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.