Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
--
I'm driving down to Allentown today to meet my "career coach."
I'm from Dunbar, WV and don't know nothing about no career coaches, but
we'll see how it goes. My ex-employer is paying for the service, and
I've been told by more than one person that it's a valuable asset. So
I'm gonna sit down with them and see what they have to say.
It's been a bit frustrating, because I haven't really gotten started.
The information packet from that consulting firm screams, over and over
again, not to apply for jobs or approach any companies, until I've met
with them first. So I've been laying back a bit. I did answer a couple
of internet ads for gigs that sounded like a good fit for me, but
haven't yet felt comfortable jumping into it with both feet.
We're burning daylight here, foo's! I'm itching to get the ball
rolling. And yes, I realize I used both the words "itching"
and "ball" in the same sentence. What of it?
Yesterday I got my fax machine up and running. A year or so ago you
folks helped me buy a really nice Canon all-in-one machine, via your
Amazon purchases. It's a kick-ass little unit, but I never had a use for
its faxing capabilities until now. So I had the phone company come out
and re-activate the old phone jack in the bunker, a relic from the dark,
dark Compuserve days, and I now have yet another way to communicate with
the outside world. It's like freakin' NASA in here. Except, you know,
for the loud Wreckless Eric music.
And I'm getting calls from so-called recruiters who don't have my best
interests at heart. One wanted me to come in and interview for a
position as an insurance salesman(!?). Apparently they contact every
single person who posts a resume to the internet, and past experience
isn't relevant. If I created a CareerBuilder account for our dog Andy, I
bet "Barbara" would try to issue him a briefcase. I told her I
wasn't even remotely interested, and she hung up on me. How's
that for phone etiquette?
I also have odd emails waiting for me every morning when I turn on my
computer. They're supposedly lists of new job opportunities
"selected especially for me," based on my work history, etc.
Completely baffling. They're sending me stuff like bio-chemist, house
painter, rhythm guitarist, and steamboat captain. What in the tan and
sandy hell?
Yeah, this is going to be an excellent adventure, I can just feel it. I
think I've sighed more during the past week than the previous forty-four
years combined. Pass the discs o' lard, dammit.
-- I listened to Clive Bull yesterday, for
the first time since everything turned upside-down. It was like comfort
food. He did almost an entire hour on whether or not his producer should
eat a sausage roll that had been out of the refrigerator all day. He was
taking calls, and carrying on lengthy detailed conversations about it.
Good, good stuff.
I love radio. I love television as well, of course, but I think I like
radio even more. There's just something about it. I've written before
about my fondness for the old Larry King overnight show, which I believe
was what first got me hooked on the medium as an ugly teenager. He aired
calls from all manner of nutcases, kooks, conspiracy theorists,
religious fanatics, and maniacs. And it was just highly entertaining.
Now I'm addicted to Clive, and Phil Hendrie, of course. I'm a former
disciple of Christopher Rude's hilarious old morning show in Atlanta,
and still tune into Neal Boortz a few times every week. And one of the
best things about taking a long car trip is scrolling through the AM
dial and hoping for the best. It makes Toney crazy, but it's like
archeology to me.
Oh, I've unearthed some real gems doing that. We once stumbled across a
religious program Down South somewhere, to which a hysterically sobbing
woman called-in and said she'd caught her husband masturbating in the
bathroom the night before. I almost drove my car into an embankment
because of that greatness. And then there was the bizarre
swap-meet type of deal where a man was looking to trade twelve good
laying hens for a stump-remover that works, or whatever.
Long car trips are often great, but especially below the Mason-Dixon
line.
I've also got a fairly massive old time radio mp3 collection, including
more than 800 episodes of Suspense, and practically every
existing recording of Gunsmoke, Dragnet, I Love a
Mystery, Escape, and others. It's not unusual for me to turn
the TV off in the evening, and fire up something from 1948.
Just a couple of weeks ago I purchased a huge cache of old Jean Shepherd
broadcasts, off eBay. He's the guy behind A Christmas Story, and
for more than twenty years lorded over a legendary late-night program on
WOR in New York City. There were no callers or gimmicks on his show, it
was
just Shepherd talking and telling stories. Great radio.
I was recently listening to one of those programs from the late '50s,
and Shepherd was talking about being unemployed. He said that one of the
best things that can happen to a man is for him to lose his job. He
invariably ends up happier, he claimed, and stronger. "You learn
that nobody can hurt you. Not really," he said.
Those were words uttered in the middle of the night, almost fifty years
ago, by a man who's now dead, into a microphone somewhere in New York
City -- bringing me comfort in 2007.
--
I'm driving down to Allentown today to meet my "career coach."
I'm from Dunbar, WV and don't know nothing about no career coaches, but
we'll see how it goes. My ex-employer is paying for the service, and
I've been told by more than one person that it's a valuable asset. So
I'm gonna sit down with them and see what they have to say.