bitterly unemployed, unimpressed - “The Great Big NO” |
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2002 Nikki Gnomide
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Sept 2004 as Nico Gnomide
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Aaronius Gnome 2003
The dream consisted of Rolling Stone and SPIN magazine both knocking down my door, with beautiful, big-breasted women who held glasses and offered me a multi-figured contract with the chance to have dinner with both Ed Norton and Brad Pitt. Just as the pen was moments away from touching paper, the purgatory music entered again and ‘Fly By Night” (of the Bumblebee) blared away and made me realize the dream is over and the day had begun. Should I mention that this doesn’t happen anymore? No more dreams? No more waking up at a pre-determined hour? No more coffee smell at the cusp of early morning dew? No more working for the weekend? No more anything? When you’re unemployed, you don’t even dream anymore, heck, you don’t even feel like sleeping anymore and somehow you start to resemble Christopher Walken in one of those Prophecy films. At first you think it’s great, you can wake up whenever you want and at first 8 a.m. feels like an eternity, but 8 a.m. slowly meanders into 9 a.m., then 10 a.m. and before you know it, you’re waking up to the theme song for Passions and the feeling of snuffing it out becomes very apparent. You even start talking like Walken, “GET over here NOW please.” If only Timmy were still alive, he’d have something to say that’d make sense. If only.
“The affects of war on the lowly, 20-something college-graduate Canuck.”
How I became unemployed is a story fit for a CNN segment – “The affects of war on the lowly, 20-something college-graduate Canuck.”
I’d be interviewed and everything, with make-up smeared upon the face with a disturbing look, like I just found out there was no such thing as Santa Claus but my wife was caught cheating on me with that same big, fat, jolly old bastard. Well, at least we’d know who the real ‘ho’ was.
Maybe I’d even get to meet that Kermit the Frog meets Dracula character and no, I’m not talking about Moses Znaimer, but the freak also known as Larry King or maybe you thought I was talking about Christina Amanpour? Same thing I guess.
Anyways, the story goes: in order to subsidize school debt and pay for an upcoming wedding, I had to take a job at a factory, slaving away making decent wages and I was held together with the thought that one day I might work in the most elusive industry in the world, Journalism.
I was in the poultry incubator business and the company I was working for deals with customers mainly from the Middle East and those Russian places with unpronounceable names that can only pay you in Vodka and would barter at a chance to buy Levis blue jeans from you, or a Bruce Springsteen album, if you’re game.
My job title was Group 2: Assembler. I was in charge of building crates the size of your living room and placing parts according to each work order I was given. When I started, these work orders were in abundance. I could plaster my room with them and use them as wallpaper if I wanted, but as more talk about war in the Middle East became the topic of conversation, the less these work orders reared their ugly heads.
Baby Bush and associates were ready to take a bite out of the giant shit sandwich Sadam and co. were feeding to the U.S.
With the first unemployed week out of the way and 10 resumes sent to my fellow potential employers, not even a peep from anyone, not even the obligatory, ‘thanks for coming out’ letter. So, I started to scratch my head, got worried and thought maybe I have to intern at one of these places before they’d hire me. Good idea. Even this has become an impossible feat as I’ve sent out numerous inquiries stating how much I ‘love’ their magazine or publication and would ‘love’ to work for free, if it means getting a chance to work for them and gain experience.
I’m overcome with that Catch 22 feeling lately and the more days pass by, the more of a “Hell”er situation it really becomes. That old adage of ‘we require experience’ is obvious but even when you’re trying to get it by volunteering - you’re still shot.
I’m fed up and I’m ready to give up. I’ve heard constantly that you just have to wait and something will land on your lap or you have to be persistent and someone will take you on because you’re SoOooo interested in working for him or her. Most of the jobs I’ve applied for have that rude message at the bottom, “NO PHONE CALLS PLEASE” or get offended when you ask if they’ve received your resume yet. Like if you were to call, a disaster of World Trade Center proportions might occur or might summon some monster from the murky depths of Mordor. Or unleash some wicked spell that the next time you look in the mirror, little droplets of blood appear out of your nose and then of course the screaming comes.
“The Great Big No”, that, “patience is like bread I say, I ran out of that yesterday.”
This sentiment and songs’
refrain is ringing true as I’m giving up on the waiting game and my money
is starting to dwindle just like Pete Townsend’s chance of ever adopting a
child. Now I spend some of my days at the employment centre with the ranks
of mulleted musketeers aiming to land that perfect long-haul truck driver
job, or a pregnant woman with her fifth child and fifth husband looking to
Tim Horton’s as a saviour or looking to appear on A Fifth Estate. Now I
know
“Kilbasa, Kilbasa” |
It’s six o’clock in the
morning and I wake up to the intertwined, meddling sounds of Rush and
Beethoven both fighting a frequency battle, producing a sound of the
devilish, occult nature on my beat up alarm clock. The thought of hiring a
young priest and an old one to exorcise the demon trapped inside my radio
crossed my mind, but sheepishly I hit the snooze button and I drifted back
into lucid dreamland. After all, I wouldn’t have to wake up for another 10
minutes. Yay. Exciting. Oh Bliss!
Talk of layoffs were evident ever since
Christmas of 2002 and the shoe finally dropped on February 20, 2003,
nearly a month before Baby Bush and associates were ready to take a bite
out of the giant shit sandwich Sadam and co. were feeding to the U.S.
After my last day at The
Incubator Factory, I thought that this must’ve happened for a reason (me
getting laid off, not the war) and a revelation of sorts entered my mind,
ideas poured in and I saw the light, Jeff Healey style. This was my chance
to enter the world of words, the dimension of dirty and the realm of
Reader’s Digest. At first I thought it’d be easy, I could send my resume
to a few targeted spots and get responses ASAP and they’d be begging for
my services, handing me a big, fat cheque, just like my dream suggested
earlier.
I’m sick and tired of the
resume and cover letter revisions, sick to my stomach of those job hunter
web sites like Workopolis (Jerk-Opolis) or Monster (Monster-Osity) who
provide nothing but a fancy and easy to use web site, but contain job
postings that no one but those with 10 years experience at NASA could ever
apply for. Or there’s that Jeff Gaulin dude who I’m sure is actually some
14 year old with the worst acne case since Bryan Adams, who’s making
millions off us sore losers also known as journalist-wannabes. Guess I
gotta keep, ‘Gaulin, Gaulin, Gaulin,’ Fred Durst style.
A songwriter named Evan Dando
once sang in the song “The Great Big No”, that, “patience is like bread I
say, I ran out of that yesterday.”
where David Lynch scrounges up his characters for upcoming films. If
I’m lucky, I might even star in one, I could be a guy wearing a flower pot
on his head, frothing at the mouth, shouting the words, “Kilbasa, Kilbasa”
over and over.