"It's hard to dance with the devil on your back"

Now that I am a statistic, the question is not can I cover this story of my own lay-off as an unbiased journalist (no), but can I confront it without falling apart? At least the interview should be a cakewalk. Grab a mike and stand in front of a mirror. Should I go with first person, 3rd person, or as a theater of the absurd, which it all kind of has become?

A journalist covering unemployment goes to the Career Center to get the scoop. The laid-off one goes there to scoop up a few bucks. First you have to register and that requires a photo i.d, like a drivers license.

"Oops. It's in my other pants."  Yes, I actually have two pairs.

The journalist turned interviewee, now re-panted, licensed and registered was asked for a copy of the resume. Finally an easy question. (Hint, at 2:30 p.m. the lines are shorter than the ones seen on CNN)

"That's a resume?" The unemployment counselor stared wide-eyed at the paper being presented to her. "That's a resume?" She had never seen one that was one page of text surrounded by three pages of photos laid out like a magazine.

"Yes, mam," that's what I do. Photographs, writing and design. And a bit of video production. Some coaching and cat-herding. So I present it visually." The silence in the Career Center was awkward. "If I were a carpenter, I'd bring in a house."

That broke the spell.

"May I keep it (the resume, not the house)?"

The answer was affirmative, and a most pleasant and helpful interview finished up. Only it was not the journalist doing the interviewing.

Unemployment insurance is a euphemism for a sum of money that allows one to ease into bankruptcy, rather than fall in head first when one's day job is sucked into the recessional tsunami. It typically almost pays for the increased health insurance costs faced by laid-off workers. Of course then there's no money for food so you get sick. Good planning! You have health insurance.

The state pays out the unemployment payments, so they require you to qualify once a week, to be sure the out-of-work worker is working for his or her out-of-work wages. Makes sense. But qualification day is Sunday. Isn't there a Blue Law about that?

~to be continued~

To the women in and around my life on Vals’ Day 2009
especially my spouse, but she gets her own card delivered the old-fashioned way...
... by a note passed in class...  ~jk~

Roses are (usually) red,
Violets are (generally) blue,
Orchids are (at least) $20.
Will this paltry (well, at least it rhymes, kinda) poetry do?

Wishing each of you whatever it is that would make today your day.

Valentines Day reminds me of the differences, at least in stereotypes, that separate the genders.  For instance;

He needs a spoon, so he asks her, his spouse of 20+ years, “Where is a spoon?”
She tells him, sweetly, “In the (same for the last 20+ years) silverware drawer. “
“Thanks, babes,” he intones. “It’s empty, no spoons.”

“Try the dishwasher.”
“There they are,” he notes, surprised.

Indeed the dishwasher contains a dozen spoons of three different types along with a plethora of other utensils. He reaches in, and pulls out a fork. Annoyed, he puts it back and tries again. This time it’s a knife. And again. Well, you get the picture. Four forks, three spatulas and an egg-beater later he scores, bumps the dishwasher closed and goes to do whatever it was that called for a spoon.

Shortly after that, she also needs a spoon. She opens the dishwasher, reaches in and also comes up with a fork. She puts it away in the silverware drawer,  then takes the rest of the silverware and utensils out of the dishwasher, puts everything away neatly and closes the drawers. She then opens the silverware drawer and takes out the spoon she needs.

He wonders out loud how she can make so much noise just getting a spoon.

Happy Valentines Day

Dear Santa Claus,
This is a mite late, I know, but it's been that kind of year. I guess I deserve coal in my stocking, but please make it that kind that burns clean, with minimal carbon footprint.  I didn't make the usual Christmas want list this year, and almost didn't decorate the house. It took 3 days just to find the star that goes atop the tree to remind me why we have Christmas. It was in a box of ornaments that I nearly tripped over a dozen times.

And I have given you no help at all. We, meaning Linda mostly, made a few gifts for family members, but nothing so big it would need to come down a chimney in a sack. Forgive me if you can Santa, but after hearing about the thousands of people in my field alone who are out of work, including some too close to home, I just wasn't in the mood to spend money I might not have and that others already don't have.

But I confess, I do have a short want list, so here goes: jobs for Tracey and Michele and the blue-million other journalists jettisoned by their jet-setting corporate brass-hats. A swift recovery for the world's economy and a 2nd shift minimum wage job at Burpin' Burger Bistro for the robber-baron financial slicks whose greed greased the slide into this economic abyss we're in.

Still there? No one should have to choose between food and medicine, so fixing that is on my list for you. I could go on, but you get the idea.

My Christmas present arrived early this year. My 90 year old mom, who swore she would never set foot out of her house to travel after Dad passed away, is at my brother's house a 10-12 hour drive from where she was staying, and she made the trip in a car with two small children along with their parents. Considering her physical and emotional challenges, that is a miracle in my book.

Emailing this to you now before you get the sleigh packed. I'll be following you on norad and twitter.

Your friend
(the one who used to want Lionel trains)

ps. no milk and cookies this year. it's part of a wellness program

Name 3 things in the news that have steam powered railroad locomotives as bit-part players on the (all the) world's stage currently. Correcto-mundo if you read the title above.

Yes the Chinese make a mean steam locomotive, or they used to. Now they re-make and export locomotives that can pull long freight trains. I know this because Youtube is loaded with videos of the "QJ" (that's what the engines are called) stroking across the mid-west, USA, smoke blowing every whicha-way and railcars trailing submissively along behind.

Too bad that the television remote control the Chinese made and sold to me at Wally-world didn't work as well as the steamer QJ. Too bad the instructions that came with it were written by persons who obviously have never owned a tv set. And just try to find one made in the USA, with instructions in actual English.

What does any of that have to do with RNC & DNC? Well, who do you think passed laws governing how international trade to and from this country is managed? Yes, some of those gals and guys at RNC and DNC, and the lobbyists who run that show get the credit. The taxpayers get the debt. And what does that have to do with steam locomotives?

Consider that the Union Pacific Railroad just ran a 34 car passenger train to Denver for the DNC. It was headed by what is quite nearly the largest steam locomotive in the world. And the same train was scheduled to go to St. Paul with an even bigger steamer doing the pulling, but according to the UP RR website, the trip has been canceled.

Seems to me that if the Grand old Party really wants to win this thing in November they would welcome a full head of steam, even from an old railroad engine.

I've just looked over a four leaf clover where I was overlooked before. For you non-Blue Jays, the paraphrase is from, "Four-leaf Clover," fight song of the mighty Blue Jays of West End High in Nashville, Tenn. The occasion was the 45th anniversery of my high school graduation. Well, almost graduation. I was held back a year as a junior and didn't graduate with the class I had come up with. The class of 63 has kept me on their list, but the class of 64 apparently has disowned me. The reunion weekend included the opening of the school, including an "alumni room" where artifacts from the high school's history are on display. The school was reconfigured as a junior high in 1968 (someone correct this, please) so there are no homecomings to return to and haven't been for decades. This was my first trip back since I escaped with my diploma in June 1964.

When I drove away from campus that year I was piloting a Simca, a 4-door compact car with a cool factor of zilch. It got great gas milage, but gas was 25 cents/gallon. I turned into the parking circle behind the school driving a 4-door compact car, this time a Hyundai, with a cool factor of zilch, except for the 35mpg it got on the trip up from Chattanooga. My old  parking space had half an SUV in it. Near the side door sat a 1957 two-tone Chevy with the hood up. A primer coated 1930-something auto was parked nearby. A group of former teenage males stood around talking and looking under the hood occasionally. That was a clique I had not clicked with years ago and I wasn't there to try and rewrite history. I went in the side door and just almost went right back out. I would have recognised more faces if I had landed on Mars. It took a while to remember where things were, then I found the auditorium.

The auditorium held the stage, and the stage held the memory of the first time I met Thespis and experienced the total rush of reaching an audience, holding an audience, and leaving the audience in stiches. It was all the sweeter because I was not a socially adept nor popular kid. The mastermind behind that 2 minutes of comedy, speech and drama teacher Bill Geheres, was, is and forever will be my hero. And he was there when I entered the room off to the side of the stage.

After saying good-bye to Mr. Gehres, and attempting to maintain some degree of composure, I walked out on the stage, faced the cavernous room full of empty seats and recalled how the school custodian, Mabel, had made a fiery speech during a pep rally and quite nearly brought down the house. Then a group of girls, daughters of some of my classmates, I presumed, came giggling down the side aisle. I was leaving the stage when I heard my name. Turned out that the "daughters" were Andy, Bess and Carolyn, all from my class of '63. Refreshed I went in search of the alumni room.

The alumni room holds the art-deco blue jay that sat on stage during pep rallies, a band uniform, football jersey and various newspapers and yearbooks. It was populated by groups of guys who mostly seemed to be former athletes, the popular crowd. I was pretty much a misfit then and anyway these folks were older than I so I wandered the halls taking a few photos, mostly through the large arched windows that gave our school a look of elegance. And during this little stroll I met several nice gals. It was funny how they all had the same name. "I'm Justa Spouse," they each said. I walked to the parking lot alone with my thoughts.

The sounds of Janis Ian filled my car as the trip back home began, "I learned the truth at 17..." You and me both, girl. I turned up the volume. Loud.

I missed the dinner party that night to stay with my mother, who wasn't doing well at the moment, but that was ok. I don't have the wardrobe to meet the suggested dress style the email announcement had carried. And anyway that was the class one year ahead of me. I'm still waiting for the in-crowd of 1964 to call.

A patriotic (kinda) memory

"the following EM (enlisted men) will be volunteers at the Pine Hill (NJ) Independence Day festivities. Report promptly at 0800 hrs to Mrs. Lindstrom (i think that was her name) at the parade marshaling area in Pine Hill. Uniform required is dress khakis..."

that memo waas signed by the battery commander and posted on the company bull. board. There were 6 names. mine was the first.

This meant that I, who was serving my country as a reluctant missleman for 3 years, was going to mark my country's Independence Day by donating my holiday off to marching in a parade to honor... you know where that's going. Keywords in that memo are, "will be volunteers."

For the record, the ladies of the Pine Hill, New Jersey patriotic committee were so nice and gracious and kind to us that the day was more fun than our captain ever intended for us to have. I visited there often after that until the Army decided I should learn to speak German. That was 1967, btw.

So Happy 4th, 2008 to anyone so bored that they are on their computers instead of out on the deck burning burgers. And as I did at that Pine Hill parade long ago, I'll muse a bit on our Independence.

We rebelled against a government of "taxation without representation." (That line is from my 4th grade history book.)

Now we have taxation with representation... There's a little food for thought while those burgers fry. Oh, and hold the tomatoes, please. At a safe (long) distance.