Jansen1107

All the World's a Stage. Spill Its Scenes on the Blog Page. 

[jansen1107]

Jansen1107 turned 4 today!

[monstermelodies]

Halloween “Motion-ettes" (Telco 1990s)

[jansen1107]

Are You There, Grindr? It’s Me, Jansen

I remember when Grindr first became a thing. I was living in Boston at the time and coming home one night on the bus from my latest freelance gig. A guy sat down a few seats in front of me. He kept looking at the screen of his phone and up at me, smiling and nodding. Because I didn’t know him, I was a little alarmed. Did he know me from somewhere? I did a mental inventory of past companies I had worked for, schools, vacations abroad, but I came up with nothing. I thought maybe he wanted me to play World of Warcraft with him via my phone, but this would have been impossible because I still had a flip phone at the time. So, I just sat there and looked straight ahead, ignoring him. He looked mildly disappointed and eventually turned around and faced the front, still checking his phone screen from time to time.

Little incidents like that kept happening to me. It wasn’t until I had heard about this thing called Grindr, which was basically like having a bath house or public men’s room in your pocket. Cruising for sex had gone digital and getting sex was now easier than ever. (Or potentially so.) You could order up a guy like a pizza and invite him over for sex or go over to his place. It felt like we gays had finally found the promised land. And the streets were paved with cock.

Only I wasn’t having it.

I’ve always felt like an outsider in the gay “community,” particularly the scene aspect of it. At first, I thought it was self-loathing. But then when I remembered the time I was at a club and saw two guys holding their drinks and staring at me. “You’re not so great,” one of them said as I walked by to get to the bar. Or the bartender who pointedly ignored me and cackled with his regulars. He finally served me a drink with a heaping helping of attitude and didn’t give me my change back. Or the bar in San Francisco where my friend Christian asked for a drink and was told, “Say it like a man!” Yeah, excuse me, barkeep, could I get a pint of femme-shaming, please? 

My experiences in gay land have mostly been negative, and so I’ve become more of a gay token in straight land. It’s fine, though. They love me there. I don’t feel like shit after a night out there. The gay community has always felt to me like an abusive parent that I’m somehow supposed to love. Gasping voice: “But it’s the only gay community you’ve got!”

I find myself feeling like there is this nurturing world of gays out there somewhere. Clubs where you can show up and everybody knows your name. They raise their glasses when you walk in the door. They don’t try to steal your boyfriend. They pat you on the back and ask how you’re doing. And it’s not a front for a gay-conversion center. The reality of a place like that in the gay community seems like the mythical world of Narnia or Never-Never Land. Gay men in predominantly gay settings are more like cats being introduced to each other: they hiss and spit with the fur on their backs standing up. It’s ugly. But even when we get used to each other, a betrayal is almost always around the corner. There’s eventually a knife in the compliment.

And gay men are famous for their promiscuity. That’s why I’ve felt pressured to load up my phone with the endless array of hook-up apps now on offer. (I have to laugh at those who call them “dating” apps. Yeah!) I’ve definitely felt the pressure to get out there and get humping. So far, I’ve resisted the siren call. Maybe it’s because I somehow have a genetic propensity for monogamy. The men in my family marry for life. They have the ability to sleep with the same woman for decades. Would-be mistresses get put in their places. Casual sex is seen as childish. There’s a joke that if a man in my family is single, it’s because his partner left him. To be like this and be gay is like being a unicorn. The last unicorn. The idea of pair-bonding for life seems like anathema to the gays. Everyone talks about fucking. No one talks about love.

But I have to admit, I’m insanely curious about hook-up apps and what those encounters must be like. I imagine how weird they must be. In my mind, it goes like this: You exchange texts with a guy on your phone. He shows up at your door later. You smoke a joint together and exchange pleasantries. There’s some kissing and groping and then the clothes come off with some quick foreplay. Then it’s down to pumping while each guy stares off into the middle-distance like zombies, avoiding eye contact like actors trying not to look at the camera.

After that, you get up, get dressed, nod appreciatively or awkwardly, (don’t shower!) and go your separate ways. It’s perfunctory. Like animals fucking on National Geographic. Frequently, one guy is left sitting in his apartment crying tears that it never becomes anything more. One gay bear friend of mine lamented, “They never want to cuddle after!” Really? Fucking, really?

Oh, yeah, and occasionally it turns into a fuck-buddy arrangement. Just until things get weird. (Feelings!)

I’ve heard and read so many horror stories about hook-up apps. If you’re ugly, the constant rejection will make you suicidal. If you look like a Colt model (like an actual, goddamn Colt model), the sex apps are your goldmine. I also feel like the hookup-apps are at a saturation point right now. (Grindr seems so passé. Like the Friendster of hook-up apps.) And there are so many of them: Grindr, Scruff, Squirt, Hornet, Adam4Adam, DaddyHunt, Straight4Straight, Hole4Hire, OrificesRUs, YourBestFriendsHotClosetCaseDad, BiNet, PrudeHunter, and on and on…. We’re so damn spoiled for choice in this first-world culture of ours that exclusivity is all but obsolete. Why stick to one? When it breaks or gets bland, throw it out and get a new one.

I guess I’m stuck on this subject now because I’m getting to the tail-end of my time on OkCupid and contemplating other ways to meet guys. My OkCupid profile has been up for almost two and a half years now. I’ve been on a bunch of dates, been catfished, been toyed with, been ghosted, ghosted some guys (Don’t judge. One guy immediately told me he’d like to put me in the pile-driver positon. [I had to look it up.] Another guy just talked in circles forever.), made a few acquaintances, and attracted more guys who so aren’t right for me that I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve had better luck meeting hotties when I’ve joined special interest clubs, done semesters abroad, worked at places, and gone on vacations to far-off lands. 

Last December, I joined a gay men’s hiking group and met a guy who I’ve been dating off and on since January. There’s something to be said for good, old-fashioned face-to-face. Pictures on a computer screen with a blurb attached just open the door for you to invent someone who doesn’t exist. And that just leads to disappointment. (I recently tried to gently turn down a guy on OkCupid who was apparently smitten with me and who later wrote a caustic rebuttal to my rejection. It left me reeling for days.)

So, carry on with your hook-up apps, if that’s your thing. I’m not here to slut shame. I’m just saying that it’s not for me and will probably never be for me. It just seems to me like being on hook-up apps is compulsory if you’re gay. It’s just assumed that everyone’s doing it or bouncing back and forth from it. If you’re not on them, there’s something wrong with you. It’s as if when gays turn 18 now, they register for the draft and download Grindr. It’s required!

Because I don’t follow the crowd, does that make me the new face of fagism? The new, aging face of fagism? I don’t think so. There has to be a whole bunch of guys out there who feel the same way I do. Occasionally, I get glimpses of them online. Sigh… It would be so nice if we could all go off and build our own community.

[jansen1107]

Doing the Freelance Hustle

About a year ago, I left my disastrous, full-time, sweatshop ad agency job as an editor and decided to become a freelancer. It’s been kind of a rocky road. Freelancing can be feast or famine, and I’ve seen it from both sides.

I’m really no stranger to the freelance life. I spent most of the 2000s freelancing when full-time proofreading/copyediting jobs were scarce. I was laid off many times from various gigs when the work dried up. Sometimes, I’d start what was supposed to be a long-term gig only to be laid off two weeks later due to budget constraints. 

My friend Julie was incredibly helpful in getting me set up on my own this time, and it was she who got me a gig back at my old agency. Julie has been freelancing since the ‘80s and supplements her dry spells with a side gig doing shiatsu massage from her apartment. She’s an editorial veteran with war stories. She’s also been great at helping me make connections with some agencies she works with.

For the past year, I’ve been trying hard to build a client base. I’ve sent out my resume to various agencies and thought, at one point, that I had struck gold when I found one company with seven agencies in its network. The contact told me they were always looking for editors and all I had to do was call. I managed to get a month of work through them and was even offered an extension with the chance of going full-time, but I decided to return to my old agency for what would become a four-month gig with the plan to go full-time again with, hopefully, a better salary. That dream went up in smoke when the agency recently lost three big clients and had two rounds of layoffs. I would find myself out of work for almost two weeks before being hired back to help with a big project. I have one week left with them and then my life is another blanket toss.

Ad agencies seem to be in a tricky place right now. Back in the ‘50s and ‘60s, it was a glamorous industry that influenced popular culture. Many men (and a damn few women) made their fortunes churning out commercials, ads, and radio spots that are recognized around the world to this day. In 2017, although the facade of that glamor is still intact, the reality is that ad agencies are now beholden to their clients like never before. It feels like a veritable arms race to offer the best product turned around in the fastest possible time for the cheapest price. Ad agencies are now seen as the middlemen and that pressure to perform really takes its toll on the people who work there. Work-life balance is increasingly rare, and it’s not uncommon for teams to be worked around the clock, literally. More and more companies are starting to create in-house advertising departments. The extinction is underway.

I’ve managed to get the most work from my former agency, and at $55 an hour (with $82.50 for overtime), I’m doing pretty well for myself. (Also, I’m more of a bargain than a worker hired through a temp agency.) I don’t exactly get to keep all of that because $567 a month goes to a gold-level health insurance/dental plan through Obamacare. Because I have some health issues, forfeiting insurance is not an option for me. Also, I’d like to get back some of my tax returns rather than get hit with a hefty penalty come April 15. So, even though I’m making good money, it still feels like I’m only just getting by with all of the overhead I have to pay. (Two of my cats needed vet care back in June, which set me back $1,800. And then I found myself out of work for two weeks.) This year alone, I’ve been out of work for a total of nine weeks. Granted, one of those weeks was a trip to Cuba where I requested the time off.

Add to that my constant anxiety about saving for my retirement. I’m single and childless so there may not be a spouse or kids to lean on/look after me in my old age. It’s going to come down to me paying for others to do that. Having enough money to outlast me is going to be a challenge. At present, I have only $80k in my 401(k). That’s better than the average of $63k for people in my age group. But what I should have saved for my age is $146k if I’m going to be a millionaire at retirement. (I’m thinking about that last space on the Life board game.) It’s going to be an uphill battle to get there, and I can see myself working a part-time job well past the age of 70. (I hope I still have good health.)

The smart money (pun intended) would be to open a Roth IRA and start socking away some of my freelance earnings. But (but, but, but…) with outstanding student loan debt (not much) and credit card debt (manageable), I have a hard time deciding whether to save or to pay off accounts.

It’s a scary feeling when you’re a freelancer between gigs. There’s never any guarantee when the next job is going to come your way. It could be a couple weeks or a whole month. I’ve been collecting unemployment during my dry spells, but at only $372 a week after taxes, that’s not a lot to live on. Sure, I can feed myself and my cats and pay some bills, but that amount isn’t going to pay my rent. The weeks off are never a vacation because you’re constantly scanning the online job boards and calling and emailing contacts to try to set up something. Oh, how I would love not to feel anxious during my downtime!

So, I’m at a crossroads right now trying to decide if I want to continue with the freelance life or go full-time again: Pro: With full-time, you have a steady paycheck and can actually create a budget to live by. Con: With freelancing, you’re rolling in the dough, but sometimes it can take a month to get your first paycheck with a new client or you only get live checks and have to wait three business days for it to clear. (Then there are the clients that constantly screw up the hours when they pay you. Creative accounting?) Pro: With full-time, you have help with your insurance and your 401(k) is fed out of every paycheck. Con: But you take home less when you work full-time. Pro: As a freelancer, you can make bank with two 50-hour, back-to-back work weeks.  Con: With full-time, there’s no guarantee that you’ll be paid overtime and will most likely be tied to a salary no matter how many hours you work.

And whether you’re freelance or full-time, there’s no guarantee that the job will even be there for you the next morning you walk into the office. I saw this firsthand at the beginning of the week when the head project manager was (shockingly) laid off due to lack of work coming into the agency. There just weren’t enough billable hours to support his salary. 

No matter what you do, there are just no guarantees.

[jansen1107]

Trick-or-Treating (Kinda) in Cuba

I recently returned from a trip to Cuba. I had a wonderful time. Cuba is a beautiful and poor country where the absence of American influence is immediately noticeable and welcome. Called The Forbidden Tour, the theme of this trip was things haunted, spooky, and horror. Okay,… it was really just an excuse for we American tourists to take advantage of a group tour to Cuba while we still have the chance—Donald Trump is working tirelessly to close the door that was opened by Barack Obama. I’m glad our group got in when we did, and while we were there, we knew we were in a window of opportunity that would soon be shut to Americans. And, really, out of nothing more than spite. Sad.

I’ve been on five or six of these haunted horror trips. My friend Charles is the organizer, and his company is based in Connecticut. He keeps dreaming up new tours we can do, which gives us an excuse to go to new countries. Cuba is not really known for its haunted sites, but we found a few. The bunkers at the National Hotel in Havana offered some serious pings on Charles’s ghost-hunting app. We also toured Castillo de Jagua, an old fort that was made of mortar using animal blood and that is believed to be haunted by a “woman in blue.” Supposedly, her bones were excavated during a renovation and are now on display in the castle’s chapel under a thin sheet of plexiglass.

I was also humbled and honored to be a guest at an actual Santeria ceremony. The unsettling part of the ceremony was the noticeable pig’s head at the back of the room and a large plastic bucket that looked like it had the remains of a dog in it. From what I understand, Santerians practice animal sacrifice, and being a vegetarian and an animal lover, I’m not sure how I feel about that. I have tremendous respect for people of all faiths, but on some things, I’ll have to agree to disagree.

The Santerians were incredibly generous and offered us shots of black coffee with sugar, plates of pineapple and watermelon, bags of popcorn, and even gift bags with incense sticks, cigars, a tea candle, a paper cone of what I think is either incense or possibly dried beans, and a chalk seashell. The English-speaking priest asked us if we’d be interested in buying plastic baby dolls in custom Santerian outfits that were supposedly imbued with magical energy or spirits. I declined (even though I’m a toy collector), but now I regret it because they didn’t ask for donations at the end of the ceremony, and selling the dolls was probably a source of income for them.

Our group danced with the Santerians as men played drums at the front of the room and one man sang in a beautiful voice, calling out to the congregation and being answered in kind. I really worked up a sweat and felt the energy in the room. Two women had to be escorted from the dance area when it was clear they were possessed of the spirit. In Santeria, the spirits or orishas ride the dancers and possess them. Instead of being frightened, I was awed. It was a humbling experience to be part of it all.  

Other sites we saw included the grand cemetery in Havana, which is the largest urban cemetery in the world. We actually lost an older man from our group and had to organize a search party, fearing he had passed out from the heat somewhere in the forest of mausoleums. Being a loner, he had a penchant for going off on his own, but I finally spotted him on his way toward us on an avenue that was being used for a military drill. Phew! That was the most unpleasant scare on the trip.

Havana is beautiful. I had the opportunity to ride “the oldies”; antique cars from the ‘50s and ‘60s that have been kept in good condition since they were made and are now used mainly as cabs for tourists. Riding along the beautiful Malecon seawall was like a dream and a reminder that my heart belongs in seaside towns.  

The people of Havana were stoic and thoroughly unimpressed with Americans, which was both humbling and relieving. It was nice to walk around and not be stared at, even if we looked like goths in our dark clothes, T-shirts with ouija board prints, and (gasp!) facial hair! Everyone looked the same in terms of clothing to me, and I was longing for just one or two university students to come walking along with brightly colored hair… or piercings… or a mohawk. It never happened while I was there. The whole country was so understated. The only billboards were those advertising propaganda. There were no logos or ads jumping in our faces at every turn, and it was hard to know if we were looking at a restaurant or a copy center from the outside. It felt like the whole country was a speakeasy.

And not a single Starbucks in sight! Hallelujah! Although I did have my traveling companions doubled over with laughter when I asked the barista at the National Museum’s snack shop (in a whiny valley girl voice), “Can I get a venti caramel macchiato? I haven’t had a caramel macchiato in days, okay? I am so dying right now.” Of course, the request went way over his head, and he made me a frozen lemonade, one of only about three beverages on offer. It was delicious.

My friend Krys and I got up at 6:15 to run 4 miles on several mornings. We loved watching the sun come up as we ran down by the water. Commuters were out waiting for the unreliable buses even at that early hour. We said, “Hola,” to many of them as we passed, and the Cubans were very friendly. Watching the sun come up as we ran on those early mornings reminded me how beautiful this life can be.

Cuba is one of those places where you can actually use your rudimentary Spanish and not get an eye roll, like you do when you’re in Europe—where everyone is fluent in English and doesn’t have time for you to struggle with verb conjugation. I was pleasantly surprised to see that my four years of high school Spanish and subsequent years of reading the language and eavesdropping has made me decidedly conversant. I was able to help my friend Lynn find a souvenir map of Cuba at the airport, told the cashier in a grocery store that Cuban coffee is reputed to be among the best in the world, and had a conversation with a man in front of the National Theater about how he’s happy to see tourists but the government takes all the tourist dollars… speaking of which, could I spare a peso or two and maybe a couple bars of soap?

We Americans are spoiled for choice, and it’s something you take for granted until you walk into a Cuban grocery store and see only two choices of coffee, three choices of shampoo, and hear rumors that a shipment of Gouda cheese can cause a near run on the store. Some of our group complained that hotel cleaning staff were stealing toiletries. I don’t think this was due to need so much as an actual hunger for choice. At one stop, a man asked me if I had Ivory soap on me, something rare in Cuba. It’s human nature to want choice and variety in all things, and we Americans don’t know how lucky we are.

And that brings me to the part of my story about the kids. In our emails prior to the trip, Charles recommended that we bring cheap toys and toiletries to hand out to the Cubans. The weekend before leaving, I went around to the dollar stores in my neighborhood picking up bars of soap, cheap Barbie knock-offs, coloring books, crayons, pencils, Matchbox cars, and Pez dispensers. It seemed like every time we ran into a group of school kids, my goodies were stowed in my suitcase under the bus where I couldn’t access them. It happened outside Hemingway’s house and again outside Castillo de Jagua. Just seeing the looks on the kid’s faces was priceless. Finally, I got smart and started carrying my goodies around in a canvas tote bag with the tour logo on the front. I was like a wide-eyed, maniacal Santa Claus on the lookout for kids.   When we got to the National Theater, I spied a little boy with no shirt on and a pair of shorts hanging out in front of a restaurant. He must have been about five or six. I was across the street and couldn’t get to him in time because he disappeared when I crossed. I was heartened that some tourists walking by handed him a green tennis ball before I could get to him.

A few minutes later, I spied a little girl holding the hand of a man who I assumed to be her grandfather. Quickly, I reached into my bag and handed her one of the knock-off Barbies. I’ll never forget the look on her face! Her mouth formed a little “o” and her eyebrows shot up. Isn’t it the best feeling in the world to make kids happy? I had read reports that girls actually line up on the playground to play with a single Barbie doll. And I think that sucks!

As I continued walking with my group, I looked back and saw that the girl and her grandfather had stopped. She then came running back to me with the doll. I shouted to her, “¡Es tuyo! ¡Es tuyo! (It’s yours! It’s yours!)”, thinking she was bringing the doll back to me because her grandfather wanted to teach her a lesson in modesty. Boy, was I ever wrong! She pointed to the other two dolls sticking out of the top of my bag and said that she wanted those, too! I obliged. So, now she either has a whole set of new dolls for herself or she’s going to give the others to her sister(s) or classmates. I admired her enterprising spirit!

The rest of my goodies went quickly. It gave me such a great feeling to hand out each item. The girl on her dad’s shoulders who cheered when I handed her a coloring book and a box of crayons. The little boy who shyly turned away from me when I handed him an Optimus Prime Pez dispenser. (His mother assured him it was okay.) The parents were always so appreciative. But that little boy who got away will always stay with me. I send you positive vibes, little man!

At the end of the week, our group customarily has a costume ball where we get dressed up and compete for prizes. Although I won “Crowd Favorite” on our last trip to Germany and Prague, my Spring-Heeled Jack costume was an utter failure. No one knew who I was supposed to be. I decided not to wear makeup with it because it was so hot and muggy. You won’t find many pictures of me in our shared group photos. I think I just weirded everyone out in my skeleton shirt, bat cape, and cut-up rubber Batman mask. (I was having flashbacks to a similar experience when I was a child.) No matter. I’ll wear the costume again for Halloween and then retire it. I love the character and was glad to wear him in costume form.

So, that was my haunted mystery tour to Cuba! What an amazing time. It’s sad to think that if you’re an American and are reading this, you might not have the chance to visit Cuba for a while. The Trump administration is moving quickly to slam that door shut. And thereby taking away one of our freedoms. “Make America Great Again,” he says? My advice is to get there this year (2017). If you’re interested, Charles is offering the tour again next year, if Americans can still travel to Cuba. But the next trip will be more of a tour for music and food than a horror tour. Tropicana and Buena Vista Social Club were some music venues we got to enjoy, and I highly recommend you check them out if you’re in Havana.

And be sure to bring lots of toys for the kids!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMhS5Xt_sRE&list=PLPd7HOSqosr5QPRTrdJiwt9dVaFmz7UpF

[jansen1107]

Jansen1107 turned 3 today!

[jetcomics]

a Truly Outrageous Commission!

[jemandtheholograms]

😀😃🙃😒😤😖

[talesofaninjun]

“Look at me, in a different role, tryin’ out a brand new part!”

[jansen1107]

(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s-bKFo30o2o)

[jansen1107]

How the Mighty Have Fallen

I started 2017 unemployed. I’m now on my third week. It feels strange to be writing that, especially where the national unemployment rate in the U.S. stands at 4.7% as of now. Almost everyone I know has a job. So, what happened with me?

The last job I had was a three-month gig working freelance for $55 an hour at my former ad agency, which I had left full-time in June after four years. They were nice enough to have me back to help out with some projects. My gig was supposed to go through to this year with the possibility of going full-time on a new account, but my manager spoke to HR and HR spoke to the Finance department. Finance came back with a resounding “No!” And here I am.

From 2014 to 2015, and shortly after I moved to New York City, I would receive as many as 3 recruiters a week bombarding my LinkedIn in box with invitations to interview for other companies. Sometimes they’d get really ballsy and write to my work email. The ad agency I worked for had just moved me to their New York office at the end of summer 2013, so I ignored the offers coming in. There was a clause with my agency where if you left within a year of being transferred, you had to pay back all of the moving fees. In some cases, companies that hire you will pay the fee. I saw this happen with a guy who was moved to the New York office from North Carolina and who left after eight months. He and I would end up at the same agency later… and I would leave that agency in flames.

Within the first couple years of moving to New York, I received some heady offers to interview with companies that were all outside of the city. It seemed like just having “New York” stamped on my resume suddenly made me desirable to companies in other regions. One recruiter asked if I’d be interested in interviewing as a medical editor for an ad agency in San Diego. Another asked if I’d be interested in running my own editorial department for a new agency in Denver. It was so tempting, but I turned them down. I had just gone through the stress of moving all my shit (and I have A LOT of shit) and my cat to New York. Why would I want to go through that again so soon?

This morning, when I logged in to Facebook, I was taunted by one of those flashback posts from two years ago today. In that post, I humble bragged about being offered an interview with an agency in Raleigh, North Carolina. Although I didn’t want it, I asked if any of my friends would be interested. I believe in sharing the wealth, and if I have good fortune and don’t need it, I’m certainly okay with passing it along to someone who might.

Those were good times. I definitely felt like a rock star back then, and I said to myself, “I hope these job offers are still coming in when I’ll need them.” Famous last words.

Back in June of 2016, I finally heeded the siren call of the job recruiters. Big mistake. The recruiter offered me the biggest salary yet. With my rent going up another $100 in September, I really needed to find a job that would pay. This place seemed like it would fit the bill, no pun intended.

The agency (I’ll call them Beige) was not the right fit for me from go, and a little voice inside my head told me to turn back. I should have listened, but I overrode my instincts and went ahead with the interview. The recruiters were really gunning for me to take the job. I found out during several phone calls I had with them that they were getting a huge fee for placing me, based on my salary. They assured me that this place was all about work/life balance and I wouldn’t be expected to stay late like so many other agencies. (“You’ll be able to get home in time to have dinner and hang out with your cat.”) During the onsite interview, the woman who would end up being my boss very sweetly told me that Beige didn’t believe in overworking its editors. I wouldn’t be expected to work more than 40 hours a week because I needed to be fresh to do my job, she said. While work/life balance had never been an issue at my old agency, everyone I talked to was making this place sound like a country club with great pay. How could I say no? And, believe me, I did stall right up until the eleventh hour because of that nagging voice in my head. But pressure from the recruiters and Beige caused me to give in. (Or, I chose to give in. I have to take responsibility for this.)

Basically, the fuckers lied to me.

Within the first few weeks of being crammed into what felt like an open-air market with impeccably dressed people, I soon discovered that I was actually working in a sweatshop. A typical workday never went below 9 hours and 11 to 12 hours was not unusual or even questioned. I worked three Saturdays in a row because the account managers couldn’t say no to a bullying client that demanded the world on a silver platter. (We were constantly being reminded that our competitors were always showing the client how they could do things better.)

I’ve gone on at length about this experience in an earlier blog entry, if you care to read it, so I’m not going to beat this dead horse anymore. Suffice it to say, Beige was a shit show of an agency. I felt like I had been shanghaied to work on a pirate ship and that I could stick it out or walk the plank. One Monday morning, after my boss called me to her desk to deliver some sugar-coated criticism, I decided to walk the plank. It was probably the best thing I did for my health. But for my career? Not so much.

When I updated my resume on LinkedIn following this debacle, it seemed like the emails from recruiters dried up almost immediately. There was one who showed interest, and I agreed to let her place my resume with an agency that I had turned down a couple years before. Days went by after she submitted it, and there was no call. I’ve always been used to things happening very quickly. I have a lot of great experience. When I submit a resume, I almost always get a call the next day for an interview, and I usually have a new job by the following Monday. Not this time.

My mother asked me if I thought I had been blacklisted. While I don’t think Beige is wasting their time putting out the word about what a dud I was (that would be highly illegal, I imagine), I do think that the three scant months now appearing on my resume is giving some potential employers pause. The recruiter I mentioned earlier told me one potential employer was pleased that Beige was on my resume, but then I didn’t hear a word after that. I imagine the recruiter played up the fact that I worked at Beige, but then when the potential employer had the resume in hand, they looked at the timeline and asked, “What happened here?”

So, do I lie on my resume? Should I delete that bit of time and just say in an interview (if I get one) that I took the summer off to write a novel? Or take care of my elderly grandmother? Or to find myself? It’s tempting to just wipe it out, but then it becomes a lie by omission. And there’s always the danger of ending up at another agency with someone who remembers me from Beige and then tells my manager, who can’t seem to recall Beige ever being on my resume. It’s a real conundrum.

At times like these, I think about the hoops some of my ancestors had to jump through to find work. In the 1920s, my great-grandmother had just divorced my alcoholic great-grandfather at a time when divorce was taboo. On top of that, she had a three-year-old son (my grandfather) whom she had to cart off to relatives just so she could pass herself off as an unmarried woman and get a teaching job. It’s sad to think now.

On my father’s side, my Native American ancestors oftentimes had to pass themselves off as white just so they could get jobs and housing. As a result of the horrible bigotry they faced, they went deep into the racial closet, and we have no idea what tribe we’re descended from. And we’d like to know. (My parents both just did the DNA spit test, so I’m hoping we’ll have some answers soon.)

The point of all this is that the times have changed but the bullshit remains the same. Talented people with great experience are discriminated against for circumstances beyond their control. For me, ageism is a very real issue I have to contend with. My mother says it doesn’t hit until one is in his/her 50s, but I’ve already felt the sting in my 40s. I could also be denied a government job simply for the fact that I’m gay and because my orientation doesn’t jive with a Christian doing the hiring. Gaps in employment are scrutinized and can cost you a job. And if I do take a job, and it sucks, and I leave after three months—an employer is going to look at me, out of context, like I’m a quitter, regardless of the names and years of experience I have to show. I’m dead in the water.

As of this writing, I’ve sent out close to 10 resumes during the past couple weeks. Of those, I’ve only spoken to one recruiter who is trying to place me with one of several agencies within her domain. I’m hopeful, but I know the reality is that I could end up like so many executives who found themselves without a job and are now working as greeters at Walmart—and wondering what the hell went wrong. I say that will never happen to me, but will it?

I’ve applied for unemployment at the urging of my friend Julie and stand to gain a whopping $430 a week in benefits, if I’m even accepted. (That doesn’t go far in NYC, believe me.) My student loans have been put on hold for three months as a hardship forbearance. Luckily, my Obamacare health insurance is paid through March 1. (Small blessings.) I’ve already started to extract some toys from my toy collection to sell on eBay. (I did this back in 2005 during a work downturn and managed to pay my utilities this way for several months.) And I’m contemplating cashing in one smallish 401k account that would allow me to pay my rent and utilities for six months while I look. (This is fine for the short-term, but my 80-year-old self might suffer from it.) That would be a last-ditch effort following two months without a job offer. The gears are always turning, and I’m trying to be resourceful and keep my head above water. Hopefully, something will happen before then.

Sigh… Welcome to 21st-century America. It’s true what they say: The more things change, the more they stay the same. It isn’t doing much to help us, let me tell ya.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1qc0Fi8kxnE

[teganandsara]

The last song we wrote for Love You Yo Death was U-turn. Each night of our Northrop American tour I dedicated it to George Michael as the original recording session for U-Turn was named “Ode to George Michael”. 😭

[jansen1107]

Licking the Wounds of 2016

Odd-numbered years have always been bad for me. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s because I was born in an odd-numbered year. The first year I really started keeping track was 1995. Since then, I’ve noticed that when the calendar flips to an odd number, something truly horrible inevitably happens. It could be the death of a loved one, a serious misfortune like identity theft, being mugged, or breaking up with the man of my dreams.

Usually, these years pack one or two punches, and that’s it. It leaves me reeling and looking back on it and saying, “What a sucky year.” There might be some residual misfortunes to round it all out, but it always seems to be one or two really bad things that leave lasting damage in their wake.

2016 (an even-numbered year!) is, without a doubt, the worst year I have ever lived through. And I realize I’ve been fortunate to live through it. The clock hasn’t struck midnight yet, so there’s still a chance something could happen to me where I won’t see 2017. After the unpredictability of this year, I wouldn’t be surprised.

2016 has been the year of death. Back in 2012, I think there was a baby boom going on because I literally knew ten women who were pregnant at the same time. It was so strange. In 2016, there’s apparently a massive die-off in progress, and not just on the international stage.

Princess Diana died in 1997 (an odd-numbered year) and the world was devastated. This was prior to 911, and we thought we were living in a world where princesses aren’t supposed to die. It was the bitter taste of losing an icon—and one so before her time. Well, 2016 felt like the year we lost many Princess Dianas: David Bowie, Prince, George Michael, Carrie Fisher, and Debbie Reynolds to name just a few. It was hard to process one death before another one happened. There was just too much death this year!

From September to December, I lost THREE former coworkers. In September, it was my former coworker John who died suddenly at the age of 38. The thought of his passing still makes me shudder. Too young. Too soon. So much life and such a big personality. I’m bitterly sorry that he and I were never friends, even though I was fond of him.

Then, in October, a former assistant manager at the retail job where I worked part-time for 20 years, died of cancer. She was diagnosed in the summer, and it spread rapidly, from what I was told.

In December, a graphic designer from the ad agency where I worked passed away suddenly from either kidney or heart disease. I had just seen him the week before walking around on my floor and talking to everyone. He always used to call me by my last name. (A lot of people think my first name is my last name, so it’s an easy mistake.) RIP, Chris.

In July, my friend and former office mate Judy lost her father. Judy is a dear friend and a cross between the actresses Mary McConnell and Jacqueline Bisset. I jokingly refer to her as my TV mom. Her father always used to ask her, “How’s that kid doing?” meaning me. From time to time, I’d say, “Tell your dad ‘that kid’ says hi.” In 2014, I had the chance to finally meet him when they came to NYC and took me to dinner at a little Italian place in Hell’s Kitchen. It was an honor to meet him. From what I understand, he was kind of a legend as a journalist in Rhode Island back in the day.

In August, my beautiful and stylish psychiatrist friend lost her husband. Their family had just gone on vacation to Greece, and when they returned, he complained he wasn’t feeling well. After three days in the hospital, and with doctors stumped, he passed away quietly one night. I have yet to see my friend, but I’m going to give her the biggest hug when I do.

Earlier in the year, it was looking like my friend Kathie was going to succumb to COPD. She and her husband got officially married at City Hall in San Francisco in case he had to make end-of-life decisions for her. Thanks to some amazing doctors, she’s now in the clear, but they lost their beloved dog in November after he was diagnosed with three brain tumors. Kathie lapsed into depression and ill health and is now on medical leave from work. I check in with her regularly. Her mood is getting better after weeks where she couldn’t even see a light at the end of the tunnel.

There was just too much death and misfortune this year. And with Trump winning the election, many of us were wondering how we ended up in this bizarro world we’re living in. Nothing can be predicted. Uncertainty is the only guarantee. (For anyone from another country who’s reading this, please know that many of us Americans hate Trump and didn’t want him to be president. Don’t hate us. We’ll fight. At this point, it seems like all we can do is endure. This, too, shall pass.)

Even in my own life, I suffered one very big setback this year. When I decided to leave my ad agency of four years and start a new job with a more prestigious agency and with a much better salary, I found out that I was actually the victim of a bait-and-switch. I decided to quit without giving notice after two and a half months of being worked, literally, around the clock. I became like a zombie working 18-hour days and many weekends. That level of numbness I slipped into from overwork, lack of sleep, poor eating, pressure to turn around work, eventual illness, criticism… and…. gaaahh! Walking away from it was probably the best thing I did, even though I haven’t pulled a move like that since a summer high school job where I worked for a tyrant. (Interestingly, the director of the department at that agency later wished me a happy birthday, apparently without an agenda. It’s not often, but people do surprise me, occasionally.) If I hadn’t walked away from that job, I’m sure I would have suffered either a heart attack or a breakdown. A week after leaving, I suffered a panic attack during a panel at a toy convention. It felt like I was having a heart attack, but once I started naming things around the room out loud, I calmed down. Scary shit. I’m not used to feeling like that. This was definitely the year I learned about my limits.

This was also the year I hit the bottle a little more than I would have liked. I didn’t know how much of a problem I was having until I took my recycling out one weeknight and was amazed at all the beer and wine bottles clanking around. Looking back on it, I realized I was virtually Cersei Lannister with my ever-present cobalt goblet of wine. This was the result of a year that laid on one sucker punch after another without rest. The stress, the disappointment, the sadness, the numbness, the uncertainty… all ingredients that flavored a very bad year.

Aside from the alcohol, I did find healthier means of escapism. The Jem and Wonder Woman comic books were my little mental vacations. The hilarious “Crazy Rich Asians” by Kevin Kwan was my favorite novel this year. A book that can make me laugh out loud at the laundromat and turn heads is a great book, in my estimation. And it felt so good just to laugh sometimes. 

The stock market took off, and so did my 401k. After several weeks of doing inventory and cataloguing, I discovered my toy collection is now valued at a whopping $31K. (At this time, I’d like to thank my younger self for having the foresight to snap up vintage toys at a bargain when eBay first went online.) Although prices fluctuate from year to year, some key pieces have appreciated nicely.

Maybe it was instinct that made me return to my love of goth/industrial music this year. With there being so much uncertainty and disappointment, maybe part of me felt it was time to return to an appreciation for dark beauty. I discovered some good, dark, angry music that fueled me. 

And this year I enjoyed some great times with some good friends. A cottage vacation. Watching the fireworks from a high-rise in Manhattan. Reunions. Impromptu get-togethers. There were some belly laughs this year, and it kept me going. It’s the little things we have to hold onto that get us through tough times.

So what does 2017 hold? Honestly, I don’t even want to know. I’m kind of hoping that because seven is my lucky number, it’ll be lucky for me. But this is the first year in many that I haven’t made any New Year’s resolutions. The ones I made in the past were usually laughable and rarely attained, so why make them this year? Something always happened to knock me off course. Get a better job? Done! Oh, but it’s a shitty one and not at all what you thought you were getting into. Stick to a running routine? Well, you’re about to switch to 18-hour work days. Kiss your workouts goodbye.

You can never plan for anything. All you can do is take each day as it comes and work with what you have available. That’s what 2016 has taught me.

Tonight I’m meeting my friend Mark for dinner at another Italian place in Hell’s Kitchen. Then we’re heading to our friend Julie’s for her New Year’s Eve party. At midnight, we’ll all be standing in Central Park drinking Champagne and cheering the midnight runners—an event I participated in last year. (Not this year. I need to get back in shape. And I’m okay with being a spectator this time, even though I’ll be insanely jealous of the runners. I’ll get back out there again.)

I’ll admit that I’m not looking forward to 2017 after the bruising I got from 2016. It’s hard not to feel pessimistic after so much misfortune. But things can change. I still believe. I’m hoping 2017 will be better for all of us this year. We’re due for some good times. We can only hope.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xPnWOem7jok

[jansen1107]

My Favorite Songs of 2016

In 1999, I started a tradition of writing down my favorite things of the year. This became known as the “Jansen’s Best Awards” and featured such categories as “Novel of the Year”, “Film of the Year”, “Best Thing That Happened to Me This Year”, “Accomplishment of the Year”, “Crush of the Year”, “Gay Porn Star of the Year” (!!!) and “Song of the Year” among many others.  This is a tradition I’ve maintained every year since, recording my favorites in a notebook and in a spreadsheet, most recently.

In 2009, I matched up all the winners of the categories for 10 years to find the best of the decade. “You Get What You Give” by New Radicals became my song of the decade and what I consider to be my personal theme song. “Maybe You’ve Been Brainwashed Too”, the LP that  it’s from, has become one of my top 10 favorite albums of all time and one I’d want to have with me if I were ever trapped on a desert island. (With Sean Astin, hopefully.)

2016 was, for me, a great year for music. I returned to my love of goth/industrial and tuned in to podcasts like Communion After Dark. This yielded some great songs that have been in heavy rotation for me this year. Many of these songs are several years old, but they’re new to me.

I also discovered a newfound love for country music when I went on a cottage vacation with my friends Douglas and GZ to Upstate New York in the fall. Douglas is a country music fan, and when I found this out, I rolled my eyes and thought, “Oh, shit.” Much to my surprise, I enjoyed many of the songs I heard. If you ever want to get heartache right, country music is the genre. During the weekend, I found myself sitting in the backseat of our rented car and calling out, “Douglas! Who sings this?” A few of these songs ended up on my Jansen’s Best list.

During that weekend, I was surprised to discover that I actually like a Nick Jonas song. While I really only know the guy from his gay-baiting antics, I was surprised when a song that I loved on the radio (Cloud? Siri? Whatever the kids listen to now?) was by him. “Jealous” reminds me of Taylor Swift’s “Style.” Many of today’s pop stars are cultivating a 1980s sound with their music, which certainly resonates with me where I’m a child of the ‘80s. Taylor Swift’s album “1989” is one that I love, and I really enjoy the pop phase that former Canadian indie artists Tegan & Sara are in right now. Several years ago, the duo performed an exclusive set for the ad agency where I worked in Boston. I’m not ashamed to say that I have a bit of a girl crush on them. I was standing with them “backstage” before they went on. One of the girls was very stern and “in charge” while the other one was softer and friendlier. I’ve seen this before when I worked in my long-term retail job, and we had two Jamaican twins working for us. One was the “leader” while the other was much friendlier and open. The softer one of Tegan & Sara smiled at me before going on. I was touched. :-)

Tegan & Sara’s “U-Turn” is probably going to win song of the year for me. When I first heard it last spring, I thought, “That’s my summer jam.” I immediately posted it to Facebook and Tumblr. It sounds a lot like that ‘80s hit “Heart and Soul” by T’Pau. (I wonder if they were influenced? Hmmm….)

The following links are my nominees for “Best Song of 2016” but I’m also including some “regular rotation” songs that I listen to year after year in the “encore” section. I hope you enjoy them. One of the things I love about music is how my friends and coworkers turn me on to new music I might never have heard on my own. I’m eternally grateful to my coworker Joe who worked with me at a world-famous toy company years ago and who turned me on to Pogo. “Expialidocious” is a perennial favorite. (Karen Dotrice’s sweet singing has reduced me to tears on several occasions.)

This year, I’m especially pleased to discover new (to me) bands like The Birthday Massacre and The Sweetest Condition. I’ll be adding ALL their music to my collection. Also, it’s not lost on me that vices seem to be a common theme in my 2016 favorites. Hmmm….

If I were doing a concert to represent 2016, this would be my setlist. These songs are the soundtrack for my year. I hope you enjoy what you hear and that I turn you on to something you might not have listened to otherwise. Reach out to me if you like something or if there’s something you hear that makes you want to recommend something else I might like.

Enjoy!

Technoir “Dying Star” (Mesh Mix) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yObpXlXmj9o

The Birthday Massacre “Shallow Grave” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b6QYT5KyUIc

The Sweetest Condition “Vices” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KhQlge5rFCg

Grimes “Entropy” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dJllPnEqb2U

Strvngers “Tension” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G2Wxj8K4siE

Jeffree Star “God Hates Your Outfit” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lrBobdZziE

Clicks “We’re Back” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C2B17VV43c8

The Sweetest Condition “Deconstructing” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X4-iP-ce6uY

Joni Mitchell “Both Sides Now” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aCnf46boC3I

Britta Phillips “Wrap Your Arms Around Me” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RpxlqGUenAI

Schiller featuring Tarja Turunen “Tired of Being Alone” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mbF0vsidpz8

Amanda Lambert “Vice” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zTlaRu_Wsl4 Lauren Alaina “Road Less Traveled”  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j-NAEvc-b6E

Nick Jonas “Jealous” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yw04QD1LaB0

Solar Fake “You Need the Drugs” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sc4B3T5RlW0

Helalyn Flowers “Frozen Star” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vLJXwxu14A4

Tegan & Sara “U-Turn” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PpfJfSG_c1g

Encore 1:

Human League “Heart Like A Wheel” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nz-_FFb6OQU

Bananarama “I Heard A Rumour” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DgqPpdluoes

T’Pau “Heart and Soul” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SwrYMWoqg5w

Encore 2:

Cecil Corbel “I Hear The Great Mountains” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hjdBUTi3E6w

Bonus:

Pogo “Expialidocious” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Za-V_lhwGg

[jansen1107]

John

(for what it’s worth, an open letter)

I remember the first time I saw you. I had started as a freelance proofreader for three months at our agency, and our boss was taking me around the department and introducing me to everyone on the first day. I could see you out of the corner of my eye staring at me in your baseball cap and gray hoodie. Already, I knew the gears were turning in your head.

I was eventually hired full-time, given a title, and assigned to work on one account exclusively. No matter how busy the other editors were, I was instructed not to lift a finger to help, as much as I wanted to. I think that may have really rubbed the salt in your wound. I was being treated special, although it was something I walked into and not what I sought out.

Our department was open-plan and it felt like we were all sitting in a high school cafeteria. Everyone could see everyone. And we had a fantastic view of Boston Harbor through the giant wrap-around windows. The Custom House Tower was right in our face. It was the best view in the agency. Maybe that’s part of the reason the department thought it was so special.

Everyone in the department hated me on sight. I don’t know what it was about me. There were many theories in my head: I had replaced someone they really liked, I had no fashion sense, I projected an air of being better than everyone, I had nothing in common with anyone…. Weirdly, at my last freelance job with a world-famous toy company, my teammates would surround me and smile whenever I came back to visit and have lunch with the supervisors, who had become friends. I made so many friends from that job who I’m still in touch with now.

I guess I wasn’t too surprised when they sat me next to you. You were chilly to me from the start. One morning I sneezed, and you made a production of moving everything on your desk that was close to me to the other side. If I had questions, you would give me short answers and act annoyed. Then there was that time when you picked up my Jem coffee mug (a bootleg I ordered from Argentina) and walked around showing it to everyone in the row, oohing and aahing. Everyone tittered and shot me little glances.

No one missed an opportunity to be rude to me. I’d pass people in the halls and they’d avoid eye contact. They’d slam down folders on my desk and say, “They didn’t like your changes.” and walk away. The hipster guy with the giant mohawk sometimes danced like an ape next to my desk as I was trying to work. One guy sang “I’m Coming Out” as he passed me in the hall. Everyone would go to lunch or out for drinks after work and I would never be invited. New people were introduced to everyone but me. I now think that the purpose of junior high school is to teach us how the world really is.

I soon resigned myself to the fact that I was the department outcast. Nothing I could do would change anyone’s mind about me. So, I owned the role. I kind of thought of myself as Maleficent (the classic Disney version, not that train wreck by Angelina Jolie) and started walking around with resting bitch face. If anyone spoke to me, I’d answer in a monotone. I’d act annoyed if anyone had a request. After a while I just thought of it as performance art. Joan Collins once said that it takes a nice woman to play a bitch, but it’s a role that never suited me.

Once I started playing the role, however, people started treating me differently. I’d walk through the halls and people would move out of the way. Everyone would act nervous around me. A designer would come up and ask me a question, and I would see his hands shaking as he held the hard copy. When I got the chance to move to the corner desk because I needed more light, everyone acted as though I had ascended to the Iron Throne. It was the best seat in the house, and everyone knew it. Everyone really started treating me differently after that—and all I did was change my seat! I used to get a kick out of leering at the group as they went to lunch, one eyebrow raised, their eyes nervously darting away when they saw me looking. But it’s exhausting to play the role of someone so unlike yourself. I’d go home every night feeling both tired and pissed off.

There were some who tried being nice to me. In the halls or on the street at lunch, they’d pass and say hi. But once we were back in the department, those same people pretended not to know me. Toe the line. Play your role.

You were always the ringleader in this dysfunctional circus. Everyone adored you. You were extroverted, a jock, and the life of the party. (Most editors tend to be quiet introverts.) I always suspected that my woes in the department were in large part due to things you were saying about me behind my back. Of course, I had no proof of this. Just a hunch.

I never called you by your nickname that everyone else used because I felt like I hadn’t earned the privilege. And because I insisted on calling you by your given name, that seemed to partly keep the wall between us firmly in place. Our relationship dynamic was like that of Bette Davis and Joan Crawford. A straight comparison might be that of Archie Bunker and Meathead.

It might surprise you to know that there were many things I liked and admired about you. You were a stylish dresser and once bragged about the $500 shoes you had bought. You had an antique radio at your desk and a cool art deco lamp that gave your work space a nice touch. I loved the picture of you and one of our coworkers posing in ugly Christmas sweaters for what looked like a professional shot done at a mall. The clueless, vapid looks on your faces were priceless and spot-on. Of course, it was all for a laugh. Even now, I’m chuckling as I think about it. You owned your own house in South Boston. (An amazing feat for someone on an editorial salary!) And I admired the way you would agonize over the shade of meaning in a word in some copy. Should it be this? Wouldn’t it be better to say this?

I also loved the way you looked after Scott, our older teammate who was in the ad industry back in the days when everyone went out for martini lunches, wrote ideas down on napkins, and smoked in the office. He always wore nice slacks and button-up shirts in a department of jeans and T-shirts. You two were buds.

I got a kick out of the time you told Scott about that book “Childhood’s End” by Asimov. (It’s actually written by Arthur C. Clarke, and it’s my all-time favorite sci-fi novel.) I wondered if you also thought every horror novel was written by Stephen King. I tried not to laugh my Asimov.

There was some evidence that you weren’t all bad. At the summer outing at a swank yacht club, I was sitting by myself because, of course, no one would talk to me other than our boss and an account executive who was decent and genuinely liked me. You swooped in for the rescue even as I was texting my inner posse members about my asshole coworkers. Then there was the time I screwed up a read and marked up the back-up instead. Our boss made me do it over. You tried to explain to me what I did wrong even though I knew already. There was definitely evidence that when someone was down, instead of kicking him, you had enough of a heart to help.

But my rare efforts to bridge the gap with you always fell flat. You were a bit of a cutup at times, let’s face it. There was the time you fell asleep and our boss walked by and kicked the back of your chair without missing a beat. That time you fell asleep, started snoring, and everyone took selfies with you was hilarious. I later told you that, like me, you sleep with your eyes open. (It’s a condition caused by weak muscles in the back of the head. It’s found in Native Americans. Everyone descended from my father has it, and it’s the real reason I sleep with an eye mask when I have company.) Even after laughing with our coworkers moments before, you gave me attitude when I told you this. 

I sometimes felt like you tried to understand me. One time you spent a half hour reading up on Jem on Wikipedia. You always had a curious mind. And then there was that morning when I walked in and you and Scott asked me what my last name meant. When I told you “iron worker”, both of your heads snapped back.  

Then there were the mornings when you would come into the office in a funk, your hat pulled down over your eyes. You were unusually quiet. You’d sit like this for hours and I didn’t dare ask you what was wrong. Maybe it was a fight with your girlfriend?

Finally, our boss asked me if I wanted to transfer to New York. The news didn’t surprise me at all because I intuited during the interview that I’d eventually be asked to move there anyway. It wasn’t until days before I left that you finally acknowledged the fact and talked to me about it. On my last day, our boss threw a continental going-away breakfast for me in the center of the department. Everyone sat at their desks working and ignored us. The account executives from upstairs came down to take part and one or two brave souls from the department decided to break character.

When I left that day, you were nowhere to be found. Scott told me he’d never forgive you for that. What I would like to know is where were you? Were you on another floor hanging out with your buds? Did you leave and go have a beer somewhere? Did you decide to work from home? I wasn’t too surprised by this. After knowing you for a while, it was easy to anticipate your moves and not be surprised by them. But I wouldn’t be human if I said I wasn’t hurt.

The last time I talked to you was in the spring of 2016, I think. I had been helping out the Boston editorial team remotely, and you called to ask about a piece I had worked on from one of your accounts. I must have sounded particularly authoritative over the phone, because you stammered a bit as you talked to me. Maybe I was just instinctively reverting back to my Boston persona.

New York was a dream for me. It really is one of those cities where you feel like anything is possible. I spent a few more years with our agency before making the switch to a new one. This turned out to be a disaster, and I boomeranged back to the New York office working as a freelancer.

On my first day back, I checked the agency’s directory to see who was still in the Boston office. Several people had left, but I was shocked when I typed in your name and found nothing. Had you finally moved on after nine years?

It wasn’t until my second day when our long-term freelancer Julie turned to me and said, “I don’t know if you heard, but one of the editors in Boston passed away. I think his name was __________. “

You know how in those old Looney Tunes cartoons when the character has a double-barreled shotgun blasted in his face? That’s how I felt when I heard the news that you had died. You were 38.

They found you in your house on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend. It was believed that you had died of a heart attack. Your family ordered an autopsy, but I doubt we will ever know the outcome. If it was death by misadventure, we probably don’t need to know.

The news of your death really rocked me. When Julie told me, I pulled my hair back and said, “Noooooo!!!” Several people looked up from their desks to see what was wrong. I think some of them made the connection.

I googled your obituary and saw a picture of you smiling out at me from the screen. For the rest of the day, I did my best not to cry, but the tears were never very far away. The Boston office held a farewell toast for you at a bar nearby, and I found the page on Facebook. I heard that more than 100 people attended. That’s a testament to your popularity and how well you were liked.

This experience also echoes one I had back in 2004 when a coworker died of a brain tumor. (Reader, please see my blog entry “Live Harder.”) What is it about you South Boston catholic guys that just doesn’t like me? Is it the conservatism?

When Chris died, I found myself wanting to “live harder” because he had died so young at 33 and when I was 30. Now, at 42, things feel so different for me. For one, I now have health issues I’m dealing with. Mid-life really makes you start to acknowledge your own mortality, and you start to scramble to try to correct those things in your life that haven’t yet been sorted.

You would think that someone who basically treated me like shit most of the time I knew him would be inconsequential to me when he died, but you’d be wrong. I’m one of those people who has the rare ability to like those who don’t like me. The news of your passing feels like someone has punched a hole through me. You were such a big personality and full of life.

I reached out to our boss on Facebook, the only person from that time I’ve maintained a connection with. She and her wife attended the services and it was she who told me about the heart attack theory. We reminisced about you, and she told me that when she walks around Boston now, she keeps thinking she sees you when similar guys walk by. It was like the two of us were holding hands across cyberspace, comforting each other.

Some friends of mine invited me to stay at a cottage with them in upstate New York several weekends ago. (Wanna know something spooky? The train stop I got off at to meet them has the same name of the camp where you used to be a counselor according to your obituary.) It was nice to get out of the city and away from my thoughts of you. Between glasses of Chardonnay; pumpkin carving; and jokes about how if we were all just lesbians and not gay men, we might be able to keep this damn fireplace going; my thoughts defaulted back to you. I found myself at 4:30 AM rereading your obituary, your face staring out at me from my phone, and the tears rolling back to my ears.

For a week, all I could think when my eyes opened in the morning, and when I went to sleep at night is, “John’s dead.” I feel it the most in the mundane moments of life: when I’m getting in the shower, walking to the train to go to work, or cutting up an apple in the agency kitchen. It’s the very simple acts of living that accentuate the reality that you’re gone. It’s fun to play games and comfort ourselves with ideas of what you might have been had you lived. I could see you as a feisty old man someday. You’d be in your 70s and married to a woman 40 years younger. You’d probably hit the jackpot in Vegas and live out the rest of your days in comfort. But I know these games are pointless to play because your life has already ended. This is how your story played out.

I’d like to think that there’s an afterlife or that our consciousness goes somewhere when we die. I think it’s arrogant to assume that there’s nothing because we can’t prove anything. We can’t see oxygen, but we know it’s there. Humans can’t detect ultraviolet light, and yet scientists have told us it exists. We can only detect 4 dimensions when scientists believe there are as many as 27, and possibly much more than that. And there’s too much anecdotal evidence for an afterlife. The stories of looking down from above and giving details lend credence to this. So, I hope you’re out there somewhere.

I’m sorry you lost your life, John. I’m sorry that you’ll never be married, or have kids, or be an excellent stepdad to someone else’s kids. I’m sorry I don’t have the option to call you up and tell you to eat shit. Wouldn’t that be nice? Just having the option.

Whatever it is that I did to you to make you not like me, I hope you’ll forgive me. I certainly have no ill will toward you, and I never really did. I’m just sorry that things couldn’t have been better between us. 

Rest in peace, John. If we ever meet again, let’s be friends next time.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o3lBF2h-Pl0

[jansen1107]

Britta Phillips - Wrap Your Arms Around Me - LPR - NYC 28 Sep 2016

Le Poisson Rouge w/ Luna

[jansen1107]

Well-Paid Hell

When I was a sophomore in college, several fraternities approached me about pledging. I finally agreed on the campus’s only co-ed fraternity/sorority because I liked everyone who was a member and felt that they were more in line with my values.

There were eight pledgers, and we were invited to a meet-and-greet where everyone was super nice to us. They assured us that if we agreed to pledge, we wouldn’t have to go through all the crap that other fraternities and sororities go through. There would be no sleep deprivation because we needed to be well-rested for our studies, they said.

During the first week of pledging, the eight pledgers were called to a member’s apartment at 3am to get barked at by the same members who told us they wouldn’t abuse us. I remember just sitting there feeling like shit because I had bought the lie, and that these people were really not in line with my values at all. They were supposed to be our brothers and sisters. I certainly didn’t expect the pledge process to be all tea and doilies, but the fact that they told us they wouldn’t sleep deprive us and then did that very thing was enough for me. I lasted a week.

Fast forward to June of 2016. I left the agency where I worked for four years to take the same role but with more pay at another, and more prestigious agency. The place I went to has a great reputation, and its name is one that looks great on your resume.

Ever since I’d moved to New York, I’d had recruiters eating me alive. Each one offered better pay, better perks, a better location, and/or a better name. It was tempting, of course, but my old agency had just transferred me, and I felt like I had to at least put in a few more years with them out of loyalty. (Yes, I know you should never be loyal to a company in this age.)

So when my fourth annual review rolled around and all I got was a modest pay increase but no promotion, I decided it was time to move on. The decision was also based on necessity. Living in New York ain’t cheap, and my landlord was going to up the rent again in September. My salary was getting to the point where a rent hike would have me struggling, even with a tight budget. Several recruiters had been courting me with places offering better pay. They’d dangle numbers in front of me, each more tantalizing than the last.

One day, I received a particularly cutesy email from a recruiter offering me an opportunity with an agency that would pay great and not work me more than 40 hours a week. I’d have time to get home, make dinner, and hang out with my cat(s), he said. Although I’m not afraid of hard work, the idea of a company that respected work/life balance appealed to me. I was the guy who worked two jobs through most of my twenties and thirties. Now in my 40s and maintaining high blood pressure, scaling back is important. (I also want to point out that work/life balance had never been an issue at my old agency.)

The day I walked into the lobby for my first interview, a little voice in my head said, “You don’t want to work here.” The place was posh with butter cream yellow marble in the lobby and gaggles of what looked like Vogue and GQ models standing around waiting for the elevators.

During the interview, I sat across from the woman who would be my boss. We seemed to hit it off right away. She made sure to mention that the agency doesn’t work its editors more than 40 hours a week because they need to be fresh to do their jobs well. How could I not love that?

But there was something in my gut that told me the place just wasn’t right. Maybe it was the way the director of the department asked me for the name of my manager at my old agency during the second interview. Maybe it was the way everyone I talked to seemed to be rushing the process along. Maybe it was the way the salary dangled in front of me dropped by $5k when I got the offer. Maybe it was the way the title “senior” got lost somewhere in my conversations with the recruiter and HR. Or maybe it was the way I was pressured by all parties into accepting the offer. Reluctantly, I said yes; at the eleventh hour.

And I would suffer the consequences.

The first few weeks of my new job, I was amazed at how friendly and welcoming everyone was. I’m someone who thinks that because people are good-looking and stylishly dressed, they must be assholes. Not here. People would say hi to me in the hall, come up and talk to me in the kitchen, and even remember things that I had said.

There was an unspoken rule that you had to fit in. I felt the pressure early on. My clothes were several seasons old although they were in good condition. It was the early stages of transforming myself. I was due for an image overhaul, anyway. Now that I had some decent money coming in for clothes and a whole floor of guys walking around to inspire me, I felt like the time was right.

And with all the great money coming in, I started making plans. I sat down one Saturday afternoon and made out a schedule to pay off my credit cards, student loan, and even budget in some money for a trip to Cuba in May 2017. And once my debt was out of the way and my credit score was up, I planned to buy an apartment in my neighborhood. Finally! Being a real grown-up was within reach.

But I also noticed that within a few weeks of my start date, things got very, very busy in the office. We were in the middle of a product launch, which made things hectic. I frequently found myself logging 9-, 12-, 13-, and 14-hour days into my timesheet. Staying late on Fridays was typical.

The long hours continued for several weeks. I found it hard to schedule my floating summer days off because I was always in conflict with my team members who wanted the same days as me. And yet I also found myself more than happy to cover them when they were out.

The pressure was relentless. The client would make changes to a piece at the eleventh hour and still expect us to meet the same deadline. This not only lead to late nights for our team but also many Saturdays. So much for work/life balance. Every week, someone was in the crosshairs for something that didn’t go right. I would walk in every day wondering what landmine I was going to step on. I had been lured into a bad situation.

By the end of the second month, I got sick with shingles. I guess that was no surprise. I was making errors on my work because I was constantly being rushed to turn around the material. If someone had to leave early for an engagement, they’d want me to rush my work so they could get out of the office. It was like everyone was competing for work/life balance. Or just taking what they could get in the demanding atmosphere.

Finally, one Monday morning, after several weeks of a rollercoaster ride of both glowing praise and condemning criticism, my boss left a purple Post-It note on my monitor asking me to swing by. I knew it wasn’t good.

Standing next to her desk, she sweetly told me that I had to be careful about the errors I was making and pointed out a couple examples. Our competitor had actually shown one of the mistakes to the client. Would I be so good as to set up a meeting and research where the error happened….

The world started flashing like a strobe light then. I tried to talk myself out of it. And, no, I thought, I did not want to set up a goddamn meeting to discuss how to improve process when the real issue was that this place was a fucking sweatshop. In the four years at my last agency, I didn’t have problems like this—and all crammed into two and a half months. I wanted out.

Then I fainted. (I’ve never fainted in my entire life.) 

My head hit my boss’s workstation on the way down to the floor. I heard several people gasp. (We were in a tight space of six people working on top of each other. I imagined this space must have once housed a copier/printer.)

I came to right away and stood up feeling myself covered in sweat. My boss was apologetic and said that she really shouldn’t have pressured me so much during this summer. (D’ya think?) I sat down and a coworker brought me a cup of water, felt my head, and then later walked me down to the train station because I refused to take a car. (Car sickness.)

On the train ride home, I decided I had had enough. That morning I had fainted at my boss’s desk from stress and lingering illness, the next time I’d be on a stretcher suffering from a heart attack. It wasn’t worth it. I wanted to live.

I drafted a detailed resignation letter that night and emailed it my boss and the department head the next morning. It sure felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, but I was so numb from all the abuse I had suffered in such a short time.

Normally, I’m a fighter and will grit my teeth when the going gets tough. Not at this place. The sustained level of stress wore me out. There was no fight left in me because I was exhausted. How could they expect human beings to work at that capacity? I was putting in so many hours, that I was worried about getting enough sleep at night so that I could get up and do it all over again the next day. I think what really broke me is the fact that they had lied to me.

My friends and family were a great support when they heard the news. Calls, texts, emails; everyone wanted to know if I was okay. At a cherished annual toy convention that weekend, several friends hugged me and sat with me for some tea and sympathy. I was called a rebel by one of my straight guy friends! The support felt good.

I really needed that support because the anxiety and worry of walking away from my job without another one started to sink in. (A guy’s gotta eat.) My line of work is in demand, so I expected things to happen very quickly when I sent out my resume. When two and three days passed without a bite, I started getting scared. That short stint with a “great” agency was now a big dog turd on my glowing resume.

Being without work didn’t last long, however. A friend who was freelancing at my old agency called to say they needed help. The head project manager was happy to take me back, no questions asked. So now I’m scheduled to freelance from October until the end of the year. And best of all, I’ll be making even more money than what the evil agency was paying me.

So that’s life for ya. Sometimes you fail hard. I certainly wondered if the wheels were coming off New York for me after this experience. I was supposed to be on a continuously upward trajectory. So, in a way, I feel like I’m forced to step back and help myself to a heaping slice of humble pie. But an interesting note to all this is what my wheel-of-the-year tarot card reading said for September: “Things spin out of control but bring you right back to where you’re supposed to be.” Maybe I was never supposed to leave my old agency. There is certainly growth there, and they’re in need of help and new hires. Who knows? I may be back there full-time, making a better salary, and with the title I’ve coveted. I can only hope.

Getting back to a feeling of normalcy is all I want right now. I’m trying to take things slow. There’s enough money in my bank account to let me coast. I hope to get back into my running routine this week. Reading also helps. Listening to the late philosopher Alan Watts on YouTube has really helped me rewire my thinking. (Love that guy.) I’m slowly getting stronger and feel myself coming back online mentally and physically.

It feels good.

[jansen1107]

I’ve Got Shingles That Shingle, Shangle, Shingle

My 2016 has been kind of rough. Normally, even-numbered years are good for me; no major dramas or upsets. Not this year. There’s been everything from deaths of family members and friends to the atrocity of Orlando and the death of Prince, to name just a few things. Whether it’s up close and personal issues, or those on the global stage, 2016 has felt like a shit year for me. I’m sure many would agree.  

In June, I started a new job. It was pretty much on a whim and with the promise of a better work/life balance. I knew that was a stinking lie from the beginning, but, boy, I had no idea just what I was getting into. Nine-hour days are the norm. Twelve- and fourteen-hour days are not uncommon. And I just got off a stint of working three Saturdays in a row. My old job is looking pretty good right now. Add to that, the fact that I’ve had to give up my running routine because I’m simply putting in too many hours at the office. My immune system has suffered due to overwork and stress, and now here I am with shingles.

If you haven’t had shingles, they suck. They’re the result of the chicken pox virus being dormant in your system, and it can be activated by stress or a weakened immune system when you’re older. It’s basically chicken pox as an adult. The best way I can describe the feeling is that it’s like being hungover for a week and covered with itchy, burning rashes.

At first, I thought the pounding headache I developed was from caffeine withdrawal and that a large iced coffee would take care of it. Nope. Then I headed to the drugstore near my office and bought over-the-counter pills for migraines and tension headaches. (By the way, my new company doesn’t give us sick days. If you’re sick, you’re expected to work from home.) I figured all the stress from work was causing the muscles in my head to tense up. It actually hurt to wash my hair in the morning. Taking the pills helped the headaches a little, but there was always a tiny, hot coal burning in the middle of my head.

I developed a rash on my chest that I figured was from the strap of my messenger bag chafing against me. I’m not the type who freaks out over every little bump and hangnail, so the thought of going to the doctor didn’t occur to me. Heck, when I was growing up, my parents wouldn’t take us to the doctor unless we could walk in carrying our severed arm. When I’m feeling under the weather, I just let my body do the work of healing itself. Unless something drags on for days and days, which this did.

My four-day Labor Day weekend was spent lying in bed binge-watching “Adventure Time”, eating PB&J, and frequently moaning from the pain in my head. I felt nauseous and suffered chills followed by sweats where I wanted the fan on me. Still, I thought this must be some kind of tension headache. I don’t get sick. I’m a runner and a vegetarian, damnit. But my workweek had been hell.

Finally, at the urgings of my friends and my mom, I went to City MD. The doctor took one look at the rashes and verified that it was shingles, although the fact that I had small patches on my chest, back, armpit, and inner bicep was cause for concern. Normally, the rash appears around your side. The doctor prescribed me a blue horse pill to take three times a day and some topical cream to apply every three hours. (I’m lucky if I apply it every six hours, but the rashes are doing good as of this writing.)

Ahhh… sickness. I firmly believe that getting sick is the body’s way of slowing us down when we go, go, go in this manic world of ours. I had planned to make full use of my four-day weekend to get things done and hang out with some friends. My body had other ideas. I think when you’ve overtaxed yourself, some mechanism within you activates an illness like releasing the Kraken. If you won’t slow down, your body will find a way to do it for you.

So, here I sit, going on a week and a half of waiting for this thing to pass. My apartment is a stanky mess in need of a good clean, and I have a growing list of shit I need to take care of. But nothing will be getting done for a while until I feel better and get my energy back. In the meantime, I’ll relearn to slow down, and revisit the concept of work/life balance. My body has put me in the right mode for that.

P.S.--- I’m happy to report that my company has hired more staff to help with our crazy workload. I hope I’ll be enjoying the benefits of that in the coming months. 

[christianveit]