I Work, Therefore I Am

TODAY MARKS A WEEK of workdays at the new, albeit temporary job. It may be premature to justify labeling me some kind of fancy Leading Economic Indicator, but the current stretch is by far my most intensive period of employment in well over a year. And that's nothing to sneeze at, mostly because with no health coverage of any kind, how can I afford to even cough?

Followers of this very space undoubtedly already know that in a previous life I worked at the same place for over 15 years -- which meant for better or worse I knew exactly where I was going almost each and every weekday morning. Technically, we're talking three different offices in three different office buildings: first 99, then 100 and finally 67 Wall Street. But my point if there is one is that freelancing is almost diametrically opposed to working at The Transcript all those years -- now day to day, even week to week I have lit'rally no idea where I'll be, and not in any existential sense either. Although sure, there's some of that too. Maybe a lot of it. But characteristically, I digress.

It's a very quiet office where I'm at now, bordering on monastic with its long stretches of silence and its hushed, almost reverential tones. I'm situated between three or four obvious veterans of the company, who speak their art department jargon over and around me. They're keeping me fairly busy with material, except for today which was deathly slow, but there's a Mac on my desk that I can use. After three days last week and two this week, still no feedback of any kind, which is unusual but not unheard of. I always like to explain my edits to the person on the other end, that's just the way I was raised.

I quickly discovered there's no affordable eats around the 60th & Madison area where I'm currently stationed, so for my first lunch excursion I foolishly grabbed a hideously lukewarm "hot" dog from a street vendor on Fifth Avenue near Central Park for 2 bucks. Next day let the record show I made my way to the more egalitarian confines of Lexington Avenue, where the food choices were sure to multiply exponentially. I was rewarded for my wandering, conveniently happening upon a thriving outpost of a dining establishment that evidently can trace its lineage back to none other than the Original, Famous Ray of antiquity. I made my way inside the bustling dining hall and took advantage of one of the house specialties: an Italian dish known as pizza pie. For a reasonable cost of two-dollars-fifty-five per individual slice, it's well worth the trip to partake of this traditional, hearty ethnic fare whilst sitting among my fellow working men and women, who I daresay are as unassuming and convivial a lot as the denizens of any large city you're likely to encounter no matter how wide your travels. In fact, I can say with some degree of certainty that this branch of the Ray's family culinary empire shall serve as my go-to locale for regular midday caloric intake.

Finally, let me close by relating to you my Readers that after one such luncheon, as I leisurely perambulated back to the office, I had a real-live celebrity sighting -- if, as I do, you consider PBS' long-time talkmeister Charlie Rose such a notable personage. Let me also pass on that as I espied Mr. Rose slowly shuffling along the Avenue, he looked quite the worse for wear, even acting a little bewildered as he piteously clutched a rather large beige valise. Then I remembered old Charlie had major heart surgery not too long ago. So there's that too.

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Back In Business

WELL, GOOD NEWS and BAD NEWS related to this morning's highly anticipated interview. As befitting a chronic early arriver, I got to the venue a half-hour early at 10:00, and the actual interview lasted 90 minutes. I'll spare you the suspense and give the good first: By the end of the interview I had the position. On the other hand, whereas I knew it was a short-term assignment, it turns out it's a little more short term than I first was led to believe -- your classic bad news for those scoring at home. Don't get me wrong, I'm definitely grateful to be back on the good ship Employment, but now instead of what was described by my agency contact as a 6-8-week project, I learned from the guy who hired me that it's 4 weeks at the most and more likely 3. Worse, it's unlikely to turn into a regular or even permanent position, as the entire scope of the job entails editing an annual report for a major public corporation. So the S. S. Full Time ain't boarding passengers any time soon.

Nevertheless, I'm all about the positives. Things could ALWAYS be worse, especially on board this current ship America. I gotta tell you: it was not only the longest interview, but the best interview I've ever had by a magnitude of at least Pi, which we all know is 3.14 give or take a slice. First I met the human resources guy for a second, before he passed me off to the person in charge of the actual thing that I'll be doing. Then we sat in his office and had a wide-ranging, freewheeling conversation that covered the prospective job-to-be, certainly, but not exclusively, not by a long shot. In the hour and a half we spent maybe 20 minutes total on what it is I would be doing -- but that number may be a little high. Instead it was all about books we were reading, how computers have changed publishing since we started in the field about the same time ago in the 1980s, where our families were from in Italy and Greece, respectively, and on and on. I was really on my game today, the very archetype of the Good Listener: not interrupting him as he went on yet remaining visibly interested, all the while just waiting for an opening any opening to hit him with all the A material I've gathered from my years on the circuit. But my point if there is one is not that I have a new best friend here, but the fact that my boss for the next few weeks should be easy to get along with bodes well. As I said, the opposite can always be the case and usually is if my experience is any indication. There's a reason Murphy has that nasty Law named after him.

I've worked some through this agency before, but it was a while ago and sporadic at best: a day here, another there. So now if I absolutely slay this assignment, that puts me in good stead there. And I know at least for me good stead is the absolute best kind of stead. Trust me, I've tried all kinds...

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After All This Time

LADIES AND GENTS, saints and sinners, freemen and yeomen, Hold on to your respective armrests, because I'm here to report that I have what's known in the employment sector as a real live interview taking place tomorrow. Places and Names shall be withheld for now, of course -- I'm not superstitious, just a little stitious -- but rest assured I do have documentation to back this up and I'm not afraid to use it if I have to.

It is my first such scheduled encounter with a prospective employer in quite some time, and like fellow frustrated out-of-work blogger Nazz Nomad, it hasn't been from lack of applying over lo these many weeks, or months in my case; just a reflection of a very heated competition for what few opportunities present themselves every day. Meaning any relevant job posting on, say, craigslist or mediabistro is immediately inundated with a flood of qualified candidates within literally minutes.

In this instance, a publishing agency I'm registered with emailed it to me. I jumped on it forthwith and followed up with a phone call and another email. It sorta has my name on it, and I'm not quite sure whether this agency or another is sending other proofreaders out to be interviewed for the same job or if it's my chance alone. It does me no good to know either way, does it... I don't really tend to overthink things like that anyway; I save obsessively dwelling for your big metaphysical questions like, If the Shroud of Turin is a genuine 1st century artifact, as I'm beginning to think it is, and not as some nonbelievers among you would have it a Medieval forgery, then do I have to put my shekels where my mouth is and admit I'm starting to feel something stirring the more I read about the early Christians. Ah, you didn't see that one coming, did you. Neither did I, until I found myself literally in tears the other day when reading the stirring conclusion of Thomas Cahill's magnificent Desire of the Everlasting Hills. I won't spoil it for you, except to say it just might be one of the top 2, 3 books of history I've ever read.

Now I'm already well into James Tabor's extremely speculative and conjectural but nevertheless spellbinding The Jesus Dynasty, a work which doggedly depicts the historical Jeez (as his buddies called him), partly by stripping the gospels bare of their theological motivations and partly via recent archaeology, as well as elevates the role of his cuz John D. Baptizer to fellow messiah-ship, among other startling claims, postulations and possibilities. This book literally -- a word I don't take lightly -- couldn't be more fascinating, to me at least, and at the moment that's who we're dealing with here if you hadn't noticed.

Moving off religious history till further notice (and what other kind of notice is there?), I will relate that I'm also scheduled to take the census test Thursday at something called the New York Irish Center located at 10-40 Jackson Avenue, wherever that is. I mean, I know where it is, but to us proud Astorians that's out in the boonies pun intended.

Ironically, or perhaps characteristically, I was at the library printing out my resume and attending to other vital matters Monday when I found out that they were giving the census test upstairs that morning in that very building. But when I asked the census guy today about taking it there, he said tests given at the library fill up fast. So now I have to take a bus ride to Long Island City instead of walking 5 blocks to Ditmars Blvd. That's what I get for procrastinating.

"After all this time
To believe in Jesus
After all those drugs
I thought I was Him
After all my lying
And a-crying
And my suffering
I ain't good enough
I ain't clean enough
To be Him"

The Clash - Sound Of The Sinners

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On The Up Escalator Going Down All The Cracks

"You Are the Dummies of Another Frightened Nation, I Am a Candidate For Elevation, But When I Woke Up This Morning I'd Lost All Sensation..." Graham Parker, Empty Lives

Pouring rain all day, just got home, 6pm. End of a brutal week at work. First of all, the other proofreader's been out for the better part of 4 weeks. Not sure why. But it means I'm doing everything related to proofreading, which this week meant coming in early, staying late and bringing work home. And that translates into 40 regular hours and 10 hours of overtime. So that's gonna be a nice check come next week. Plus I did a short 2-hour freelance project on Monday night, that comes on another check. And of course there's supposed to be some sort of rebate check...on the way.

Been at AB for 17 weeks now, so getting through this week, including proofreading an entire 300-page book, another 100-page monthly, and then all the notes for 2 weekly issues, was a major step in the right direction.

I got through it, working through a major toothache the last 3 days, as well as a radically reduced sleep cycle. Got home pretty tired from the Mexico trip Sunday night, and then was up at least by 6:00 AM every day. And then because we were so behind, I took a lot of stuff home with me, 60-70 pages' worth a night, so I couldn't just hit the sack after work and catch up on the sleep I lost on vacation. I can barely keep my eyes open, and I'm not just saying that...

Last week at this time, Friday evening, I was no doubt sipping one of the following: a Corona, a Modelo, an Absolut screwgie, a glass of wine or sangria, perhaps even a Pina Colada, and it was all free, keep 'em coming, no reason to stop now, all inclusive, everything taken care of, just throw the waiter a few pesos to perpetuate good inter-country karma, because I'm like that, and that's the way it is.

A Quick One While He's Away

Until further notice, your correspondent will be filing all reports down Yucatan way, from the WardensWorld Cancun bureau, to be precise. That's right, manana will find me jetting down to sunny Mejico, along with Brother Admiral, aka Jimmy The Greek -- like me, owner and proprietor of his very own highly successful Website. So for the foreseeable future, two of the leading lights on the Internets will take their leave -- creating a huge vacuum in the Tri-State Area.

But seriously, the Admiral has already warned me against revealing too much in terms of (hopefully) juicy or (potentially incriminating) details from our brief little excursion. I will pledge to hold up my end of the bargain, or at least disguise enough of the names/faces in the ensuing narrative to throw off even the most dogged of interested parties.

Ironically, I learned my lesson very recently when some purportedly offended party stumbled onto my wildly popular Web blog and raised a fit with someone else with whom I do business. The specifics are not presently important, suffice to say I spent much of last night engaged in poring over my archives for "offensive" passages and then expunging or mutating the pertinent names, places, dates, circumstances and other sundry incriminating material, no matter how innocuous I personally considered the respective posts. Company names were altered and people cryptically were reduced to initials, with the result that post after post now reads like a bad imitation of a Kafka novel.

Anyway, I learned that it's easier to be less forthcoming right at the beginning, versus having to go back and waste precious hours to rectify something that should never had to have been reducted in the first place!

And who loses in this latest development? Why, you the dear reader of course, who now, through no fault of your own, will no longer be privy to the most private parts of my life. (Although my private parts themselves are still up for bidding.) From now on, only the barest details will be offered, unless I decide to totally fabricate and exaggerate the otherwise forgettable ephemera of what is a pretty ordinary existence. Which pretty much goes a long way toward explaining why I've got the mass audience I do generate here on the worldwideweb. Dig it.

So Mrs. Jim doesn't need to worry about finding evidence of any misbehavior, on my part at least. After all, it wasn't me that got us unceremoniously tossed out of the Mudd Club circa 1981 for prolonged, excessive, unlikely-to-abate-anytime-soon vomiting, not 10 minutes after finally gaining entrance into that notoriously difficult club to get into. Nope, wasn't me. In fact, that's all I will say on the matter...for now. There's no telling what trouble I might get someone into. Adios, amigos.

Life Is Sometimes Like An Overpriced Tuna Salad Sandwich

Day off today, Marty King Day, after five full days last week at AB, working in their institutional research department, responsible for going over all kinds of different investment analyst reports. Think it's working out pretty good so far, I know for damn sure that they're getting a very high quality proofreader for their end of the bargain. It's a job that I am eminently qualified for.

So imagine my chagrin and outright confusion when I got home last night and switched on my computer to check my email, etc. I always check the craigslist Writing/Editing Jobs classifieds first out of habit, and there was the very job I had started on Monday still being posted via another agency, something called Tiger Info. But make no mistake: it was the exact wordage found in the job outline sent to me by my own freelance/temp agency, known in encrypted acronym form as SWP.

It wasn't quite like seeing your own obituary in the local paper, but it did give me a Kafkaesque jolt, leading me to question whether I indeed existed in other than spectral fashion. Did I not just start last Monday in that very same position -- or was that my cursed doppelganger? Why are they still running the ad? Did I wear out my welcome already? Are they hiring another proofreader? You see the tricks my mind is playing -- stoking my own natural reservoir of paranoia? I wish I had never seen the stupid ad. I wasn't even gonna check craigslist that night, that's how much I thought I was gonna like working for AB ... what with Purity of Heart being to will one thing and all... I emailed my contact at the agency over the weekend and told him about the job still being posted, but I haven't heard back from him.

Anyway, another thing that sucks about being a freelancer is you have to get your time card filled out and sent to the agency, always gotta worried about getting it in on time for different agencies. Last Friday my supervisor was out, and he was the only guy apparently in the whole damn company who was authorized to okay my hours, sign the card, etc. So now I have to worry about getting paid this Wednesday. The first two days last week I get there early, only to have to wait in the lobby for like a half-hour because Security can't find my supervisor to get the okay to let me up. Finally I got an ID photo badge thing going on day 2. But I don't really deal with the supervisor during the day, who's the production manager. Instead I work closely with the other proofreader, a laid-back but quite reserved black guy. His door is always shut, and so as a new proofreader whenever I have a question, which is fairly often, I have to go through the ritual of knocking my knuckles on the door until I hear the requisite Come In.

I also interact with the 4-5 editors who work with the analysts to create these reports; the editors are all women, some working at home for at least part of the week, and so far I've got nothing but positive feedback from them, albeit in piecemeal fashion to say the least.
What I like about this job is it's busy in the morning, but there's tons of downtime in the afternoon. I'm all about the downtime if it's there, although of course time does tend to drag when you're not busy. I still don't have the computer in my office up and running, that's another thing I'm waiting on my supervisor for. Last week whenever my in box was empty and there was nothing else to do, I literally read over every back issue of their research reports that was in my office, probably 30 to 40 volumes cover to cover. In that way I used my time wisely, and now I am really up to speed on the kinds of things expected of me, and suffice to say I found tons of not only inconsistencies in these reports in terms of what their own style guide directs, but outright mistakes and errors. Let's just say they're quite fortunate to be acquiring my services when they did, with nary a moment to spare.

I have a small office all to myself. Everybody seems to keep their doors closed in my little wing, so you're constantly having to knock on peoples' doors; there are also a few desktop operators, outside our offices, who sit at cubicles and print out the stuff we read over, then make corrections based on our edits. It's all very low-key and quiet. There is a nearby kitchen pantry which is stocked with sodas, juices, bottled water, coffee, etc. That comes in handy, especially when you consider what happened to me on Thursday.

For lunch, I decided to check out the corner diner on 54th & 6th, goes by the name of Astro Diner. Well, I can tell you the prices are something out of the future, because when I ordered a mere tuna fish salad with swiss cheese on rye with lettuce and tomato to go, I was shocked to find that the bill they handed me along with the sandwich was for the atmospheric sum of $8.50, with another $0.70 tax added on for good measure, boosting the already overpriced item to $9.20. I did yet another double take on my way to the cash register, then decided I wasn't gonna encourage this sort of price gouging. I returned the sandwich to the waitress at the counter, and asked if there was some sort of mistake: surely the '8' was a '4' and the bill should read $4.50.

No, she said, it's $8.50, to which I responded: "Well, that's disgusting; even if I hit the Lotto I wouldn't pay that much for a tuna fish sandwich."

"You should have checked the menu first," she said as I exited the premises with a righteous sense of indignation. I guess other people don't bat an eye at paying these prices. I know the retail leases in Manhattan are absurdly high, but someone has to take a stand. I have no problem with it being me.

Anyway, back to the new job. Once I do get the computer operational, there are some other components to the job I will be expected to master, but it's nothing too complicated or beyond the scope of technical acumen; it's along the lines of spell checking a document for last minute quality control, attaching a set of disclosures to the end of a report, posting articles to the company intranet...how hard could it be?

I'm waiting for another small check from yet another agency, that check is already late and there's no mail today, so that sucks.
One good bit of news is that I completed a project over the weekend for that Astoria research report that I found on craigslist last month. The first document was 90 pages, I picked it up Thursday after work, then spent 3 hours reading it that night, another 2 1/2 on Friday night after work, and then Saturday finished going over it again and then making the corrections online before sending it back. Worked hard on it because I thought James needed it back as soon as possible, but it took me until today to arrange dropping the hard copy back off, and I did get a nice check for my 7.5 hours of work, but today all the banks are closed, even the check cashing joint, in honor of the afore-referenced MLK Jr.

So I've been busy, and there's supposed to be another document ready to proof as soon as tomorrow. If I could do even 2 or 3 such documents a month, that would be some nice little extra income on the side if you dig where I'm coming from...and I know that you do. If I do say so myself, I did a terrific job on the first one, catching stuff that only the most eagle-eyed of your proofreading class would even have a remote chance of finding. It's what I do. Thank god I use my powers only for good or else think of the havoc I could be causing...

Thanks For Coming, Now Please Leave

Merry and Happy to You and Yours.

All right, now that we've gotten THAT out of the way, let's turn to a favorite subject of us all, someone we literally wouldn't be here without: me. Yeah, like you didn't know that was coming.

This morning I had my last interview of this little round of interviews ... two last week, one today, so far one for two, with today's obviously still up in the air.

Last week, Wednesday, had an interview at BS for their highly (not) coveted third shift, what is known in the parlance of the day as the Graveyard Shift. In this case it would have been four nights/days a week, Tuesday to Friday: midnight to 10am. Maybe they call it the graveyard shift because too much of that shit will kill you. My interviewer was a reserved, poker-faced black professional woman ... hard to read her, but since I didn't get the position, it would be silly even for a person like me (who can harbor a grudge at the drop of a dirty look) to rehash, or even to hash period. 'Tis water under the bridge.

Second interview, Wednesday, a local position based here in Astoria. This one I scoped on craigslist, while BS and the place I went today, RSM Mc-something, came through one of my now five freelance agencies. Anyway, this guy puts out a research report, some kind of library science deal, out of his apartment up on 31st Avenue, so I would work a little at his place, then when I get the hang of it, I could do it here.

Anyway, there was an Asian woman working in the other room when I got there, I just assumed it was his girlfriend or wife, and we all chatted for a while. At the end of it, I must have done something right, so he said he'd give me a shot or try me out, and so that's some modicum of good news. I just called him before and he said he'd have something ready for me early next week, so I jotted it down in my Genuine Leather Lett's of London portable appointment book, patent pending, which I received as a gift yesterday. Thanks, Holly. "Fill it with jobs!" you said, and I sure hope to.
Today I put on my conservative blue pinstripe suit, red power tie, black Rockports and hit the bricks for my 11:00 date with destiny. After passing the typical post 9/11 Large Manhattan Office Building security, I headed upstairs, interfaced with the stunningly attractive young black receptionist, and signed the visitors' registrar, noting that two other people, at 10 and 10:15am, had signed in to see the same woman. My dreaded competition! I cursed them and their families going back several generations, and then for good measure put a powerful pox on their chances, before sitting down in one of the sumptuously plush leather easy chairs arrayed geometrically in the lobby area and starting to focus on my best sales pitch. After all, I would need to summon all my relevant skill sets if I was going to successfully pull this off, because lord knows I have my hands full being me on a semi-regular basis, and now I would have to convince someone else that I was indeed job-worthy.

Finally I met the supervisory person, an attractive woman in her early 40s if my eyes weren't playing tricks on me, and after a perfunctory back and forth during which she yawned unapologetically -- I guess I have that effect on people -- she passed me off to a pair of actual proofreading specimens. More conversation, with me playing the part of the earnest, sincerely interested, grateful applicant, treading a fine line between eagerness and desperation, to a fare-the-well ... a fine fare-the-well if truth be told.

Have a better feeling about this one. It's an accounting firm, so there is some of what is called "cross checking" numbers in the business. What shift I would work at first should I be offered the job was never discussed; I told them I was okay with wherever they wanted to use me -- day shift, 4 to midnight, even 10pm to 6am -- although I told them I prefer one of the first two shifts if I was given a choice.

Freelancing really slows down during the dreaded holiday season. I worked last Friday at LT, then off Monday Christmas Eve, obviously Christmas day, which I spent with my sister on Long Island, then today I had the interview and called Robert at that research company, with the rest of the week still open ended. Late last week I called all five of my freelance agencies, let them know I was available these next two weeks, so get me some work, people! This is all the more pressing a matter because last week LT, my main client, the company that over the last 18 months has used me more than all the others combined, is phasing out freelancers over the coming months. In fact, the print department is itself being phased out, and so the ads and such generated by that department will be originating in the L.A. offices. That sucks, and yet it's another concrete reason to hate Los Angeles. There's always a positive if you're sick enough to look real hard.

Over the last few weeks I've gotten calls from two of my other mainstay freelance clients, and they've given me some work recently, but not enough, never enough work. I thought I would be a lot busier with all the new freelance agencies I've registered at in the last few months, but it still hasn't resulted in the workload I expected. That's why I'm leaning toward taking a full-time assignment with one company. I'm getting to the point where I'd rather know where I'm going to work tomorrow before the end of the day before, if that makes any sense to all you non-freelancers.

Had a Christmas party at one of my agencies last week, and it was cool but not as good as the year before. Different place, different vibe, fewer contacts made, etc. Maybe it was also because I had to tear myself away from a still functioning open bar situation because of an early interview the next day -- the one that, predictably, I didn't get anyway.
I don't mind going on interviews, what I really hate about the current online-driven employment market is when you don't even get a call back or really any feedback at all regarding why you didn't get the position. It becomes a waste of time in that way, whereas if you got something more than the hated "they decided to go in another direction" or "they're gonna pass" -- which I got last week from a woman at one of the agencies -- at least you feel like you're sharpening your skills in some way or fine-tuning your whole mojo. This is the worst of all possible worlds, a Kafkaesque exercise updated to Seinfeld-ian proportions. I'll leave you with that and let you get on with your business. Thanks for being you. I know I was.

It's A Good Thing

WARNING: Diary-Like Entry Below

After an excruciating period where freelance work slowed down, the last few weeks have seen a resurgence, if not a renaissance, for yours truly. The key was getting those second and third freelance agencies in the fold, and now I sit at the proverbial junction of opportunity. Being persistent and constantly checking in for work is the key, staying on the radar. Remember, if I make money, they make money, 'cause they charge a fee to whatever company I work for on a given project.

Today is a good example. I worked a 6-hour shift at LTV, which has been my quasi-headquarters since June of '06. I got the LT job through the agency I've been registered at for the longest time, a year and a half or so. Then in the early afternoon I got a call from the second place I found about a month ago, let's call them CC for short. CC got me work at 2 new places already, and they called me around 3 or 4 other times for potential gigs but I was already booked somewhere else for the day(s) they needed me. They seem to have a lot of contacts in advertising. One company down in Chelsea where I had worked about a month ago wanted to know if I could work off premises tonight. Shoot yeah, I said, and it turned out to be a small ad proposal. Last time I was on premises it was a nice juicy 75-page document I could really sink my teeth into. This time it might only be a couple, three hours' worth of work. But that's okay: it's all about getting your foot in the door at as many places as possible, making an impression, getting repeat business. So I will turn that around by tomorrow, and maybe there's something else they'll need down the road.

Then a little later in the afternoon, I get a call from a third agency, which so far has promised me a few things but nothing has materialized. These agencies can drive you crazy like that -- get your hopes up, only to be let down. You try not to get too high or too low, but I plead guilty to getting myself all worked up over possibilities that may or may not turn out, as well as feeling really, really down when things don't work out. But if like me you're putting all your eggs in the freelance basket, then you can't be surprised at the vicissitudes and vagaries of making a living that way. It's definitely not for everyone, and sometimes I'm not even sure it's for me. Just the last week, I've had second thoughts, third thoughts, even 9th and 15th thoughts.

Speaking of which, this third agency, let's call them TF/S, has a company that needs a proofreader for two full weeks, and maybe more, and they want to meet me tomorrow. It's a very famous brand name company, but that's all I will say on the matter. I'm not superstitious really, just a little stitious, but I don't wanna jinx myself any more than absolutely necessary. So that's a positive development. Tomorrow I work at LT till 4, then shoot downtown for the interview or meet & greet or whatever it turns out to be, likely a quick proofing or editing test, which of course I will annihilate with my overall editing acumen, and then we'll see what happens. Not to get ahead of myself, if that's even possible, but if they want me to start next week I will have to do some juggling with LTV.

On the one hand, I don't want to burn any bridges or alienate my regular clients. For instance, this week I worked 4 days at LT. Every other week, or about twice a month, S-NY, down on Varick Street, calls me to work on a certain catalog, an in-house style guide, or something in that vein; I don't wanna lose them, for instance. I don't wanna lose LT if this new gig ends after 2 or 3 weeks. I don't wanna put off the agency that got me both those good gigs, as well as others that I've developed good relationships with over the last year and change; they took me months and months to build up. I don't know where I would be without these guys -- well, gals actually. Another small advertising shop on Varick Street that I worked a few times for asked for me last week, but I was already booked somewhere else and just couldn't squeeze them in; I usually move heaven and earth so that I can accommodate both places the same day -- work somewhere from 9 to 1 or 2 and then shoot over to the other place. Those are the best days, when you feel in demand.

Lancing Never Free

Interesting couple weeks in the freelancing biz. Slowly but surely things seem to be headed in the right direction, despite the usual setbacks and roadblocks to suckcess. Not that I'm bitter or anything...

Middle of last week it was looking like Friday was gonna be an off day. LT said they didn't "need" me to come in, that I should come back Monday and to plan on working Tuesday & Thursday as per usual. But Thursday morning I received a welcome call from K., one of my main contacts at A., the world-famous freelance agency I "belong" to, asking about my availability for Friday. It seems S.Comm, the ad agency over on Varick Street, was requesting my earthly presence for a choice assignment. It turns out they've been renovating their offices and needed someone to work off-premise. I fairly shouted into the phone, Yea, verily!

It turns out they needed someone to go over one of their in-house style guides, something I was quite familiar with as I've worked on similar projects for them four or five times at least over the past year. The guide outlines the rules the ad- and copy-writing people are to use when dealing with a high-end crystal/jewelry (actually jewellery in this case) operation. The beauty of the assignment was that I could stay in Astoria; as I still have no functioning home PC, I based my operation out of the Internet Cafe that I so frequently frequent. All I had to do was print out the 50 or 60 pages and then went home and worked on it by the light of my kitchen window.

The folks at S. were under an enormous deadline, and so I turned it around for them in short order. I caught a myriad of stuff, from misspellings of words like typeface and article to larger problems with page numbers, etc. Basically the guides set rules regarding which typefaces to use, where the Swan logo should reside in the ad, etc. The bottom line is that S. was extremely grateful for my input and expertise, as they should be, because I take a back seat to no one in my field. That's just a stone cold fact. So instead of an off day, I was able to bill them for almost 5 hours of work at $25 per hour. Sweet. (LT gets me for "only" 22 an hour.)

Yesterday morning as I headed to LT from the train station, I got another call from K. informing me that the folks at V magazine were specifically requesting me for a choice two-day assignment. I had worked for V just once before, a one-day dealio back in November, but apparently I made such a big impression that they asked for me, by name! Of course it would be difficult to ask for someone other than by name, but I'm sticking to my verbiage as this post is supposed to resemble a stream of consciousness outpouring of my deepest, barest emotions. How'm I doin' so far?

Well, that really jacked me up as you can guess. Just to work on the premises is reward enough, and they also pay 25 per if I remember correctly. But V needed someone to work either Wednesday & Thursday or Thursday & Friday. But being the loyal sumbitch I am, I was already committed to LT for Thursday, and before I got a chance to see how flexible they were willing to be this week, A. pulled the rug out from underneath me and K. called back with the news that V decided to use someone else. I was a little put off, but that's life as a freelancer: easy come, here today, gone fishing tomorrow ... I chose to focus on the positive, on the fact that the V folks specifically requested me. K. did say she'd try to make it up to me, although not in those exact words.

The reason I'm able to remain so positive is because a good friend of mine, Kate, just got a new job at a huge ad agency and has decided to use me as a freelancer for them starting this very week! Kate is a real take-charge, alpha type (she basically planned our entire November reunion along with the Gatt and got all the details together to make that shindig such a memorable event), and apparently has moved up the ranks at her new company with such alacrity that she's able to use me for such an important project. It's a huge assignment for their pharmaceutical division which involves going over a PowerPoint presentation for a new diabetes drug. She's even got me into the system as of yesterday, when I filled out a bunch of forms including a W-9 statement, so I'll be paid weekly according to Kate. This could be the killer break I've been needing for some time.

Yesterday at LT, I was going over some ads for a new show of theirs that will be running in publications like TV Guide, People, etc. That's par for the course. What was unusual was that in the ad, the character's name, whose love interests are a vampire and detective, was spelled wrong. I know, I know, it's silly, but this is what women are going for these days. Usually I will Google any actor names that I'm not familiar with, but the poster itself didn't have any, but something told me to check the spelling of the character, and it turns out that according to the information on LT's very own Website, it's spelled wrong. I live for catching stuff like that. Now I'm smelling like a rose because I caught that little gaffe before the ads left our department en route to wherever it is these things go after I look at them. And last week I caught another few major things, including another actress's last name spelled incorrectly. Damn I'm good.

Not only has it been an interesting few weeks, but indeed as I started getting my tax stuff together, I realized that it's been a unique year for me in terms of all the stuff I went through as I tried to get back on my feet following my unceremonious departure from TWST, followed by six months of unemployment checks, which ended just about exactly a year to the day. To be precise, my 2006 tax statement includes the following (legal) sources of income: the last four or five weeks of unemployment in early 2006; a strange one-day job at Cornell Medical Center; a brief interlude as a telemarketer/market researcher; an even briefer period working as a shipping clerk for a friend's office supply/novelty company; a futile, fruitless turn as a gold coin salesman for another friend; a somewhat more successful stint (still technically ongoing) as a caterer for yet another friend's company; as well as all the different freelancing jobs I've had. All these escapades and more are chronicled in-depth and with appropriate levels of irony and self-deprecating humor on this very blog for those interested in more detail. And who wouldn't be fascinated by the continuing misadventures of a modern-day Ignatius J. Reilly rampaging headlong through the work force. Show of hands please...
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Postscript Wow! Talk about your serendipity. It's now 10 minutes after I completed the above communique and I just seconds ago got a call from C, another of my contacts at A, informing me of an assignment for CL that has my name written all over it. I have never worked for them before, but it involves going over some alumni stuff, and get this: I can work off premise. Again, there's a deadline, but it looks like I can get started ASAP and work at home after I've printed all the stuff out. As it was, I knew I was back at LT Thursday but we hadn't discussed tomorrow or Friday yet. So now that I have all those blanks filled in and then some, I just hope K doesn't need me to get started for her project until Friday night. But it's a nice dilemma to have for a change: too much work! C's gonna get back to me to confirm with all the details any minute now I guess, but I am jacked up like a meth addict who just got a new script filled. Very.

A Work Week In The Life

"I live off you
And you live off me
And the whole world
Lives off of everyone,
See we gotta be exploited..."
I Live Off You
X-Ray Spex

After a slow first hour, it's been a veritable beehive of activity here at LT this morning, with A. bringing all sorts of company stationery, letterheads, business cards and even some print ads over to my desk for me to look over and sign off on. I caught a wrong zip code on one set; the Chicago zip was on something for the Birmingham, Michigan office. Also caught a name misspelled on a business card. Nobody slips stuff like that past me. Nobody.

It's been a fairly busy week, except for yesterday when I had off. But I used my time wisely and ran a ton of what you earthlings commonly call errands -- coming into Manhattan to pick up my paycheck from A., getting a haircut back in Astoria, doing a much-needed laundry, checking a few movies out of the library, etc. But I would prefer to work every single day for obvious reasons. I did get to fill in a blank, so to speak, on Monday at CB on the Upper West for a one-day project going over the galleys for a new edition of their bestselling Study Guides––quite a hit with the college-bound crowd. And of course I was able to catch some errors that no doubt pleased C.D., my supervisor/contact there. That was about the 5th or 6th time I've been there in my less than one full year of freelancing, for a total of about 10 or 15 days working on the different projects. So it's good to be called back for repeat business.

One client––S. Comm down on Varick Street––had not called in a few months, but K. at A., my freelance agency on West 20th, called me yesterday to tell me they asked if I would be available today, Thursday, but obviously I'm here at LT. My timing is such that I'm either needed in two places at once or nowhere at all! So I asked K. to see if S. can use me Friday, tomorrow. If not, at least they're still asking for me, which means I'm still in the loop. S. happens to be my favorite place among the 4 or 5 places where I've worked, full of hip/young/good-looking people -- three sought-after metrics to which I no longer belong or indeed even qualify. So it goes.

It's funny, or ironic, or something, but when I was back at Le Transcript, I would hate/dread when ex-employees would come back to visit the office like some kind of conquering heroes. It always made me feel ... unadventurous somehow; whatever else could be said, at least these people had left the nest, whether pushed out or otherwise. Sometimes I felt like an Office Lifer, stuck in neutral or limbo, even after the promotion to Managing Editor. The life of a freelancer is essentially the polar opposite of that stasis, with its good and bad points depending on what day you catch me on.

Still waiting to hear good things back from a company I took a proofreading test for last week. I can't imagine anyone doing better on the test than I did, all modesty aside, because I have a metric tonne of confidence in all matters proofing and my perspicuity therein. If not me, who? And I have a few other things in the hopper that should start kicking in at the beginning of next month. But I digest.

A week ago Thursday I had my last catering gig. I worked a full shift at LT here on West 49th, then shot over to the Upper East for the Old Boys Dinner at St. Bernard's School, where among my duties that night included manning the coat check room. That event marked my one-year mark as a caterer. Once I got my own room set up, I unselfishly set up the classroom next door for the other coat checker, Bernice. A few hours later, with everyone's coat on a hanger and their tickets in hand, I went upstairs to the gym and helped bus some tables, served food at the buffet table, etc., demonstrating my versatility. Then I returned to my coat check franchise, waiting for the 100 or so guests to finish their dinner and hightail it out of there.

Following the lead of Bernice, the old black woman who used to work at the school and now evidently returns only for this very event and the lucrative gratuities she receives for working the coat check, I put out a small wicker basket and placed a single dollar bill inside. That was enough to set the mood and lo & behold, I watched the bills pile up––a lot of singles, a few fives, and even one generous dude who hit me with a twenty-spot. Sweet! It was funny: he put a Jackson in the basket and asked if I had change; whatever's in there, I answered, and then he decided to just let me keep it. I couldn't believe it, and overheard him telling his fellow Old Boys that he just gave the coat check guy a 20. I would have done the same thing: why give to charity unless you get to blow your own horn a little.

It was a little past 11 when the last of my hangers was empty. A long day, and I had to be back at LT early the next morning, but when I counted up my tips I was surprised to find I had made 86 bucks, not even counting my salary for the night. I had like 50 or 60 bucks in singles alone, which made me feel like I was either heading to a strip club or had just worked at one, and you know, I could get used to that feeling. By the time I reached Ditmars Blvd. with a fellow caterer from Astoria, it was well past midnight, and once home I had a lot of trouble just falling asleep––repeatedly imploring Hypnos, the Greek god of sleep, to descend upon me (in as non-gay a manner as possible; not that there's anything wrong with that), but to no immediate avail; at least until around 3, when I dozed off fitfully until the clock radio rudely roused me at 7. A couple hits of the snooze bar later, I was up and ready, if not all that bright-eyed.

"In art, Hypnos was portrayed as a naked youthful man, sometimes with a beard, and wings attached to his head. He is sometimes shown as a man asleep on a bed of feathers with black curtains about him."

Looks like old Hypnos was indeed quite the deviant, even by Greek god standards.

A Year To Dismember

I've never been one to observe or put much stock in artificial demarcations of time, but I just couldn't wait for the lunar year 2006 to pass on like an expiring roman candle. So before old Father Time throws out Baby New Year with last year's bathwater, let us bask in the glow of 2007 as I enumerate the many ways that 2006 sucked for me personally. If it was good for you, then whoop-dee-damn-doo! But since it's my blog, I reserve the right to bring everyone down as I chronicle my ups and downs.

For those masochistic gluttons for punishment who want all the gory details, all they have to do is search through the WardensWorld archives and read uplifting posts like, oh, Maybe I Won't Have To Kill Myself After All, from late March; or Human Downers and Black Hole Sun from May of '06. The names of the posts give you an idea of my tenuous mental state at the time. Surefire crowd-pleasers these.

I started this wildly popular Internet Weblog back in late January of last year, with the post entitled Five months off, which chronicled my unemployment woes, having been laid off/downsized from my managing editor of production position at The Wall Street Transcript in mid-2005. So when I started this blog, I was literally contemplating what would become of me. I had about a month of unemployment insurance to go, no real job prospects, a easily ignorable resume that captured nothing of The Real Me. I was at a precipice, staring down at the abyss, down at the bottom of the valley, stuck knee deep in the proverbial Big Muddy.
I really didn't know what I wanted to do, so I registered with some employment agencies, including Lynne Palmer, the renowned publishing agency, which set up exactly one interview, back in October of '05, with an investment house for a copy editor position. I was actually invited back for two more rounds of interviews, which included an editing and math test, but that was it. I didn't get any more feedback from Lynne Palmer or the company itself, whose name I can't recall right now, otherwise I would also blast them to high holy hell.

I've blocked a lot of the real bad stuff from my mind, the other horrible agencies I flocked to in the misplaced hope they would actually help me in my search for gainful employment. I do recall my four- or five-week stint at the market research outfit on Union Square, nights from 5-11 pm, conducting in-depth seemingly endless surveys over the phone with people who really resented being contacted at home and asked their opinions on political candidates, local hospitals, etc., especially when it came time for me to ask them to give us personal information related to personal income, education, even marital status. It's all there in the archives, as I said, for those who want the minutia.

When that didn't work out, I heard through a friend of a friend that another friend was looking for a shipping clerk for her fledgling office supplies/novelties company. This was late February or so and the position involved standing in her freezing cold garage while I made up orders and boxed them for Federal Express. She agreed to give me a chance and at first I was grateful for the opportunity. Me, with almost 20 years in publishing, who paid my way through college, who won the P.S. 84 spelling bee in 6th grade (thought I'd throw that one in there because who knows when I'll get the chance again) -- me, a shipping clerk. But the truth is, my pre Wall Street Transcript career was filled with physical blue collar jobs, including working in the garment center, roofing, loading trucks nights in a Secaucus, New Jersey warehouse, being a messenger, liquor store clerk, even spent a summer at the South Street Seaport loading fish onto trucks and helping my friend Pete Lavelli on his coffee truck, working from 3 in the morning till 8 or 9am ... so it wasn't like performing meaningless, dispiriting work for a meager wager was totally foreign to me. But I digress...

Somehow it didn't work out at the garage with J., she said I wasn't catching on quickly enough, but I think she just wanted me to finish this huge bulk mailing project involving around 2,000 catalogs and several angry postal workers at the Long Island City branch who literally screamed at me when I showed up without having properly bundled said catalogs. And the irony was that she knew that I was gonna catch hell when I got to the P.O. because she never took the time to explain how to do it even though the postal dudes had warned her multiple times previously. But every time I asked her to explain that or anything else about the job, she would furrow her brow and relate to me that she was running a business here and couldn't stop to elucidate details for me. You know the type? Self-important, the world begins and ends with their fucking business?

At first she was promising how we would be almost partners, the company was gonna really take off, and then it was, you really are overqualified for this menial task, I'm gonna get a college kid or an intern to fill the position. Great, that's what I needed to hear.
I had about a week or two left of checks at that point. And I started the blog right about that time. So one good thing to emerge from that depressing era of my life is WardensWorld, and I am proud to say I've kept it up. I wanted to give myself a year and see where it would lead, and as any blogger will tell you, it's not easy to remain inspired and come up with new stuff. Look at all the blogs that come and go. If I had never gotten the ax from TWST, I doubt I'd have ever started this enterprise.

But again, I digress. I was regularly rifling through the Village Voice and the Sunday New York Times help wanted sections. It was in the Voice where I espied the Columbia Proofreader ad that promised I would be mad with work if only I took the two-day course for a couple hundred bucks I couldn't afford to expend. But I called anyway and the woman speed-talked her way through her pitch, telling me rudely to hold all questions and comments until the end. I wanted to reach through the telephone at one point and rip out her larynx, but other than that I remained civil and tried to appear interested while steadfastly maintaining my silence. Then at the end, this nutcase tells me that I was being rude and couldn't keep my mouth shut and so the instructors would probably have to gag me during the class sessions. She was not joking! And then she laid the whammy on me, telling me I would be hearing from her lawyers for a sexual harassment charge. She hung up the phone on me and my head was spinning. I drew a big X through the ad and then crumpled up the notes I was taking and tossed it in the general direction of the wastebasket.

I also recall flirting with the idea of becoming a professional bartender. Seriously. I thought my recent foray into the foodservice industry could be parlayed into that dream high-tip-generating gig where I could make a couple-hundred bucks once or twice a week; every male has entertained that fantasy, believe me. So I called up a number in an ad I found in the Village Voice for a bartender school, no experience necessary, will train, yada yada yada, left a message, a like a day later I was making an appointment to see Anthony at one of those shabby rundown Midtown office buildings that seems like it has always been there and always will be there giving off creepy vibes. Turns out that there is a class run by professional bartenders on the premises, with the promise of giving you more work than you can handle if you pay the 300-dollar fee and complete the course, but mama didn't raise no fool and so I cursed myself for my delusional fantasies and beat it out of there as soon as the guy finished his sorry-ass pitch.

Then there was the one-day job at Cornell Medical Center I got through another agency, where I was supposed to call doctors' offices pretending me or another family was afflicted with various ailments, maladies and diseases, including cancer, gout, infertility & migraines, and then rate the responders from 1-5 based on apparently quantifiable metrics like courteousness, promptness, professionalism, and then note whether I was put on hold, how long it took to answer the phone, etc. That was another low point, but at least it was a paycheck.

I must have been commiserating with my friend John the fireman when he told me of a girl he knew who lived next to his firehouse on Canal who was a freelancer. He was telling her about my situation when she suggested I call an agency she had dealt with on West 20th Street. So I called up and arranged a meeting. Unfortunately, it didn't go all that well, as I met with a rather sullen, joyless woman named D. who could barely curb her unenthusiasm during our interview. I took the proofreading test that day, however, and she looked it over and said no one does well on this test -- another encouraging personality, I thought to myself -- before informing me that indeed I did score well. But then a few weeks went by and I heard nothing back.
Shortly after this, my friend Tony who owns a catering business must have read about my tribulations on the blog and asked me if I wanted to work as a coat checker at an upcoming party. I said sure, I'm game, having done some catering years and years before. So I showed up that night and nobody got hurt or even seriously injured by my hand and thus little by little began my accidental career as a caterer. I would work, oh, 40 or 50 parties throughout 2006, displaying my overall versatility and resourcefulness to all concerned.

Then it must have been late March when I heard back from the Agency. D. was no longer with the agency and someone else was taking over my account. That someone was K. and she looked over my resume and had some things in mind. Unfortunately, there was an incident where she was unable to contact me for a few days, had the wrong number or something, and I lost out on a possible full-time proofreading gig at V magazine. Shortly thereafter, however, I had my first freelance gig at a downtown advertising agency on Varick Street, S.Communications, and I have never looked back. Well, maybe once, when I thought I saw a speeding wildebeest gaining on me, but that turned out to be a flashback.

But seriously, A. is the best thing that ever happened to me -- except for that time with Maria Herrara after I won the P.S. 84 spelling bee -- because it allowed me to keep at least one foot in the publishing biz. Soon my reputation spread far and wide throughout Publishing Row, and I know can count four clients in my rotation

In between, I accepted and then rejected a position as an audit clerk at a small but posh East Side hotel that entailed working from 11pm to 7am and going over the day's books. I lasted for two days of training back in June before I realized it just wasn't a good match at all, and before all my freelance contacts dried up, I let the manager know I wasn't gonna stick it out. On top of the irregular hours, there was just so much to learn about the computer system at the front desk, and the money wasn't all that great, even if the benefits were top-notch.

Well, the same week I quit the hotel job, or more precisely the week before, I started my proofing gig at Lifetime, and that has been more or less steady ever since. Most weeks I get four days in, although some weeks I worked every day and others only three days. That's another reason I couldn't wait for December to be over: all those short weeks mean even shorter weeks for a freelancer, because they're not gonna need someone on the Friday before a holiday, and then the holidays themselves, well, you're not gonna get paid for those. See Beast, Nature of the...

Wow, this has become a ramblin', often-meanderin' post, but I wanted to go back a little and kind of encapsulate the past before movin' forward. You can get an idea of what I was going through, all because some bitch at the Transcript complained to the boss that I chastised her once or twice for hanging around my department and distracting my desktop publishing operators on the very busy days when we were going to print with an issue. Once she decided to ask everyone in the company whether they were dog or cat people, with a running commentary on what that said about you depending on your response! True story! On my mother's grave, I swear that all I said was, Look, don't you have any work to do -- we're busy here today. That's it. Didn't yell or scream or throw anything. But for whatever reason she had it in for me and probably shed a few phony crocodile tears and all of a sudden I'm the bad guy. All of a sudden I was out of a job I held for 17 years and everyone was too worried about their own sorry asses to stick up for me. That's cool, though, because karma's a bitch.

Also, last month the gals at A. told me they had some good matches for me and were sending out my resume to 3 or 4 spots and by the beginning of the new year they would be hearing back from them. And yesterday I got a call from C. telling me that she heard back from one of them and did I have time to see them this week. The upshot? I have an interview with them today and they're right in the neighborhood here, mere blocks away from LT here on West 49th. In fact, M, my supervisor here, just said next week looks slow here but he expects things to pick up in a few weeks. So he may need me only 2 or 3 days next week. That might be fortuitous as I can use the other days to dive right into the new assignment, should I be officially offered it. M. has always been upfront with me, and so I told him I may have a new client; he said whatever hours I need to work, he can be flexible and I would be able to come in later or earlier, whatever works for me. If all it works out, and I don't wanna get ahead of myself (we know how painful that can be), I can juggle the new gig with LT. Then I will be in demand and my life as a freelancer proofreader will indeed be where I thought it would be as a young boy growing up in idyllic Astoria in the late 1960s.

So to reiterate, I have reason to be optimistic as the new year unfolds. I was almost gonna give up on freelancing if things didn't pick up, because it's hard to make ends meet when there are so many gaps in the work week. Plus it's mentally draining. Furthermore, I haven't heard from S.Comm in a few months, haven't heard from V since the one-day project in November, and I last worked at CB in early November. Thank goodness for LT.
I was feeling down about things one night after work late last week as I slowly trudged to my train station, a combination of the work situation and also the sight of so many bloated tourists clogging the streets, when I saw a bus roll by with a giant poster that I had just worked on. For some reason that buoyed my spirits and made me feel things were gonna be okay. I'm not usually a big believer in corny harbingers or symbolic presentiments, but I'm willing to make an exception in this case.

Workin' It

I have grown accustomed to the unsympathetic vagaries of life as a freelancer. I have learned to focus on the positive and remain upbeat in terms of job prospects. Because the god's honest truth, as my dad really did used to say, is if I don't remain positive, no one will do it for me.

Today marks the 8th day in a row at LT, which has been very steady for me since late June, with the only significant gaps coming on those weeks where there are holidays, such as Thanksgiving and of course now with Christmas coming up, this week and next look like short weeks at LT. I just talked to my supervisor here and ironed out this week's schedule. It worked out pretty good, with my working today (Monday) & Tuesday at LT, then the catering gig on Wednesday afternoon/evening, then it's back at LT Thursday; Friday is shaping up as an off day right now, but something could still pop up, provided I remain positive and send out the proper morphic resonance. (Imagine relevant link here.) With no sick days, no vacation time, and few if any benefits to speak of, you have to stay mentally tough as a freelancer. As no less an authority than Stephen Crane put it: "Of all human lots for a person of sensibility, that of an obscure free lance in literature or journalism is, I think, the most discouraging."

Finally, I can report some much-needed catering work on the horizon, which will go a long way toward filling in the gaps I just spoke of. There's a school party this Wednesday, with the possibility of a private party at someone's ostentatiously spacious Upper East Side apartment this Friday. Get to see how the other half lives, although by half I more accurately mean the very top upper percentile in terms of household income, socio-economic status, educational attainment and other fairly reliable indicators of demonstrable wealth.

Late Friday here at LT I got a call from K. at A. As soon as I saw the incoming digits on the LCD screen of my cell phone, I was hoping it was news from DC. If you recall from a recent post, A. sent them my sparklingly impressive resume for a long-term proofreader assignment. But alas, it was for a one-day assignment on Monday (today) for an ad agency. As I was already booked for today and manana at LT, I had to turn it down, as much as I would have liked to add a new client to my small rotation I have built up over the last, oh, 6 or 7 months. K. said we probably wouldn't hear anything definitive from DC until post-2006/early '07.

I never mentioned how great the Xmas celebration was a few weeks ago. My freelance agency held it at a small restaurant called Sala One Nine, appropriately enough located on West 19th Street. In addition to the always-welcome open bar situation, and some handy appetizers (nice to be on the other side of a catered event for a change), I mingled with not only my fellow freelance talent, but also some of the clients and A. staff, both present and former, including K., A. and Kr. M. and C and a few others from LT made the scene, and it was here that K. first approached me about the DC opportunity. So it was good that I made the scene, or who knows -- K. might have seen fit to go with another proofreader. Life is a series of coincidences, as anyone who has followed my career arc can attest to. Something like that. I reluctantly left Sala One Nine shortly after the bar cruelly turned back into a pay-cash situation, after one $6 Heineken too many.

My own burgeoning freelance business, you know, the one for which I printed up some business cards, is still stuck firmly in the fledgling phase. I actually did get one call from someone, a guy in Astoria named Tupac who had a thick Spanish accent and wanted me to help him with an ad campaign for his vitamins/supplements business. We set up a meeting at Mike's Diner for coffee; on the phone he said he'd be the guy with the bald head, but of course when I got to Mike's and looked around, none of the 10 or so diners matched that description. Just when I was about to approach the least-hairiest diner, in walked a smiling guy in a suit whose shiny scalp, sure enough, was indeed remarkably bereft of even a single follicle. He turned out to be a very nice guy, but it just wasn't a good match and I had to turn him down. I could have probably strung him along and soaked him for a few hundred dollars, but that would have been a bad karmic choice. That was the only call I received so far, after dropping off around 20 cards in various strategic Astoria locales. But I ran out of cards a few weeks ago and need to get another couple dozen printed up. (I just did a Google search for Eagle Eye Proofreading and discovered that at least two other businesses have used that alliterative moniker for their own. This of course means war!)

Never heard back from metro, the free daily paper where I sent that freelance column a few weeks ago. I stupidly waited a week before sending it off, and due to the timely nature of the material, that probably cost me any chance of publication. I'm working on a few more pieces now that hopefully will meet a better fate. There are fewer and fewer outlets for freelance pieces, although I am aiming high and hope to send off something to Newsweek's My Turn column, as well as a few others I have targeted. As always, you will be among the first to know.

In blog-related developments, I have now been at this for almost a year, having started WardensWorld in late January of '06, while in the deepest throes of unemployment-related ennui. (Incidentally, the word ennui -- meaning listlessness & dissatisfaction -- comes from the Latin in odio, which translates to "in hate." I like that, because that's just how I was feeling then...) This blog has been the recipient of over 5,500 hits/clicks, good enough to earn me $10.74 in Total Earnings. Now, Google/AdSense policy is not to release such blogger earnings until they total $100. At the rate I am proceeding, that money will be in my grubby hands right around 2015 or so. That's really gonna come in handy for my 55th birthday celebration. Drinks are on the house!

Also, my friend E., a fellow copy editor who I worked with at the Wall Street Transcript and who runs her own fine Weblog titled Weenie Enema, gave me a nice writeup last week in her December 11th post, A Blogroll Update Of Sorts. There I am, leading off, and for that I thank her. Now, we don't always agree on politics -- okay, we NEVER agree on politics -- but there's no denying her pop culture acumen and humorously original take on things. If I could figure out how to leave a link, I would do so, but just do a Google Search or go to www.weenieenema.blogspot.com. She's also a Mets fan, for which she has my enduring sympathy, and still works at TWST, for which she has my eternal commiseration, to the power of 10. But I keed, I keed...

Onions At One O'Clock

I Could Do With The Money, You Know That I'm So Wiped Out With Things As They Are

Beginning with the important disclaimer that I am always grateful for the opportunity, I nevertheless will use some of this precious blog space to vent, for lack of a better term, over the many hardships your narrator is forced to endure as he wends his way through the high-pressure world of high-stakes catering. After working Monday thru Thursday of last week proofreading at LT, I was booked for two weekend parties, back to back and belly to belly, hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles, or at least the Big Knife & Fork of Damocles -- Saturday night at Fordham Prep in Los Bronx, then last night at Birch Wathen School on the Upper East. With no Yankees to be found in the World Series for a third straight year, and the Cowboys not playing on Sunday, it wasn't like I was missing anything important, so why not make some much-needed cash by actively participating in the employment sector.

I always dread the Fordham gigs because it's such a fucking ordeal ... not so much to get to, but to get back from. I take the 4 train about, oh, 15 stops from the 59th/Lex. stop, then it's a good 15-minute walk to the campus, where I always get lost trying to find the high school. The party itself was some faculty get-together, a buffet style dinner for around 130 souls, with a dance floor set up in the middle of the dining hall and DJs playing a weirdly disjointed melange of soul, '50s crap, salsa, mixed in with modern-day musical frauds like Justin Timberlake. We were at least one staff person short, and so we hustled to cover all the tables.

I wasn't crazy about the captain that night, the person entrusted with the mission of running the rest of the caterers, coordinating the event so that it runs like a well-oiled machine. She shall remain nameless so that if by small chance she stumbles upon this wildly popular Internet blog, I can maintain at least a possible plausibility of denial. I am not hard to get along with, as long as you're down to earth and have a sense of humor, we can deal. Now, I know I am still technically a novice in the catering biz, but there were like 30 instances where I felt condescended to, and that's not the best way to get the most out of staff. For instance, you don't have to point out that a rack of glasses is called a "lug" -- after working close to 50 parties over the last six months, I think I absorbed that bit of arcana, thank you very much.

Anyway, long story short, we got out of there around 10:00 Saturday night -- too late for the 9:40 Metro North, too early for the 10:40. So four of us walked in the direction of the subway. Instead of joining the rest of the crew taking the D train, which doesn't help me as it's a West Side line, I walked a few more blocks to get the 4 train downtown. It's a dicey neighborhood even in the daylight hours, so after dark let's say it's best to remain vigilant and alert at all times. But as soon as I swiped my Metrocard in the turnstile and headed up the stairs marked Brooklyn/Manhattan, I noticed yellow police tape barring the way. Great. Then a small fucking sign on the token booth informed me that to get downtown, you had to take the uptown 4 train three stops and then change over. Just what I wanted to do, head further uptown! So I got off at Bedford, crossed over to the other side, and then waited like 10 minutes before the train rumbled through the Bronx night into the station. Even on a Saturday night, the trains in New York are filled, so I couldn't even get a seat right away. It took about, oh, a half-hour to get to 59th Street, where I switch over to the N/W line. I could not believe how many people were already waiting on the platform at this hour (11:15 PM or so), going my way, absolutely no difference from a rush hour crowd. Luckily the train came like a minute later, and I was able to get a seat in the last subway car. I had missed the opening game of the World Series, no biggie, so I had a quick snack and, exhaused, fell right to sleep.

The next day I had to be at the school by 3:30. This was a full-on sit down dinner for outside appraisers (don't ask) in the school cafeteria -- replete with white tablecloths and napkins, three different kinds of glassware -- plus accompanying events in the first floor lobby and second floor library. This time it seemed we had too many staff, which can be just as inefficient as having too few; there being a fine line between the two contingencies. The captain this time I had worked with before, but she also will remain nameless as I reserve the right to say bad things about her later in the post. We had the requisite gay black caterer (seemingly a strictly enforced federal statute in the foodservice/catering business) who will invariably turn out to be a dancer/singer/performer. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but it seems your homosexual class tends to believe they have an inherent monopoly on interesting by the very nature of their "chosen" orientation. I was in no mood to dissuade or disabuse people of that notion on this day, but let me here stress that I will also reserve that pleasure for another day. Usually I enjoy the camraderie of my fellow wage slaves, but somehow on this day, not so much. So it goes...

I spent most of the day passing out appetizers and bussing and prepping while the more seasoned catering veterans interacted with the distinguished diners. I had the honor of "plating the salads" before the guests arrived. For some reason it matters a great deal to somebody somewhere that the salads be uniformly symmetrical in appearance, to the minutest detail. I kid you not that we were directed to make sure the sliced red onion on the salad plate was set at 1:00 relative to where the person would be sitting! Being a natural questioner of authority and seemingly senseless edicts, it was difficult for me to refrain from belittling such a practice. As I've found out from experience, my running commentary on such matters is not only futile, but also unappreciated, so I contented myself within the safe confines of my interior monologue. In fact, if anything, I often surprise myself with how civil and friendly I am as a cog in the worldwide service industry, given my confirmed status as a misanthropic malcontent; didn't think I had it in me. (Whenever I feel incivility creeping up on me, I repeat the trustworthy maxim, first uttered I believe by Noel Coward: No One Can Make You Feel Inferior Without Your Consent.)

By this stage in my life I had hoped to be wealthy beyond all societal bounds of taste and decency, with a successful literary career well under way. So imagine if you will the bitter disappointment that accompanies me as I am forced to wait on and serve people whose only advantage over me in most cases is an accident of birth and/or good fortune. Alas, my only chance for easy monetary riches probably vanished years ago upon my father estranging himself from his mom and dad, who turned out to be worth much more than anyone realized when you consider their accumulated property and various other sundries, such as my grandmother's extensive antiques collection. Because of the fractured relationship between my dad and his parents, I grew up without knowing my paternal grandparents until I was almost 13 years old, during a brief rapprochement which ended almost as quickly as it began -- the upshot being my father excluded from the will. I can't say I blame my dad for most of the bad blood: he found out that he had to grow up in stultifying poverty as a direct consequence of my grandfather having two families and two wives in two different states. The phrase "short end of the stick" was one I heard uttered on a consistent basis growing up. But that's another story for another post. (I love you, Dad, and I know you did the best you could.)

Anyway, after the guests left, we started breaking down the party, clearing the tables, stacking racks of glasses, plates, cups, etc., the hundred different things you need to do before you can change out of your monkey suit and get the hell out of there. We were about halfway done when the captain told me to make a plate of food, as per usual: we eat what the guests eat provided there's enuf to go around, and there usually is; sometimes we eat during the party one or two at a time, sometimes at the end. So I make a plate for myself, grabbing one of the last pieces of salmon, and sit down at the table where the kitchen staff is eating along with the captain. But as soon as I sit down and literally put fork to mouth, she informs that she didn't say I could eat now, just make a plate and then continue cleaning. For some reason, I thought that was petty, because I could have wolfed down the small amount of food I had (small piece of fish, small salad, some rice) in less than 5 minutes, and she had already been sitting there for close to half an hour while we cleaned up, and two staffers had already changed and gone. I mean, this was like five hours into the shift. It would be nice to eat the fish while it was still on the business side of room temperature, but okay, I can deal.

So another 20 or so minutes passes, with me and three other guys continuing to work the room. They had already made up their plates and set them aside, but when I looked around for my own plate, it was gone. I asked Ms. Captaincy where my plate was, as it was right next to her when I last espied it. She said she hadn't noticed it was gone, real blase about it. My temper is legendary, or as it's euphemistically called these days, I have had anger management issues in the past (got that piece of the old DNA from dear old dad), but I am usually able to hold it in; I have gradually learned it's best not to say anything if you possibly can, rather than say exactly what's on your mind and have to regret it later ... it's a fine line between holding your feelings in too much and letting the dam of emotions burst. And yes, I probably overreacted, but I'd be lying if I didn't say I was very pissed off. I didn't yell or say anything rash yesterday, but when I found out there was no more salmon, I decided to just finish up and leave without eating. I made sure I wasn't rude to anyone, but I just was in no mood to be friendly anymore. That wasn't the only thing she did yesterday that bothered me, but the cumulative effect of a few slights can add up. Bottom line, I guess I really wanted that piece of dead fish. Maybe you had to be there. I know I was.