Don’t Hate the CitiBiker, Hate the City

Just yesterday, I was enjoying the fourth phase of my relationship with CitiBike, New York’s bicycle sharing program. I’ve since pressed on through phase five this afternoon, and I write this late in the evening in the final sixth phase.

If you live in (or recently visited) New York, you are aware of CitiBikes. They are ubiquitous. They are seemingly the preferred transportation of idiots. It's as if you gave anyone in a hurry a bike and told him or her to act like a Seamless Web delivery boy whose job was on the line. At first, it appears that CitiBikers are merely pedestrians that comprise a dangerous mix of adrift tourists and self-anointed
New Yorkers who presume pedestrian rights extend to themselves on a heavy, metal bike. But it’s also this city’s gift to the unemployed, which is one of things I've realized through my emotional journey with this simple idea.

Phase 1: Skepticism. $100 in New York buys you nothing, right? It certainly cannot buy a yearlong service that’s worth a damn (annual membership to CitiBike = $100). I refuse to use it. Besides, I don’t want to contribute any more to the cholesterol of this city’s transit system or risk my life with imminent death since I don’t look cool in a helmet.

Phase 2: Justification. In unemployment mathematics, if I can substitute 20 round-trips on the subway with quick bike rides, it’s paid for, and anything beyond is straight cheddar. If I’m being honest with myself, which I don’t like doing, I’d factor in cab fares and I’d break even in five bikes.

Phase 3: Excitement. OK, I’m in. I love the idea of using, abusing and ditching the bike like a rebound relationship. I'll get in better shape. I’ll use the bike to buy healthier products at Whole Foods instead of the similarly priced crap at D’Agostino’s. I’ll bike to interviews and meetings in midtown. So long scorching crowded subway. Arrivederci you crazy cabbies.

Phase 4: Freedom. After two attempts to find an available bike in midtown, I’m cruising along the West Side Highway with the wind in my hair, the sun on my skin and a smile on my face. I ignore the unreasonable amount of derogatory comments directed to me as a generalized CitiBiker from those on road bikes. I contemplate a civil bikes movement. When I close my eyes I feel like I’m not in New York anymore, but rather as if I was hugging the Columbia River in Portland, Ore—ah! Got to keep those eyes open!

Phase 5: Distress. I again find myself in midtown at 5 PM and desperate to get back to below 23rd street where things are a little more reasonable. It’s the last day with no humidity in the foreseeable future and the weather is perfection. After someone reminds me this is like the year-round weather in Southern California, my downfall begins. No bikes at 57th street. No bikes at 51st. No bikes at 49th or 53rd and Broadway, just two broken ones. It’s 5:30 PM and I’m battling the employed crowd commuting home. I have so far walked enough to have made it home by foot. I camp out at my last attempted docking station and make sinister eye contact with a heavyset woman in a polka dot dress and a crop-topped hipster with the tinted lens of his glasses flipped up (so much for me bringing that back). It’s a showdown for the next returned bicycle that is somehow more awkward than hailing a cab from the same corner as someone else. Luckier CitiBikers and infallible road-bikers zoom by. A wounded blue bike limps towards us ushered by an older gentlemen looking more distraught than the three of us. “Flat tire!” he says as he shoves it in-place and presses the repair button on the dock adding to the two other fallen heroes. They are piling up like discarded umbrellas at the end of a rainy day. The hipster bails and another replaces him. I can’t take it. I jump into the Duane Reed and grind my teeth
while arguing with an employee to open the locked razor pantry. I expect a miracle when I return to the docks. No such luck, and although the fat woman is gone, there are several other lingering weirdos pretending to look at their phones. I’m broken. It’s almost 6 PM and I need to be home if for no other reason than to no longer be in midtown. I speed-walk to the E, cursing CitiBike, cursing myself for being so foolish. I descend from 20 percent humidity to 100. The looks I got from the competing CitiBikers were nothing compared to those of the 6,000 faces already jam-packed on the train when I stuff myself inside.

Phase 6: Acceptance. How long should something enjoyable and convenient last in a city of nine million people? Until around the time you hear about it. New York has a way of chewing up good ideas. It may let you enjoy it once, just enough to get a taste, then it spits it out into one giant hassle. Living in this city is like perpetually getting off an airplane; it starts out civil, but it eventually goes lord of the flies. Luckily, it’s amazing enough to keep the ideas coming.

So the next time you become angry with a CitiBiker, remember CitiBikers are people, too, and he or she probably had to go to hell and back just to sit on that blue bomber. You will eventually learn to tolerate them like you do bums, honking, centennial storms, Times Square, sirens, tourists, NPR pledge drives, the Puerto Rican parade, scaffolding, and Hoboken residents. It’s part of the city now, accept it and move on.

No More No Worries

I went to a small conference the other morning at the St. Regis hotel. It’s the kind of place that radiates

such privilege that you feel guilty using the sidewalk under the marquee’s heat lamps in the winter and not paying for the experience. Its sheer opulence forms a natural barrier to anyone who doesn’t belong. I belonged because I shelled out $50 for a coffee and pastry and a dim hope to network and land a job. And maybe I’d be employed right now if it weren’t for that damn bellhop.

I wore an expensive suit and my nicest watch, having spent hours trying to figure out how to dress without looking unemployed. I even went so far as to arrive in a taxi. I felt prepared walking up the carpeted steps and staring down the next thirty minutes of torturous small talk with tenured professionals of my industry. I felt that I belonged when the bellhop held the door for me, to which I said, “thank you,” and breezed by him as if I knew where I was going. But his reply paralyzed me. “No worries.”

The Aussi aphorism, once charming, once invoking a carefree mentality to focus on the finer points of life and forgetting the noise, has spoiled, and its proof is reaching the luxury service sector. No problem was banned as a replacement for you’re welcome in the restaurant industry because guests don’t want to hear that their request is an imposition; it is the obligation of the server to serve. No worries takes this phenomenon one step further whereby the server preemptively extinguishes the concern of a guest for having to thank the server for a service or completion of a request. The assumption alone is audacious and doesn’t belong in venues that charge $5.50 for a Pepsi in a vending machine.

The bellhop’s reply triggered something in me where I had to stop myself from saying, “I’m not worried. Do I look worried? I am NOT worried and you are NOT the goddam Crocodile Hunter!” I wondered if he’d say no worries to the gentlemen on the panel or if he had said no worries to any of my competitors already getting their yuck on with the next hiring manager. I started thinking the effort I put into how I dressed was obvious and a telltale sign of desperation, and that the few recognizable faces I was about to encounter would see right through me. I didn’t talk to anyone.

I’m constantly worried, but not about you.

Man Repellent

While on the dole it is of the utmost importance that you stretch every dollar as far as it will go. Nowhere is that more important than on the occasion that you find yourself socially eating or drinking out. Luckily for me, the absurdly overpriced watering holes of Hoboken, NJ consistently run drink specials that adequately allow me to delude myself into thinking that I'm getting what comes close to a good deal.

Yesterday was a dreary, rainy Thursday in the tri-state, and the usual protocol of sending dozens of emails into the black abyss was getting me especially down. I needed to be amongst people, I needed to take my wife out, and most of all I needed a drink. The closest restaurant to our apartment was running a half-priced martini deal, so after an early dinner, I suggested that we head out for a drink or two.

When we arrived at the restaurant, the place was jamming. There were no seats at the bar, so the hostess offered to seat us in the quiet back dining room. I objected, seeing a small table in the corner of the lively bar room, and asked if we could sit there. Big mistake.

As we were delivered the menu listing the dozen or so 'martinis' they offer, a cackle that would put Fran Drescher to shame rose over the crowd. We were seated right behind a woman with the most abhorrently annoying voice I've ever heard. As I argued to my half-listening wife that a drink that mixes creme de cacao, creme de menthe, chocolate Godiva, and crushed Oreo shouldn't interest anyone over the age of 7, let alone be called a martini, I heard a slightly higher pitched voice squawking back at the first. There were two of them, and they were sitting so close to us, it sounded like they were in my brain. Awesome.

These two 30-somethings were bellied up to the bar, and, from the sound of it, they had been enjoying half-priced martinis for some time. It looked like they managed to swallow the couple next to them into their conversation, seemingly not because they wanted to make friends, but they needed to justify screaming at the top of their lungs to a person sitting two bar stools over. The screaming wasn't constant, but when one of them started talking, the next one would start, then the first one louder, then the second one louder until everyone in the large restaurant cowered in fear and clutched their rattling pint glasses to their chests. What did they need to talk so loud about, you ask? Bull shit. That's what. Wall to wall horse crap.

At this point our mini date night had transformed into a prolonged visit to the baboon enclosure at the zoo (if the zoo served (still expensive) half priced martinis). I tried to carry on a conversation, but I found myself constantly needing to comment on these two women. The most note worthy moment came when one of them turned to their hostages and said, nay shrieked, "this gay rights stuff in Russia is crazy! I mean if you love someone and respect them, WHO CARES!!" She then got very serious and leaned in to the politely nodding couple and said, "I am sorry, I didn't mean to get so political." So political? She could not have been more proud of her statement that to my ears sounds like the bare minimum of human decency. You mean you object to people being killed for being gay in Russia!? WOW! Let me get the Nobel Peace Prize people on the phone! They're not going to believe this!

Now for the borderline chauvinistic portion of the program... I'd like to start by saying that I firmly believe that a woman's worth should never be directly tied to her ability to get/keep a man. BUT, that

topic was all these two women wanted to discuss (save, of course, for their brief foray into controversial political matters). They grilled their captive female 'friend' about how she got her man, they shrieked with dread when they both realized that they'd be single for their upcoming college reunion, and they shared one of the saddest hugs ever, fighting back tears as they both agreed that 'we only need each other.'

It seemed to me, that they were looking to find that special someone at half-priced martini night. These two women weren't completely unattractive, and I wanted to tell them (so I am telling you, dear blog reader), that I think they are going about it ever so wrong. No guy is going to approach a boozed up banshee with glassy near-tear eyes. I wouldn't be moved to blog about this if I didn't see this type of woman on an increasingly regular basis. NYC bars are full of these packs of women who seem so confused. On the one had, they gussy themselves up with makeup, low-cut tops and high cut skirts. On the other hand, they are determined to be as drunk and boisterous as the biggest guy in the bar.

We left our table after 3 rounds and the two women were still going strong at the bar. As we stood up, a new couple occupied the table next to ours. I don't exaggerate when I say that they were both plugging their ears and making faces like someone punted a newborn in front of them within 10 seconds of sitting down. "Buckle up," I said to the newcomers as we left the restaurant.

I don't hate these women. Far from it. Not only did they provide us with free entertainment on par with the best Real Housewives train wreck, they also illuminated something about myself. I am advocating for these women to compromise something about themselves in order to achieve their goals of landing their  dream man. Would I do the same to land my dream job? I sure as shit don't want to, and neither do they. An attitude that will likely leave those women single, and me unemployed. I'll just make sure to sit in the back of the restaurant next time.

Still haven't found...

It can be pretty demoralizing, this whole job hunt process. It's like people always say about the entertainment industry, 'you have to be willing to accept rejection...over, and over and over.' Like so many time honored adages, that's far easier said than done. I would say that I have applied to around 1,000 jobs in the 3 months or so that I've been out of work. I have had a total of 4 interviews, and none of them have resulted in full time jobs. Now, some of these interviews have resulted in part time work, some of them have led to other interviews, and none of them have been totally pointless.

I did, however, go on an interview recently that had the potential to be pointless. My old boss set me up with the wife of a friend of his who runs a film distribution company. I have been working in the film production world, so this interview wasn't exactly for my dream job. But, distribution is a big part of the film industry, and I figured it couldn't hurt to practice interviewing(and who am I kidding, I'll take far less than my dream job at this point) . I emailed this lady asking for an informational interview, and we worked out the particulars. I did some light research on her company and entered the interview feeling like I had nothing to lose. When I arrived at the office, I was ushered into a large palatial corner office with a nice view of lower Manhattan. She came into her office, looked me up and down and asked if I brought a copy of my resume. I tried to make some small talk about the weather, thanked her for taking time out of her busy schedule, at which point she felt compelled to tell me, "We don't have any openings right now, just so you know." I was a little stunned, but I pressed on. I think part of me wanted to win her over. I brought a list of questions, and the first 4 that I asked elicited only two or three word answers. Then I asked her to tell me about how she got to be where she is today. She began to open up a bit and we started to just have more of a conversation than an interview. I made a point about the changing landscape in how people are watching films/tv, and it really seemed to get through to her. She made a face that seemed to say, 'this guy might not be a moron.' She got up from the table we were sitting at, and went over to her desk. Picking up an org chart, she said, "I just remembered we are trying to fill an entry level position."

I was elated. It wasn't even like I wanted this job so badly, I just felt a sense of accomplishment for turning her around. Leaving that interview, i felt reinvigorated. It was sort of besides the point that I never heard back from her about that entry level job that I didn't want in the first place (no, I'm not bitter, you're bitter). But, I tell this story because it highlights the change in my mindset about this unemployment thing: It's a process that is going to take some time. A good friend of mine was out of work for 6 months last year, and I remember thinking how outrageously long that seemed. 'What is wrong with him?' I used to think as I sat at my seemingly stable job. Now, I realize how difficult it is to find a job in this economy. My old boss just got a new project, but since they have been able to survive with a skeleton crew for the last few months, they see no reason to bring me back on. That seemingly pointless interview that he helped me get is now spurring me on. If you get out there, talk to anyone who will give you five minutes, and keep pushing, who knows what will happen. If you make enough good impressions, something's gotta give. I know, there's one of those adages again: much easier said than done.

I Don't Deserve a Lockout, The Ultimatum of a broke Bills Fan

I was one of the millions of fans who watched a few dozen NFL players hold up a #1 to express solidarity for the upcoming work stoppage in the NFL on Thursday night. It's Friday night before the first Sunday of the 2010 NFL season, and I am preparing for a season that, baring a miracle, will be the 11th in a row that has ended with my favorite team (The Buffalo Bills) missing the playoffs. In that elven years, I have attended countless games, bought far too many jerseys of players who are no longer with my team, and spent an alarmingly high percentage of my time watching the NFL, looking at mock NFL drafts on- line, and playing Madden. I was in college for some of those years, and a letter I recently received from the Social Security agency said I made $867 in 2003. That same year that I went to two games, bought a Takeo Spikes Jersey, and Bills themed birthday gifts for 2 family members. All of that money went to the NFL. If the players union and owners can't find a way to fairly split up 65% of my gross earnings in 2003, then they don't deserve my loyalty. I will shamefully admit that I have spent more time in recent years following football than doing many productive activities. These neglected activities include: reading books, exercising, forming a relationship with my parents or siblings, and advancing my career. I love The Buffalo Bills, I love NFL football. But, if the NFL misses more than 1 game because of a labor dispute, I will never again watch an NFL game or give a red penny to the NFL. I have been a blindly loyal fan for my whole life. I have emotionally and financially supported a franchise who consistently puts a sub-par product on the field, and I don't deserve a lockout.

There are certainly things that need to change in the NFL, but there is no reason they should have to deprive us of football. Aren't there a few things we can all agree on:

#1. The rookies make far too much money. There is no reason why Sam Bradford (a QB who hasn't completed a pass in the NFL and $50 million of his $78 million contract is guaranteed) should make more guaranteed money than someone who is a proven stud like say, Jahari Evans (who has $19 million guaranteed in his 6 year $57.6 million contract).

#2. The players and the league both need to take care of the players who have sacrificed their bodies for the building of their sport. Tom Brady makes more in a week than 99.9% of the best players before 1975 made in their entire career(Johnny Unitas Hall of Fame quarterback, 3-time MVP, Superbowl champion, 10-time Pro Bowl selection
Estimated lifetime earnings: $4 million) . The fact that an organization making as much money as the NFL doesn't have enough money to put all former players on top-tier health insurance says something about the viciousness of the sport. The fact that you can get cut tomorrow and the team doesn't owe you another dime forces players back in the game with concussions and unhealed injuries. This cut throat culture has lead to countless stories of hobbled former players trying to get some financial help from a league they built and no longer acknowledges them.

So, Owners, players union, fix this and keep playing. Keep making gobs of money in this depressed economy. The Saints - Vikings game got the biggest rating of any non Super Bowl game ever. Why would you ever want to mess with such a good thing? Sure, some of the fans will come back after a work stoppage. Heck, probably most of them will. I, however, am one of your best fans, and you will lose me forever.

(I know this post doesn't exactly fit with the unemployment theme of this blog, but watching Millionaires and Billionaires get ready to willfully leave their jobs makes me especially crazed as I cash my $378 a week)

THE ORANGE ONE

I know it can be hard to fill the days. I could never relate to that sentiment when I was working. Retirement always seemed like something at which I will excel. I have always been confident that my days could easily be filled with activities of my own choosing that stimulated my mind, body, and soul. There is, however, an element to retirement that is missing in unemployment: financial security. So, being flat-ass broke, your options are decidedly limited. I live in the NYC area, so getting out for say a round of golf would require a car, a friend, and about $150. It's amazing how even the simplest activities can be sneaky expensive. Even going to a museum, you have to pay for the train, the ticket, the over priced scone, and the weed to make it interesting to walk around a museum by yourself on a Tuesday afternoon.

One form of entertainment that is as reliable as free entertainment can be are podcasts. I have been religiously listening to the Tony Kornheiser Show, in podcast form, since he went back on the air about a year ago (I also listened at my desk, and in a totally unrelated story: I'm now unemployed). Tony talks a lot about the DC are where he lives. It is, in effect, a local show. But, I find him so amusing, so curmudgeonly, and so entertaining, that I can't miss even a day. He has a segment called, "Old Guy Radio" where he can guess any song his producer plays from the 60s in about 2 seconds, and his love/appreciation for music is apparent. Tony is widely known as a sportswriter, but the show covers everything from his lust for mint chip ice cream to his abhorrence for DC area cyclists clogging up the road ways. He can get a little out of hand when he goes off on a rant, but his guests are excellent, and hey, it's free. Here are a list of some of the other free podcasts I listen to on a very regularly basis while trolling on the job search websites. These podcasts cover topics like sex advice, music, sports, and comedy. They range from the slightly above average to the sublime:

- The Adam Carolla Show (daily)
- Fitzdog Radio (2x per week)
- AfroMarc Podcast (whenever he damn well feels like it)
- Radio Lab (twice a month, don't miss it)
- This American Life (weekly)
- Daves of Thunder (2x per week)
- Savage Love (weekly)
- The B.S. Report (usually a few times a week)

You can find all of these podcasts on Itunes. If you are reading a blog, I trust you can figure out how to download a podcast. Happy listening.

wedding season

So, I've been getting a lot of "wow, you got laid off in the summer, what great timing!" I suppose that's partially true. More free time means more time to sit in the sun, which has given me one of the best tans I've had in years. I figure looking good can only help in interviews, but you probably don't want to make your interviewer jealous of how golden brown you are. But I digress. There is a drawback to not having a job and/or paycheck during these most most sunniest of months: It's Wedding Season, baby!

It can be difficult to maintain a conversation with people you haven't seen in years when your self confidence is in the toilet. I find myself saying, "Oh me? I'm great, but enough about me, what have you been up to?" I really shouldn't feel that bad about myself. My company was forced to go on an indefinite hiatus, it's not like I got fired. I shouldn't feel worthless, per se. But, when the guys you went to college with are comparing their sports cars and asking you what you've been up to, it still stings to say, "I'm unemployed." Explaining that it's not really your fault can often sound like an excuse, and explaining it more than once is damn near impossible for me. I find that this feeling of minor self loathing can lead to constant drinking, which is never a good look in front of the bride's grandparents. Old pals usually don't ask tough, probing questions when you are screaming the lyrics to "You Shook Me All night Long" in their face. That usually just reminds your old pals about the old days in college when none of us had jobs. So, my advice would be to stay on the dance floor and develop a good report with the DJ.

These weddings, however, are an idea that's spreading like wildfire. I'm 27, so I'm right in the sweet spot of the marriage tornado. It's getting to the point where more of my friends are married than single. My girlfriend and I have been together for more than 5 years, so we are constantly harassed about when we'll be tying the knot. Luckily, she's in no rush, and no one expects the unemployed guy to spring for a ring. I have 6 weddings this summer, and none of them are within 500 miles of where I live. Travel, hotel, bachelor party, and gifts all conspire to make me even lighter in the pocket book. I would love to buy all my friends the best wedding present they could imagine, but now they're lucky if I get them anything under the widely accepted 1 year time frame. Most of the stress I feel before these weddings melts away once the festivities are under way. I am usually just glad to be there for one of the most important events of my friends' lives. I find myself surrounded by people who I wish I got to see a lot more frequently, and an army of kind men and women who hand-deliver appetizers to my face. Like I said before, one way to avoid the constant probing questions about your job/financial situation is to avail yourself of the open bar. Because hey, the booze is free. Happy wedding season, it's almost over.