The world's largest virtual coffee klatsch

I'm doing it wrong--looking for a new job that is.

Apparently, the new ways to gain employment these days are to fiddle-fuck around on social media, mainly Twitter, and to have your own website. Twitter is the new networking group, the new gathering place for those who are unemployed. It works well on that level because you don't have to spend time and money getting all dolled-up only to sit at a bar drinking the house Chianti and chatting with some guy who knows a guy who's developing a 'neighborhoods with the most dog poop' app. Instead, it's possible to get an "in" with a prospective employer by hanging out on Twitter and retweeting their posts or just by stalking them in general. It's not a guarantee you'll get a job, mind you, but Twitter is a great way to bypass all of the usual bullshit that's associated with job hunting--mainly clueless HR departments. Even I have made some great business contacts on Twitter, but it wasn't done in a haphazard manner.

Now, I love Twitter. I see it as writing my own personal headline--in 140 characters or less. Also, it's the world's largest virtual coffee klatsch, if you will. It's fun to see what my followers are up to--well, some at least. There don't seem to be any rules and my fellow Tweeps just love to let it allll hang out--something I've been known to do from time to time. Twitter has shown to be a valuable news source during trying times--I didn't take my eyes off my Twitter feed during the Iranian uprising, healthcare reform, the mid-term elections, the assassination attempt of Gabby Giffords and, of course, Egypt. Twitter shows us the ugly side of humanity as well as the good. It is, in short, a wonderful tool.

But, I've heard of at least a half-dozen situations where someone has gotten a job by the act of virtual ass-kissing on Twitter. Retweeting a celebrity's bon mots is the most obvious form of the virtual and transparent suck-up. Or following a celeb and bugging them so much they follow you back just to get you to just shut yer yapper. What I have witnessed in my chosen field are those who have landed jobs with little or no experience but are deft at the social media game. And when you lack the actual skills of the job you're after, Twitter is a most valuable tool--you can reach millions with your observations and appropriately worded tweets guiding your fellow Tweeps back to your blog or website. This frightens me because there are those of out there who, while we like and rely on social media a great deal, believe that Twitter should not be the deciding factor on who is worthy of employment and who isn't. To be fair, however, I've never been good at self-promotion and while it may have hurt me professionally at times, I know full well that the jobs I've had in the past I landed because of my professional skills. Not via a self-important and in dire-need-of-an-editor blog or website. My hopes are, that once Twitter is seen as one of the many job/attention-gettin' tools, those who are worthy of recognition will get it through other avenues, not just through social media.

Which leads me to personal websites. A friend told me that I might need one in order to land a job because I'm losing jobs to folks who have websites. Sounds like a great idea, then I took a gander at a few of these personal websites and let's just say that having a damn fine gag reflex is a wonderful thing.

I'm losing jobs to these folks? Seriously? Yes I am, so now I need to get my head out of my ass and make up some sort of website for all of the world to see, heap praise on me (the critics will be silenced on my site thankyouverymuch) and hang on my every word. I have to get used to folks posting phrases like the dreaded and lazy "LOL!" and "OMG!" and "FTW!" Oh, uh ... there's that gag reflex again. Damn, it's starting to weaken. Time to deaden it with copious amounts of alcohol and constant reassurances of how amazingly brilliant I am from my fans in Iceland and Tasmania.

A website dedicated to how awesome the author is, well, it's a scosch much.

A modern day Biff Loman--with boobs

I've become a stereotype. I'm sitting in a Starbuck's up on Clark Street in Andersonville, writing on my MacBook Pro and sipping a tepid green tea chai latte thingy-no foam. The only thing I'm not doing is writing a screenplay, but I think writing a blog is in the screenplay-poseur category, however. The reason I'm here is because the Internets are out at mi casa and I really didn't feel like, you know, reading a book or watching the cats barf up technicolor hairballs all the live long day. Plus, I had cabin fever due to the frickin' blizzard that blew through Chicago over the past 48 hours. I can only watch the snow fall and my neighbors dig out their cars (really who are they kidding? BUT, they probably have cabin fever too) for so long before I want to encase the contents of my apartment in jello. I had to get out. It was that simple. 

So, I've been trying to figure out what the fuck to do with this blog. It's been weighing heavy on my mind because I've been told over and over by friends and acquaintances that I should be putting my wit and whatever out there, for all to see. The thing is, there are so many blogs out there and maybe 10 percent are worth reading. Out of that 10 percent, maybe 2 percent are worth reading on a daily basis. So many blogs are filled with the same old song and dance--politics, self-discovery, overtired & self-important mommy bloggers, observations, arts, arts criticism, snarky shit, etc. It goes on and on and they're all wonderful cures for insomnia. I'm gonna try like hell to not have a blog like any of those. I may dip into those subjects from time to time, but most of my posts will be random and hopefully interesting.

Like this one. A few weeks ago, my part-time job was eliminated at the magazine I'd been at for two years.  After the initial shock, which immediately turned to anger and has now morphed into depression, I'm trying to get through each day without getting sized for a straight-jacket. That's it. I'm not using any ancient secrets or meditation (which to me is just a sitting-up nap), I'm just letting it all work it's way through me like bad gas. You see, I firmly believe that when one experiences loss, whether it's death, a break-up or some sort of event that shakes one's core, one needs to feel bad. You just do and there's no magic pill to help one through it all (meth/heroin/X don't count). All of the anger, hurt and bad feelings have to be respected, and it's best to not attempt to quash those feelings because the inevitable is being delayed. I figure it's crappy outside, I don't want to be among the living, so why not go through all the anger and all the hurt in the comfort of my own home? Hell, I've got cable, access to Internet porn and a phone--which I rarely answer--but it's nice to know it's available to me when I feel a bout of black-wire fever coming on.

During this time, I've been getting lots of attention from my friends/family because of my job-free situation. Their attention is all wonderful and so welcome, but the best are some of the emails I've received--especially ones that are about job possibilities and what I should really be "doing with my life." 


Then, there are the emails that give me pause. Like this one. And, fyi, the name of the publication has been changed to protect ... well, whatever.


"FancyPants Journal, a weekly bidness mag for smart folks, is seeking a part-time intern for its big city, downtown newsroom. Responsibilities include managing editorial content on the magazine's two websites, FancyPantsJournal.com and KnickersAGoGo.com. Specifically, the position will assist in the posting of the magazine content, both text and graphics, on the two websites. Position may also do some basic writing, reporting and editing. The successful candidate must have an interest in all things fancy and smart, superior technical skills, familiarity with HTML, some copy editing experience or training, and a passion for fancy online journalism. Internship pays $XX/hour for so many hours a week and blah de blahhhh. The position would last for 3 months with the possibility of it being extended for another 3 or so months. FANCY! Send a cover letter, samples and whatnot to .. Mr. Schmenky McSchmenkman EIC, some big street in a big city. 


I got this announcement via a listserv I'm a member of and when it arrived, admittedly, it upset me. The body was still warm, my shadow was still lingering on the office door when this was posted. Granted, it's different from my job there--I worked 3 days/week, all day and did more editorial work. And, I was paid more, but not by much. 


It hurt to see and it made me realize that I meant nothing to this place for two years. 


While I was taking this all in and experiencing what a mini-stroke feels like, this email was forwarded to me by a former grad school chum--someone I haven't spoken with since we handed in our final stories.

"Hi Jules! I hear you have health care reporting experience. This would be the PERFECT JOB FOR YOU! Go for it! YOU CAN DO IT!" 


I sat staring at this email for a long time--reading it over & over--mouth agape and drooling like a mastiff. I read it again, squeezed my eyes shut tight, shook my head, opened them with the hope that it was a mirage, a cruel joke if you will. 


Nope. No such luck.


I looked out my window, shook my head and started to laugh uncontrollably. What else could I do? Laughing about this just made more sense! After all, it just proves that I'm the universe's court jester, a female Biff Loman, its sad sack and it's hilarious. It just proves that 2011 is turning out to be uber-turdelicious, but what can I really do about it? Nothing, except laugh it off. That's really all I have at this point and that's something, isn't it?