. After all, my severance won’t last forever.

I botch my attempt to file online, but the nice woman at the unemployment office straightens things out for me after I call over there. Before long, I’m officially among the ranks of the unemployed. This realization produces more pangs of guilt, as well as several jolts of panic. Instead of spending the rest of the afternoon writing a book that likely will produce only modest financial returns when it’s published in the year who-knows-what, I opt to focus on finding a job that will pay money immediately.

Before long, it’s 6 p.m., and I’m spent. Yes, I fought my way back today, but not in the manner I had envisioned.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 2011

It’s 6:30 a.m., and I’ve just risen for the day. I’m staggering around the kitchen trying to get my bearings when I see Penny (one of our cats) squeezed under a cabinet. Only her hind legs are showing. I grab my iPhone and snap a picture of the rollicking scene.

Penny's hind legs.

“Hey, this’d be good for my blog,” I say to Cassie, who’s also staggering around the kitchen.

She’s not so groggy that she can’t respond with a zinger: “Now you’re going to blog about Penny, too? When are you going to blog about looking for a job? Like, ‘I sent out four résumés today. Yay for me.’”

She has a point.

But I’m one step ahead of her, or at least I will be soon.

• By 10 a.m., I’ve landed a freelance gig. The pay isn’t great, but it’ll be steady work. I think of it as a building block.

• By gym time at noon, I’ve set up a couple networking meetings. They’ll get me out of the house and, hopefully, a bit closer to something really cool.

• By 4 p.m., I’ve completed a lengthy application for a job I wouldn’t simply take because I’m desperate. No, this thing actually looks kinda cool.

Flat-out yay for me!

You know what? It’s Miller time. I’ve kicked some ass this week, and I plan to enjoy my weekend. My pal Gibby invited me and some other guys from our old high school gang over for a barbecue tomorrow. I’m getting tired of talking about myself—on this blog and to prospective employers—so it’ll be cathartic to share a few laughs and talk about nothing in particular.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Before I went to work for Crushed Soul Publishing in 2005, I was a sportswriter/sports editor. I spent a solid 15 years covering sports—mostly the NFL but also auto racing, baseball, and bits and pieces of everything else.

A number of things came out of those years that I’ll always cherish. For example:

• I learned how to navigate a buffet line. Some of the most harrowing experiences of my life occurred in pressbox buffet lines. You think I’m joking? Sportswriters would get maimed in these scrums, emerging sans fingers, ears, and other body parts. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating slightly, but it was definitely survival of the fittest.

• I rubbed elbows with some of the biggest names in the biz. When I worked for Inside Sports magazine, for instance, Mike Ditka was one of our special contributors, and it fell upon me to ghostwrite his articles. We’d sit in red-leather armchairs at his golf club, smoking cigars and talking pigskin.

• I was a hit at cocktail parties. Whenever I told the fellas that I covered sports for a living, they’d be glued to me for the rest of the evening.

Eventually, though, I grew bored. How many times can you ask players about their hamstrings before you stop caring about the answers? I was happy to explore other forms of publishing, even if it meant I’d be transformed from Joe Cool into Wallflower Doofus at cocktail parties.

My dining room table, otherwise known as
Wagner Headquarters. It might not look like much,
but big things can spring from humble beginnings.

Not that I’m Wallflower Doofus all the time. Old habits die hard, and I still keep my finger in sports. Among other things, I edit a local golf publication (insert shameless plug here: Chicago Area Golf) for an old friend and former colleague, Val Russell.

When I told Val I’d been laid off from Crushed Soul, he suggested I go with him to the BMW Championship, a PGA tournament at Cog Hill in suburban Lemont that starts this week and runs through Sunday. I agreed to meet up with him on the final day of the tournament, and he set me up with press credentials.

They’re sitting amid the clutter on my dining room table. I’m looking at them right now, and I’m thinking the tournament will provide an excellent networking opportunity, as well as some fresh air.

Besides, I can’t play nursemaid to Fluffy forever. Speaking of which, the rallying cry from my blog’s burgeoning readership has been clear: “We want more Fluffy!” So…I’m happy to report that Fluffy is still alive. Although he remains in something of a funk—periodically sandbagging himself under the chair—he appears to be getting stronger and more energetic.

But enough about Fluffy—this blog is supposed to center on my triumph over adversity, not his. Along those lines, I’m happy to report that the eczema on my finger is back in check, I slept well last night, and I’m looking forward to covering some golf. A field trip will do me good.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

A jackass once said, “This is a marathon, not a sprint.” These words can easily be applied to my job search, and that’s unfortunate. I’d like the sentiment a whole lot more if it went, “This is a sprint, not a marathon.” At least then I’d know I’m close to the finish line.

Less than two weeks into this thing, I’m showing signs of wear. The eczema on my finger has flared up again, and I’m half-certain it will develop into something sinister by sundown. Then there are my sleeping patterns, which have gone haywire. I’m tired during the day because my fretful mind prevents me from falling asleep at night. The upshot is, I’m lurching forward like an eczema-riddled zombie from Night of the Living Dead.

On the bright side, at least I’m not Fluffy, who has been hiding under a chair in our living room since last night. I know his whereabouts only because he doesn’t quite fit under there; his considerable rear end is sticking out. At one point this morning, I’m convinced he has expired. I poke him repeatedly, but he doesn’t move. Finally, he musters a faint growl.

Later in the day, he’s still hiding, stirring only to devour a plate of food I've slid under the chair. I call the vet, who doesn’t seem to want him back and assures me that he’s probably just in a snit. Sure enough, he comes out around bedtime.

But enough about Fluffy—this blog is supposed to center on my travails, not his. Back to my cliché on marathons. Yes, I’m in need of a second wind, but I’m by no means ready to drop. I think of something the great Bob Marley said between hits off his doobie: “Life is one big road with lots of signs. So when you riding through the ruts, don’t complicate your mind.”

In other words, just keep running. You’ll get there someday.

September 11, 2011-September 12, 2011

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2011

It’s the 10-year anniversary of 9/11. My little blog seems insignificant compared to all this. Anything I write will ring hollow, so I’m retiring the old computer keyboard for the day.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 2011

Week 2 of Operation Save Myself gets off to a wobbly start, to say the least. Cole and Liv have colds and barely make it out the door to school. I have a cold, too, and barely make it to the dining room table. Then there’s Fluffy, our cat. He has what appears to be a bladder infection and is scheduled to go to the vet at 8:30 a.m.

Fluffy basking in
his own glory.

Actually, Fluffy is only one of our cats. At last count, we had four others. Weird, I know. We never intended to become Weird Cat People, but Cassie and I are bleeding hearts, and things just sort of worked out that way.

First there was Fluffy. One day about six years ago, Cassie and the kids had too much time on their hands, and they wound up in a pet shop, where they spied the baby Fluff. Within an hour, he arrived home in a cardboard carrier. That flimsy little box couldn’t contain Fluffy, who burst out of it and all but said, “Here I am—deal with it.” Before long, he grew into a lumbering, overweight, ill-humored oaf. But for some inexplicable reason, the kids love him (and maybe I do, too).

Next came Charlie, whom we adopted from a shelter. Charlie is actually a she, something we didn’t find out until she was fixed a few weeks later. For some inexplicable reason, she worships King Fluffy, following him all over the house.

Next came Friday—not the day but the cat. Friday was a stray who was born in our yard. During a blizzard when he was a kitten, we rescued him from certain death. Friday never really bounced back from that snowstorm. He spends most of his time crouched in our furnace room waiting for the world to end.

Next came Penny and Ralph. We found them in some bushes next to our house when they were kittens and, of course, took them in. (Apparently, our backyard is an official feline birthing ground.)

But I digress. At 8:30, I cram Fluffy into a carrier, and Cassie takes him to the vet. This is more of a production than you might think. Fluffy’s file at the vet is affixed with a warning label. The workers there are afraid to handle him, so they wrap a plastic bag around the carrier and blow anesthetic gas into it. Only then, when he’s unconscious, is Fluffy deemed safe.

I battle through my cold at home until I get the call to pick up Fluffy. The vet tells me it is indeed a bladder infection. I’ve never met this particular vet, but the look in his eyes is familiar. I’ve seen it with past vets. It’s not quite a Kurtzian look—“the horror…the horror”—but there are unmistakable flickers of fear.

“After he woke up, he urinated on himself,” the vet tells me. “We tried to clean him, but we couldn’t get near him.”

The receptionist hands me a bill for $360, and now it’s my turn to wince. I didn’t earn any money today—not a red cent—and I’m out $360. No, it hasn’t been a particularly productive day. I load my urine-coated cat into the car and head home.

September 1, 2011-September 10, 2011

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 2011

I bid adieu to my lovely wife Cassie, my 14-year-old son Cole and my 11-year-old daughter Liv, and I drive off to my suburban-Chicago job. We’ll call the company Crushed Soul Publishing.

It’s a day like any other.

Then it isn’t.

My boss (we’ll call her Judy) rings me up and summons me to her office. Strange, I think as I trot down the hallway to Crushed Soul’s executive wing. She never calls me—she always just sends me an email if she wants something.

I enter her office, and she closes the door behind me. Another first: She’s never shut the door when I’ve been in her office. At this point, I know I’m screwed—it’s just a question of how. The specifics arrive a few seconds later: “You’ve been asked to leave the company,” Judy says matter-of-factly.

She tells me it’s for economic reasons, that a lot of other people across Crushed Soul’s various departments are also being laid off this very moment. She tells me I’ve been an excellent employee and not to take it personally. She tells me about the challenges ahead for her now-undermanned department (as if I could care less). She tells me a lot of things, but I’m not really listening. I’m in shock.

After however long, Judy leads me to a conference room, the place where dignity goes to die. About 20 of my fellow casualties are gathered around the table. Some are crying. Some are shaking their heads in disbelief. Some, like me, are stone-faced.

The HR person passes out packets containing the particulars of our ousters: severance info, insurance info, etc. She tells us not to take it personally, of course, but as I look around the table at the broken and contorted faces, I can’t help but feel like one of Sid’s mutant toys in Toy Story.

I return to my cubicle to pack up five-plus years of stuff. The news has spread quickly: Several well-wishers poke their heads into my cube. Their eyes are filled with (1) relief that they weren’t among those who got the ax and (2) pity for me because I was among those who got the ax. I can deal with my coworkers’ relief but not their pity. It makes me feel painfully awkward to be viewed as something less than an ass-kicker.

After packing only the essentials into my computer bag as quickly as I can, I hightail out of there. Then I delay the inevitable—calling my wife with the news—by driving around and listening to Bob Mould’s “Life and Times” over and over. As I pull into the Caribou Coffee in the northwest suburb where I live, the moment of truth can no longer be avoided. I unsheathe my iPhone and make the call.

Cassie takes it like a champ, especially after I tell her about my more-than-fair severance package. And really, I knew she would. She was raised in a blue-collar family where layoffs were commonplace. Adversity wasn’t something to be feared—it was simply part of the deal.

I pick up Liv from school because I can. Yes, for once, I’m available at 2:50 p.m. on a school day. Then I take her to Dairy Queen because I can. When I tell her why I suddenly have so much time on my hands, she shrugs. This is good. Later, I break the news to Cole, and he shrugs. This is good, too.

You know what? Life goes on.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 2011

My plan is to go to 7 a.m. Mass, but after a restless night’s sleep, I reconsider. A visit to church right now seems too showy and more than a little hypocritical. After all, I rarely go under normal circumstances.

Instead, I drive Liv to school because I can, then noodle around on a freelance story. I had reluctantly accepted the assignment a few weeks earlier—and thank goodness I did. Back then I was busy and flush with cash; now I’m neither.

Speaking of cash, my insurance from Crushed Soul Publishing will run dry tomorrow. And since I can’t switch over to the insurance from Cassie’s job until the first week of October, I’ll be at the mercy of COBRA for the next month. In other words, if I have to visit a doctor, it’ll cost me big bucks.

Time is of the essence—I make a doctor’s appointment for noon today. There’s a small rash on my finger that I’m sure will turn to gangrene or worse the day after my Crushed Soul insurance expires. Much to my relief, the doc tells me it’s just eczema. He writes me a prescription for an ointment, which I fill immediately in order to beat the ticking clock.

That afternoon, because I can, I go to the first Ultimate Frisbee match of Cole’s high school career. It starts inauspiciously. Made up of a bunch of kids who’ve never played the sport before, Cole’s team loses 4,000,000,067–0, or so it seems.

Ultimate Frisbee is a club sport, so the kids coach themselves. Since I’m the only adult in sight and Cole and his teammates are desperate, they turn to me for advice. I’m happy to oblige. I tell the young charges that they need to spread the damn field…they need to be more physical…they need make sure no one is left open on the other team. I don’t know about them, but I feel great after my impromptu coaching clinic. I feel useful.

And maybe—just maybe—I am. In their next game, they hang tough and lose by only a few points. It’s a start.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 2011

After another restless night’s sleep, I’m disoriented. It’s the weekend, but it doesn’t really feel that way. When you’re unemployed, the days just sort of run together.

I go to my computer to noodle around on my freelance assignment. As I’m typing, I think of my old boss at Crushed Soul. What’s she doing right now? Is she typing away at her computer, too? If so, is it out of line for me to wish that the thing short-circuits and shocks her? Nothing catastrophic, just enough of a shock to cause a bit of discomfort?

A satisfied smile crosses my face, but I let it go. If I allow bitterness to creep in, it will eat me up. I think of something Richard Nixon said. True, Nixon was a madman, but the quote seems strangely appropriate: “Always remember that others may hate you, but those who hate you don’t win unless you hate them. And then you destroy yourself.” Not that the folks at Crushed Soul hate me—at least I’m pretty sure they don’t. Like most people in the working world these days, they’re just trying to hang on.

Onward to bigger and better things, like the drive-in movie theater. There are only two left in the Chicago area, and we head out to one of them with eight carloads of friends. The evening provides a much-needed escape from reality. I love the mythology of the drive-in. It represents a more innocent time, when America was growing by leaps and bounds and the future seemed like it was rolled out like a red carpet.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 2011

After a restless night’s sleep, I flip on a Sunday morning news show. The topic of discussion? The release of the August employment report, which shows zero percent job growth.

Ugh.

I go to my computer and noodle around on my freelance assignment. That evening, we go to our friends the Bennetts for dinner. Bill Bennett has been one of my best friends since the seventh grade. That’s nearly a lifetime of ups and downs together.

The downs were easier to bounce back from way back when, such as the time his older brother didn’t leave us a 12-pack of Stroh’s in the designated bush at Centennial Park like he said he would. Nevertheless, Bill tries his best to shrink the magnitude of this one for me. “All that paid time off,” he says of my severance. “I’d kill to switch places with you.” I’m relatively certain he wouldn’t want to, but it’s a nice sentiment.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 2011

I stir after a restless night’s sleep. Today’s a holiday. It’s Labor Day. Is this a joke?

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 2011

I sleep restlessly yet again, but I awaken with a sense of purpose. As designated by me, today is the first official day of my job search. I’m actually kind of jacked up about it.

The feeling doesn’t last long. Before I can even get out of bed, I hear Cassie yell from one of the bathrooms, “What happened to the toilet?”

I dash to the bathroom—the toilet bowl is clogged and is overflowing with crap. Undoubtedly, it’s the handiwork of one of the kids. Cassie quickly leaves to take Liv to school; Cole departs just as swiftly for the bus stop. As I scare up a plunger and a pair of rubber gloves, I’m struck by the metaphorical perfection of this moment: The first official day of my job search begins by sticking my hand into a crap-filled toilet bowl.

When Cassie returns from dropping Liv at school, the toilet is unclogged. Cassie is an employee communication consultant who, as fate would have it, works from home. That means it’s just her and me in an empty house for the foreseeable future. Upon hearing the news that I’d been laid off and would now be home all day, Cassie’s mom said, “I hope this doesn’t mean I’m going to have more grandchildren.” Not to worry. As tempting as a little midday hanky-panky might be, this I-have-no-job, the-future-is-grim thing is serious business. Besides, Cassie is now the family’s sole breadwinner, so it’s important that she keeps her nose to the grindstone.

I spend the day compiling lists of people to contact, scouring the Internet for job openings, and putting the finishing touches on my freelance assignment. I don’t earn any money—not a red cent—but I can’t help but feel like I kicked a little ass.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 2011

The ass-kicking feeling is fleeting. Reality sinks in as Cassie, Liv, and I trudge to Liv’s school at 7:25 a.m. for a newspaper meeting. For the past several years, Cassie and I have volunteered at the school to help train the journalists of tomorrow. On this day, however, I want to stand up and scream to the wide-eyed kids: “Find a different profession! The publishing industry is dying!” But I show great restraint. Instead, I help a student with her blockbuster story on water damage at the school from a big rainstorm over the summer.

Reality sinks in a bit deeper that night when we go to curriculum night at Cole’s high school. This is an opportunity for parents to spend 10 minutes in each class that their kids are taking. Walking through the halls with the other parents, I wonder: Do all of these dads have jobs? I’m sure most of them do. Why are they gainfully employed and I’m not? Is there something wrong with me? And can they sense that I’m unemployed, that I’ve drawn the short straw? I’m not supposed to take any of this personally, but I can’t help but feel diminished, like I’m a Lilliputian in a school filled with Gullivers.

All in all, it’s a downer of a day. I suppose this is the way it’ll be for a while: up and down…down and up…up and down…down and up.

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 2011

I bounce back in a big way, though I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe it has something to do with the way the day starts: Liv attends a Catholic school, and I drop her off at the adjoining church to be an altar server for 7 a.m. Mass, something she does once a month. I stick around for the service. The fellowship of it gives me a lift, especially the part when everyone shakes hands with each other and says, “Peace be with you.”

Afterward, I bang the phones, send off a bunch of emails, and unearth some promising freelance leads and interesting full-time job possibilities. Once again, I don’t earn any money—not a red cent—and the future is as uncertain as ever, but I can’t help but feel like I’ve kicked some more ass.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 2011

I’m beginning to develop a routine.

• To set an ass-kicking tone, I shower every morning. I can’t allow myself to become the stereotypical unemployed slob on the couch who watches soap operas with a bowl of Cheetos resting on his ever-expanding stomach.

• I go to the dining room table, where my trusty Mac laptop awaits. Cassie is in her basement office. Our paths cross only occasionally, usually in the kitchen.

• At noon, I go to my local Y to lift weights and run amid retirees and drifters. Exercise dissolves my stress, keeps me sane. Around the same time, Cassie goes to her own gym.

• I return to the dining room table to continue the daunting task of cobbling my life back together.

• I pick up a kid at some activity, be it debate or Ultimate Frisbee for Cole or volleyball, band or dance for Liv.

Holy crap, now that I’m looking at it in print, this new routine couldn’t be more boring. But maybe that’s the idea. My schedule might be stupefying, but it brings a sense of normalcy to life. And in these uncertain times, that’s important. Regardless, my apologies to anyone who suffered through reading about it.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 2011

It’s the weekend, but there’s no rest for the weary.

For reasons I can’t explain, I feel like I’ve been beaten repeatedly with a two-by-four—I’m achy and utterly sapped of energy. Yet I drag myself to the dining room table and go about the business of trying to drum up work. I feel obligated to do so.

I guess there are two ways to look my situation: (1) Every day is the weekend or (2) every day is a weekday. Me being me—uptight, sometimes freakishly so—I view it the latter way. I wish I didn’t. I wish I had the guts to hop in the car and go on a cross-country sabbatical for a while, courtesy of my Crushed Soul severance. Or at the very least, maybe take the time to examine myself and figure out what I want to do with the second half of my life.

But I can’t do it. There are mouths to feed, bills to pay. Self-examination is a luxury I can’t afford. Yes, these things always seem to work out—regardless of whether you take the life-is-a-weekend or life-is-a-weekday approach—but I won’t be able to relax until they do.