Tuesday, November 20, 2007
unemployed. what a life we live in.
once again, i find myself on the chopping block. in less than three months i have been canned from two seperate jobs. this might even be a new record for myself. i was employed for a month at a canadian web design firm which i will not name for legal purposes. the role was a simple one: maintain the booking system they use and support the rest of the staff when needed. i did what i was asked, however was let go for lack of 'passion'. who could have passion about what really was just an hr role? the reasoning behind people's choices really baffles me. and now i'm in the job market, looking for whatever opportunity floats on by. i don't want to get back into sales again, but i have a feeling that might be one of my only options. to have my former company email me like they did was a longshot. something that will never happen again. could i have helped myself from being canned? could i have shown that passion they were so looking for? quite possibly, but i really can't see how. the man who orchestrated the firing is a smug bastard of indeterminate middle age. he has a fat face and a fat gut to match. his kids probably hate his guts and his wife must think of him a fool. i know i do. why else would he make such a foolish error in letting me go? this is more of a rant than a blog, that much can be said. i still have to convey the terrible news to my amazing partner. that won't go over well. i wonder what it is like living with someone who constantly fails at what he does. it can't be very uplifting, can it? i'll wait until she gets home to tell her. i don't want her to be upset at work. and i know she will be. i was off work for two months, now i face another undetermined period without money coming in. what am i to do? ~G
Friday, November 16, 2007
overdue and underpaid
I know it's a little past the due date, but here is the actual review that was posted on jambase.com:
The vibe inside Amsterdam's Paradiso was something to reckon with. We were there for one reason and one reason alone: to witness the reformed original lineup of hardcore punk icons Bad Brains with Dr. Know, Earl Hudson, Darryl Jenifer and H.R.. When these legendary Rastafarians took stage to kick out their typical repertoire, which moves from sensuous dub reggae into blasting hardcore as if the two were meant for each other, eyes lit up.
Their set featured a mix of new and old songs, fast and slow, politically motivated and emotionally inspired. With H.R. center stage, his persona, once that of a no-nonsense politically devoted Rasta, has mellowed considerably. This was a massive contrast to his overly animated, wildly aggressive stage performances of the late '70s and early '80s when the band first started performing. This night he wore white-rimmed sunglasses and a headscarf of the sort your grandmother would have draped over her coffee table. Displaying his trademark Cheshire grin, H.R. stood at the microphone with little movement, switching between Nixon-esque peace signs and pressing his hands together like he was praying to his own private god.
"You're such an energetic crowd!," H.R. said to the sold out Paradiso. The band weaved through their varied songbook including everyone's favourite songs, starting with "Sailin' On" and ending with "Supertouch." Watching Dr. Know's fingers rip across the frets like wildfire, I could see why Bad Brains are one of the most influential hardcore punk bands ever formed. No matter what the song, whether the soft reggae beats of "I Luv I Juh" and "I and I Survive" or the heavy, screeching guitars of "Banned in D.C.," "Right Brigade" and "The Big Takeover," the crowd danced appropriately.
The only disappointment was the length of the set, a paltry hour. For a cover charge of just over 18 euros one expects more than that. The punters knowingly agreed with me, filtering their disappointments into hundreds of plastic beer cups that were hurled on stage following the band's exit.
As a fan of hardcore punk since I was a troublesome teenager, seeing Bad Brains live was, in a way, a relief. Growing up, bands like Bad Brains, Black Flag, The Dead Kennedys and Minor Threat were the cornerstones of the scene. A chance to see Bad Brains in the flesh was a definitive moment for myself and many other hardcore music fans.
The vibe inside Amsterdam's Paradiso was something to reckon with. We were there for one reason and one reason alone: to witness the reformed original lineup of hardcore punk icons Bad Brains with Dr. Know, Earl Hudson, Darryl Jenifer and H.R.. When these legendary Rastafarians took stage to kick out their typical repertoire, which moves from sensuous dub reggae into blasting hardcore as if the two were meant for each other, eyes lit up.
Their set featured a mix of new and old songs, fast and slow, politically motivated and emotionally inspired. With H.R. center stage, his persona, once that of a no-nonsense politically devoted Rasta, has mellowed considerably. This was a massive contrast to his overly animated, wildly aggressive stage performances of the late '70s and early '80s when the band first started performing. This night he wore white-rimmed sunglasses and a headscarf of the sort your grandmother would have draped over her coffee table. Displaying his trademark Cheshire grin, H.R. stood at the microphone with little movement, switching between Nixon-esque peace signs and pressing his hands together like he was praying to his own private god.
"You're such an energetic crowd!," H.R. said to the sold out Paradiso. The band weaved through their varied songbook including everyone's favourite songs, starting with "Sailin' On" and ending with "Supertouch." Watching Dr. Know's fingers rip across the frets like wildfire, I could see why Bad Brains are one of the most influential hardcore punk bands ever formed. No matter what the song, whether the soft reggae beats of "I Luv I Juh" and "I and I Survive" or the heavy, screeching guitars of "Banned in D.C.," "Right Brigade" and "The Big Takeover," the crowd danced appropriately.
The only disappointment was the length of the set, a paltry hour. For a cover charge of just over 18 euros one expects more than that. The punters knowingly agreed with me, filtering their disappointments into hundreds of plastic beer cups that were hurled on stage following the band's exit.
As a fan of hardcore punk since I was a troublesome teenager, seeing Bad Brains live was, in a way, a relief. Growing up, bands like Bad Brains, Black Flag, The Dead Kennedys and Minor Threat were the cornerstones of the scene. A chance to see Bad Brains in the flesh was a definitive moment for myself and many other hardcore music fans.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Now bend over and place your hands on the wall..
The British Embassy in the Netherlands and its stringent security speak volumes for the age we live in. In a threatening time of global terrorism, I feel as though we will never go back to the days of relaxation. Those good old days of trustworthiness, when one could go pick up their passport without having to go through metal detectors, and leaving one's electronic equipment with a midget security guard for fear of having a bomb.
It's another lovely day in Amsterdam. The sun is shining and I'm perched quietly on the riverbank. For the last week or so, we've been witness to a string of days where the sun is shining, the skies have been clear, and there has been no threat of a downpour.
Sitting in the Vondelpark, on this riverbank, a familiar odour crowds my senses. I look to my left, and notice, sitting right next to me, a pile (of reasonble size) of dog shit. No more than a few hours old, it has the crusted look of a dry autumn afternoon. I look over and see the friend I'm meeting pull up on his omafiets. He locks the wheel and stands motionless. He runs his fingers through a non-existent head of hair and waits outside the Filmmuseum impatiently. I call to him and he makes his way over with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step.
It's another lovely day in Amsterdam. The sun is shining and I'm perched quietly on the riverbank. For the last week or so, we've been witness to a string of days where the sun is shining, the skies have been clear, and there has been no threat of a downpour.
Sitting in the Vondelpark, on this riverbank, a familiar odour crowds my senses. I look to my left, and notice, sitting right next to me, a pile (of reasonble size) of dog shit. No more than a few hours old, it has the crusted look of a dry autumn afternoon. I look over and see the friend I'm meeting pull up on his omafiets. He locks the wheel and stands motionless. He runs his fingers through a non-existent head of hair and waits outside the Filmmuseum impatiently. I call to him and he makes his way over with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
A plan.
During one of our many conversations regarding my unemployment, Amanda suggested I give up going for the normal sales and customer services jobs and concentrate on something more fulfilling. Look for something that would help me. Find a job where I could learn a marketable skill, yet find a company that is young and up and coming company at the same time. And so the idea spawned that I should beat the pavement, CV in hand, applying to advertising and marketing firms around town. The idea was that I could go in at entry level, and work my way up. I could learn about one of the biggest and fastest growing industries in Amsterdam, and have that experience on my CV when we do decide to shove off. "Yes, that’s all well and good," I told her, but the thought of actually doing it was a daunting task.
I explained it to her like this: "Imagine me: a guy with no confidence, walking into a big advertising firm in downtown Amsterdam, asking for the manager, and selling myself to him like Henry Miller did to the Western Union Telegraph Company. I don’t personally see it happening, however, the worst I could imagine happening would me being rejected. That’s not really so bad, is it? Rejection is one thing, but embarrassment is something different altogether.
As I write this, the neighbour upstairs blasts terrible pop music, and I grit my teeth.
The weekend after this conversation, two friends of ours came over in the early evening. He works in one of the biggest advertising companies in Amsterdam, if not the world. I had the idea of speaking to him about the possibilities of getting into the advertising game. I thought, "Well, I'll see what he has to say, and I’ll take it from there." I knew there would be one question that would inevitably enter the conversation, which I would not be able to answer truthfully: what is it you’re looking for? Or: what do you want to do? I could see him and his lovely bride walking out the door with him saying to her, “what the fuck was that all about?”
It could just be me, but most people don't seem to have the highest level of confidence in my competence and ability. They give me wary looks when I speak of grand plans and grander adventures. They have an idea of me which is a falsity. The only way I can alter this idea is to prove my worth. And that is what I intend to do. How do I plan to go about it? That is what I must ponder.
I explained it to her like this: "Imagine me: a guy with no confidence, walking into a big advertising firm in downtown Amsterdam, asking for the manager, and selling myself to him like Henry Miller did to the Western Union Telegraph Company. I don’t personally see it happening, however, the worst I could imagine happening would me being rejected. That’s not really so bad, is it? Rejection is one thing, but embarrassment is something different altogether.
As I write this, the neighbour upstairs blasts terrible pop music, and I grit my teeth.
The weekend after this conversation, two friends of ours came over in the early evening. He works in one of the biggest advertising companies in Amsterdam, if not the world. I had the idea of speaking to him about the possibilities of getting into the advertising game. I thought, "Well, I'll see what he has to say, and I’ll take it from there." I knew there would be one question that would inevitably enter the conversation, which I would not be able to answer truthfully: what is it you’re looking for? Or: what do you want to do? I could see him and his lovely bride walking out the door with him saying to her, “what the fuck was that all about?”
It could just be me, but most people don't seem to have the highest level of confidence in my competence and ability. They give me wary looks when I speak of grand plans and grander adventures. They have an idea of me which is a falsity. The only way I can alter this idea is to prove my worth. And that is what I intend to do. How do I plan to go about it? That is what I must ponder.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
bad brains or just bad editing?
Watching Bad Brains last week was amazing. It was the review that I was required to do after that wasn’t. It took me most of Friday to finish it, and then when I asked my girlfriend (a journalism major) to look it over to see if it needed any editing, that’s when tensions rose. Her arguments were simple: say what you can in as few words as possible. What I couldn’t take was the reformation of my sentences. Little turns of phrase I was using were completely obliterated for want of a flowing paragraph. In the end, it made sense, and I thank her for her efforts. Numerous times though, we blew up in each other’s face, frustrated with the fact that it was leading to an argument, no doubt. Whatever it was, I sent the article off on Sunday afternoon a complete, concise bundle of joy. I have enclosed my finished product for your perusal, and I intend to post the finished product after the publication is done with it. The difference just might be monumental.
______________________________________________________
To be published on Jambase.com at some point in the near future:
The vibe in Amsterdam’s Paradiso last night was something to reckon with. We were there for one reason and one reason alone: to witness the reforming of the original line up with Dr. Know, Earl Hudson, Darryl Jenifer and H.R., formally known as hardcore punk icons Bad Brains. When these legendary Rastafarians took stage to kick out their typical repertoire, which moves from sensuous dub reggae into blasting hardcore (as if the two were meant for each other,) eyes lit up.
Their set featured a mix of new and old songs, fast and slow, politically motivated and emotionally inspired. With H.R. at centre stage, his persona, once that of a no-nonsense and politically devoted Rasta, has mellowed considerably. This is a massive contrast to his overly animated and wildly aggressive stage performances of the late 70’s and early 80’s when the band first started playing shows. He donned white-rimmed sunglasses and a headscarf of sorts that closely resembled something that your grandmother would have draped over her coffee table. Displaying his trademark Cheshire Cat grin, H.R. stood at the microphone with little movement, switching between Nixon-esque peace signs and pressing his hands together like he was praying to his own private god.
“You’re such an energetic crowd!” H.R. told the crowd, in the sold out Paradiso. The band weaved through their varied songbook, including everyone’s favourite songs, starting with Sailin’ On and ending with Supertouch. Watching Dr. Know’s fingers rip across the frets like wildfire, I could see why Bad Brains are one of the most influential hardcore punk bands ever formed. But no matter what the song, whether it was backed by soft reggae beats of I Luv I Juh and I and I Survive or the heavy and screeching guitars of songs like Banned in D.C., Right Brigade and The Big Takeover, the crowd danced appropriately.
The only disappointment of the show was the length of the set: a paltry hour. For a cover charge of just over eighteen euros, one expects more than that. The punters knowingly agreed with me, filtering their disappointments into hundreds of plastic beer cups that were hurled on stage following the band’s exit from the stage.
As a fan of hardcore punk since I was a troublesome teenager, seeing Bad Brains live was, in a way, a relief. Growing up, bands like Bad Brains, Black Flag, Dead Kennedys and Minor Threat were the cornerstones of the hardcore punk scene. So, as you could imagine, this was a definitive moment for me as a fan of hardcore music.
______________________________________________________
To be published on Jambase.com at some point in the near future:
The vibe in Amsterdam’s Paradiso last night was something to reckon with. We were there for one reason and one reason alone: to witness the reforming of the original line up with Dr. Know, Earl Hudson, Darryl Jenifer and H.R., formally known as hardcore punk icons Bad Brains. When these legendary Rastafarians took stage to kick out their typical repertoire, which moves from sensuous dub reggae into blasting hardcore (as if the two were meant for each other,) eyes lit up.
Their set featured a mix of new and old songs, fast and slow, politically motivated and emotionally inspired. With H.R. at centre stage, his persona, once that of a no-nonsense and politically devoted Rasta, has mellowed considerably. This is a massive contrast to his overly animated and wildly aggressive stage performances of the late 70’s and early 80’s when the band first started playing shows. He donned white-rimmed sunglasses and a headscarf of sorts that closely resembled something that your grandmother would have draped over her coffee table. Displaying his trademark Cheshire Cat grin, H.R. stood at the microphone with little movement, switching between Nixon-esque peace signs and pressing his hands together like he was praying to his own private god.
“You’re such an energetic crowd!” H.R. told the crowd, in the sold out Paradiso. The band weaved through their varied songbook, including everyone’s favourite songs, starting with Sailin’ On and ending with Supertouch. Watching Dr. Know’s fingers rip across the frets like wildfire, I could see why Bad Brains are one of the most influential hardcore punk bands ever formed. But no matter what the song, whether it was backed by soft reggae beats of I Luv I Juh and I and I Survive or the heavy and screeching guitars of songs like Banned in D.C., Right Brigade and The Big Takeover, the crowd danced appropriately.
The only disappointment of the show was the length of the set: a paltry hour. For a cover charge of just over eighteen euros, one expects more than that. The punters knowingly agreed with me, filtering their disappointments into hundreds of plastic beer cups that were hurled on stage following the band’s exit from the stage.
As a fan of hardcore punk since I was a troublesome teenager, seeing Bad Brains live was, in a way, a relief. Growing up, bands like Bad Brains, Black Flag, Dead Kennedys and Minor Threat were the cornerstones of the hardcore punk scene. So, as you could imagine, this was a definitive moment for me as a fan of hardcore music.
Monday, October 15, 2007
this has been long overdue
About a month ago, I had a long talk with my girlfriend regarding my current situation. It covered the basics: what I am looking for, what I'm looking to get out of a job, etcetera. She knows just as well as I do that if it wasn't for bills to pay and a lifestyle to maintain, I could care less if I worked or not. The menial job is a notion that makes my mind recoil and my cock shrivel. And the hunt.. well, the hunt for that menial job is the most degrading thing I can think of.
Of course, as I reflect upon my choices in the job market over these last couple of years, I can't say I have taken the most upstanding of positions. The first one that comes to mind is ME. They caught me off guard, and I decided to take the job for the sole reason because it was the first job that came along. And through sheer laziness I stayed there.
Once I was settled at ME, I stopped caring about getting another job. I knew after the interview that the job wouldn't be for me, and that I would resent it almost immediately. But that didn't stop me from not bothering to look for work. Sure, nine months after I started at ME, I let a friend of mine put my CV forth at his work, but that wasn’t real effort. And to top it all off, I didn’t even get the fucking job.
During our long talk, I realised that I've found myself with a planner. The type of girl who likes to know what she’ll be doing when she gets there. The type of girl who has a clear idea of what she’ll be doing in five years. At times I think we’re polar opposites, but perhaps that’s what makes it work. I’m not one for thinking ahead. I’m not the one who’s thinking of what I’ll be doing this time next year. In five years. Or in ten, for that matter. What I think and care about is what I’m doing now.
And now we get back to the point of the conversation. I know what I want to do, but without any proper experience, without any formal training, I won’t get that opportunity. There was a position for Sub-Editor available at one of the many job agencies the other week, and so I thought I would put myself forward for the position. Did I get a response? No. The girl at Adam’s told me they usually look for people with experience in that field, yet in the job description, it said all they were looking for is someone who had an affinity for journalism. It didn’t say they were necessarily looking for anyone with concrete experience. Of course, she failed to give me a response to that. Unfortunate, really, as I think that sort of position would suit me well. For one, I’d be working in a field that has some sort of interest for me, and therefore I would tend to work harder in a position that I care about. Another thing, is that I’d be learning something on the job; I wouldn’t be stuck in a call centre talking to complete fools all day long, pushing products that I really don’t care about. Yet, due to my lack of experience in the publishing sector, and for my lack of experience in publishing altogether for that matter, the agency will not put my application forth. What a day we live in, when a recruitment agency won’t put you forth for the job you desire most. Isn’t that what they’re there for?
Anyway, what I was trying to say, what we were talking about the other night, was the fact that I’m twenty-six years old, turning twenty seven at the end of the year, and I’m still working in dead-end jobs that pay crap and have no room for improvement. She tried to explain to me that my misery is her misery, and if I’m still coming home at the end of the day miserable, just like I was when I was working at ME, then it’s going to put a massive strain on our relationship. I didn’t say it at the time, but I couldn’t agree more. I do realise that if I'm in a shitty mood because of a long, frustrating day, then that will effect our time together. But what I know is this: I don’t want to work in another shitty job for the rest of my life, but if that’s what I’ll be doing in five years, then that’s something I’ll deal with when the time comes.
What I tried to explain to her, and what my philosophy is and has been for as long as I care to remember, is the fact that I’m thinking about now, not five years down the line. If I take care of the now, the later will take care of itself.
Of course, as I reflect upon my choices in the job market over these last couple of years, I can't say I have taken the most upstanding of positions. The first one that comes to mind is ME. They caught me off guard, and I decided to take the job for the sole reason because it was the first job that came along. And through sheer laziness I stayed there.
Once I was settled at ME, I stopped caring about getting another job. I knew after the interview that the job wouldn't be for me, and that I would resent it almost immediately. But that didn't stop me from not bothering to look for work. Sure, nine months after I started at ME, I let a friend of mine put my CV forth at his work, but that wasn’t real effort. And to top it all off, I didn’t even get the fucking job.
During our long talk, I realised that I've found myself with a planner. The type of girl who likes to know what she’ll be doing when she gets there. The type of girl who has a clear idea of what she’ll be doing in five years. At times I think we’re polar opposites, but perhaps that’s what makes it work. I’m not one for thinking ahead. I’m not the one who’s thinking of what I’ll be doing this time next year. In five years. Or in ten, for that matter. What I think and care about is what I’m doing now.
And now we get back to the point of the conversation. I know what I want to do, but without any proper experience, without any formal training, I won’t get that opportunity. There was a position for Sub-Editor available at one of the many job agencies the other week, and so I thought I would put myself forward for the position. Did I get a response? No. The girl at Adam’s told me they usually look for people with experience in that field, yet in the job description, it said all they were looking for is someone who had an affinity for journalism. It didn’t say they were necessarily looking for anyone with concrete experience. Of course, she failed to give me a response to that. Unfortunate, really, as I think that sort of position would suit me well. For one, I’d be working in a field that has some sort of interest for me, and therefore I would tend to work harder in a position that I care about. Another thing, is that I’d be learning something on the job; I wouldn’t be stuck in a call centre talking to complete fools all day long, pushing products that I really don’t care about. Yet, due to my lack of experience in the publishing sector, and for my lack of experience in publishing altogether for that matter, the agency will not put my application forth. What a day we live in, when a recruitment agency won’t put you forth for the job you desire most. Isn’t that what they’re there for?
Anyway, what I was trying to say, what we were talking about the other night, was the fact that I’m twenty-six years old, turning twenty seven at the end of the year, and I’m still working in dead-end jobs that pay crap and have no room for improvement. She tried to explain to me that my misery is her misery, and if I’m still coming home at the end of the day miserable, just like I was when I was working at ME, then it’s going to put a massive strain on our relationship. I didn’t say it at the time, but I couldn’t agree more. I do realise that if I'm in a shitty mood because of a long, frustrating day, then that will effect our time together. But what I know is this: I don’t want to work in another shitty job for the rest of my life, but if that’s what I’ll be doing in five years, then that’s something I’ll deal with when the time comes.
What I tried to explain to her, and what my philosophy is and has been for as long as I care to remember, is the fact that I’m thinking about now, not five years down the line. If I take care of the now, the later will take care of itself.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
time, limitations, and all those in between
The other day I noticed a crack along the ceiling of our flat. It ran from the top of the southeast wall in the kitchen to the ceiling light in the middle of the room. From there, it seems as though a number of cracks were spread out in every direction, mainly from south to north and north to south.
These cracks are much like the cracks in my mind, creating different avenues of thought: schizophrenic to say the least. It leads me to believe that this building will start falling apart within the next twelve months. This time next year, I’ll be finishing up a story or some such piece of writing, and look up through our newly created skylight. I’ll get a feeling of warmth that I am one with nature, and all its amenities. And then a raindrop will fall from the sky, and hit my cheek, running down it like a tear. It will be a cliché moment, but it will be poetic.
Now that my fourth week off work is beginning, I look back on these days I've had to myself. They've needed a creative process, but there seems to have been one lacking. I have tried, oh have I tried. I've strung together a few pages of words, but they have turned out to be nothing more than incoherent drivel. Blabber. I constantly think to myself that I don't write as much as I would like to. Time is always getting in the way. At least that's what I tell myself. But is it really the case, or am I just procrastinating?
It seems my life has been made up of procrastinations, but no longer! My medium will be Blogspot. With most likely about two weeks of free time left, I'm going to set aside time each day in order to accomplish what I want. This will be the start of something new. Something that I am doing for myself.
But the question I have is this: is Blogspot the avenue I need to use, or is it merely a street corner at which I will contemplate my journey?
These cracks are much like the cracks in my mind, creating different avenues of thought: schizophrenic to say the least. It leads me to believe that this building will start falling apart within the next twelve months. This time next year, I’ll be finishing up a story or some such piece of writing, and look up through our newly created skylight. I’ll get a feeling of warmth that I am one with nature, and all its amenities. And then a raindrop will fall from the sky, and hit my cheek, running down it like a tear. It will be a cliché moment, but it will be poetic.
Now that my fourth week off work is beginning, I look back on these days I've had to myself. They've needed a creative process, but there seems to have been one lacking. I have tried, oh have I tried. I've strung together a few pages of words, but they have turned out to be nothing more than incoherent drivel. Blabber. I constantly think to myself that I don't write as much as I would like to. Time is always getting in the way. At least that's what I tell myself. But is it really the case, or am I just procrastinating?
It seems my life has been made up of procrastinations, but no longer! My medium will be Blogspot. With most likely about two weeks of free time left, I'm going to set aside time each day in order to accomplish what I want. This will be the start of something new. Something that I am doing for myself.
But the question I have is this: is Blogspot the avenue I need to use, or is it merely a street corner at which I will contemplate my journey?
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