It's Tuesday, August 9th, 2016
Let's see, what wonderful things do I have to share with you? Really, not much. I'm still trying to focus my blog posts into something relevant, entertaining, and interesting. It's tough, let me tell you.
Here are a few of my topics:
1. The Election
2. Hillary, Yea or Nay?
3. Trump, Whats with this guy?
4. Farm Living ( is the life for me.. Green Acres)
5. Job Frustration
6. Age Discrimination
Okay, Age Discrimination
As everyone knows, but doesn't like to admit, we all get older. Day by day, year after year, it just keeps rolling along. We look in the mirror, notice a few more lines across our foreheads, wrinkles and loose skin. It's horrible, I know. I sometimes wonder how the hell I got this old. I think to myself, "This is the oldest I've ever been." Let me tell you this, it's not worth worrying about. But it continues nevertheless, and I still try to console myself by thinking that I don't look too bad. Who am I trying to kid? I never used to think about aging. That was before I started getting mail from AARP. Telling me that my membership cards were inside, just waiting for me to pay their annual fee. That really got my attention. Yep, over 55 and theres no stopping it.
Here's how it relates to jobs and my lack of success in getting one these days. When I send in a resume, complete with my job history and dates, it sends the reader back decades. Back to the 1980s or 90s. It doesn't matter what I did, how many degrees I have, it all boils down to someone thinking , "Man, this guy is old!!" It seems to be an automatic disqualification for anything. I've tried all sorts of things, from packing and shipping camping gear to research assistant at the local library. It's always the same rejection letter, " ...we had so many qualified applicants...unfortunately you weren't chosen..." It's enough to get anyone disheartened. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Thats all folks. Thats all I got. I'll return tomorrow, if anyone is listening, I'll try to be more interesting.
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
Monday, August 8, 2016
Memories of Merida and the Yucatan: Part One
In 1989 I had a book, a used discarded library paperback called, "Mexico on Ten Dollars a Day". I don't recall what it looked like exactly, but I think there was a photo of the Mayan pyramid at Chichen-Itza on the cover. Well, one night I picked it up, started leafing through it. I randomly opened it to the section on the Yucatan Peninsula. Did I mention that I studied Archaeology in college? I did, but bailed on a career in that field after a year and a half of graduate school. Thats another long story...
I found myself reading a section on the city of Merida. There was a general description of the city and it's colonial history, with a list of the hotels, pizza joints, bars, museums, day-trips, etc. I need to mention here that this was before the Internet, so I only had my imagination to visualize what I was reading about this distant, topical place. It was a process that is unknown today in our instant information age. At any rate, I happened to read about a very cool, old hotel called the Hotel Colon. It had a pool, and steam baths in every room. Best of all, the rates were very reasonable. $28 per night, and included a free breakfast to boot!
This was a time in my life when I lived in Santa Ana, California. I lived about three blocks from downtown, and there were lots of Mexican tourist agencies. Santa Ana had, and still has a large Hispanic community. Anyway, I walked into a travel agency one afternoon and bought myself a round trip ticket to Merida, and ten days at the Hotel Colon. By the way, the hotel still exists, and yes, they have a website(http://www.hotelcolonmerida.com/el-hotel.html). So I walked out of the travel agency with my plane ticket, visa, and hotel reservation. I kept re-reading the section on Yucatan in my book, thinking of the interesting times that were in store. It wasn't my normal style to go adventuring solo, but I didn't have a girlfriend, wanted to get away to a place I'd never been before. I was really excited.
After an incredibly long plane flight, in a DC-10, sitting in the rear under the very loud engines that vibrated to a terrifying degree, I landed in Mexico City where I waited for the connecting flight to Merida. Descending through a tropical thunderstorm that caused the small plane to rock and forth had me thinking I would be burned to a crisp, dead in the jungle in a foreign country. Great. Obviously we landed and I survived. Stepping outside of the terminal with my suitcase, the tropical heat and humidity were oppressive. I was shocked in a nice way, however. Palm trees, brilliant flowers sprouting from winding vines, the smell of exhaust, the frantic movements of Volkswagon Rabbit cabs zooming in and out up to the curb. I flagged down a cab and said, "Hotel Colon, por favor".
Twenty minutes later I was dropped off at the hotel, checked in, found my way to my room, and collapsed on the squishy, queen-sized bed. There was a ceiling fan humming away, and off I drifted to sleep. Next morning I awoke, dressed, and walked out to find a cup of coffee. Never mind the free breakfast, it was only from 7-9 a.m. I overslept. Stepping out to the sidewalk the heat hit me like a wall, the near 100% humidity made me sweat from every pore in my un-acclimated body. It was oppressively hot! I bought some postcards and headed for the post office to write and mail them. While I was scribbling on the postcards, someone tapped my shoulder. Turning around, I saw a small, brown man, about 5 feet tall facing me. In broken English, he asked me if I wanted him to take me around the city. Not knowing what to make of him, I said I was fine on my own, didn't need any help. He followed me out through the front doors of the post office, and asked me again if I wanted him to show me around to town. I agreed, then he began leading me down the street in search of places to spend my money. He must've had deals with local vendors because he took me to particular stores, places where all manner of tourist items were sold. Hats, silver, hammocks, boots, you name it.
He kept urging me me to buy everything, like the rich gringos do. I explained to him in my broken Spanish that I had travelled to Mexico many times when I was younger, and that I really didn't need a bunch of stuff to lug home. But he didn't get it. I thanked him for his help, and opened my wallet and gave him a twenty dollar bill. He seemed satisfied with the amount, and asked if he could meet me manana to show me more cool places to shop. I reluctantly agreed.
The next morning he was sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Colon, in the same clothes he had worn the day before. Strange...but he was just trying to make a buck. He told me he worked in the Coca-Cola factory at the edge of town, had a wife and bunch of kids. He told me we going someplace special, to the giant mercado in the center of town. Off into the tropical heat we walked, he, cool as a cucumber, me sweating from head to toe, looking every inch the tourista that I was. We found the huge mercado, and looked at serapes and silver jewelry, then he led me up a series of stairs to the third floor. It had a strange ambience and was air-conditioned. As I stood taking in the vibe, I noticed a door opening on the other side of the room. In walked my erstwhile tour guide with three teenaged girls, dressed in tank tops, mini skirts and platform shoes. He presented them with a flourish of his hand, then he moved close to the wall and said, "You like these girls?" I hadn't expected this at all, and even though I didn't want to insult him or the girls, I politely declined. The girls didn't seem to care at all, and I told them all I wanted to buy was some silver, not sex. They hooked me up with a jeweler downstairs where I bought a really nice, fine silver chain, and a strange closed fist bauble to hang on it. I let my tour guide take me to a couple more places where I bought a hammock, a guayabera shirt, and some other little tourist things.
The next day my plans changed unexpectedly. That's part two, and my next post.
I found myself reading a section on the city of Merida. There was a general description of the city and it's colonial history, with a list of the hotels, pizza joints, bars, museums, day-trips, etc. I need to mention here that this was before the Internet, so I only had my imagination to visualize what I was reading about this distant, topical place. It was a process that is unknown today in our instant information age. At any rate, I happened to read about a very cool, old hotel called the Hotel Colon. It had a pool, and steam baths in every room. Best of all, the rates were very reasonable. $28 per night, and included a free breakfast to boot!
This was a time in my life when I lived in Santa Ana, California. I lived about three blocks from downtown, and there were lots of Mexican tourist agencies. Santa Ana had, and still has a large Hispanic community. Anyway, I walked into a travel agency one afternoon and bought myself a round trip ticket to Merida, and ten days at the Hotel Colon. By the way, the hotel still exists, and yes, they have a website(http://www.hotelcolonmerida.com/el-hotel.html). So I walked out of the travel agency with my plane ticket, visa, and hotel reservation. I kept re-reading the section on Yucatan in my book, thinking of the interesting times that were in store. It wasn't my normal style to go adventuring solo, but I didn't have a girlfriend, wanted to get away to a place I'd never been before. I was really excited.
After an incredibly long plane flight, in a DC-10, sitting in the rear under the very loud engines that vibrated to a terrifying degree, I landed in Mexico City where I waited for the connecting flight to Merida. Descending through a tropical thunderstorm that caused the small plane to rock and forth had me thinking I would be burned to a crisp, dead in the jungle in a foreign country. Great. Obviously we landed and I survived. Stepping outside of the terminal with my suitcase, the tropical heat and humidity were oppressive. I was shocked in a nice way, however. Palm trees, brilliant flowers sprouting from winding vines, the smell of exhaust, the frantic movements of Volkswagon Rabbit cabs zooming in and out up to the curb. I flagged down a cab and said, "Hotel Colon, por favor".
Twenty minutes later I was dropped off at the hotel, checked in, found my way to my room, and collapsed on the squishy, queen-sized bed. There was a ceiling fan humming away, and off I drifted to sleep. Next morning I awoke, dressed, and walked out to find a cup of coffee. Never mind the free breakfast, it was only from 7-9 a.m. I overslept. Stepping out to the sidewalk the heat hit me like a wall, the near 100% humidity made me sweat from every pore in my un-acclimated body. It was oppressively hot! I bought some postcards and headed for the post office to write and mail them. While I was scribbling on the postcards, someone tapped my shoulder. Turning around, I saw a small, brown man, about 5 feet tall facing me. In broken English, he asked me if I wanted him to take me around the city. Not knowing what to make of him, I said I was fine on my own, didn't need any help. He followed me out through the front doors of the post office, and asked me again if I wanted him to show me around to town. I agreed, then he began leading me down the street in search of places to spend my money. He must've had deals with local vendors because he took me to particular stores, places where all manner of tourist items were sold. Hats, silver, hammocks, boots, you name it.
He kept urging me me to buy everything, like the rich gringos do. I explained to him in my broken Spanish that I had travelled to Mexico many times when I was younger, and that I really didn't need a bunch of stuff to lug home. But he didn't get it. I thanked him for his help, and opened my wallet and gave him a twenty dollar bill. He seemed satisfied with the amount, and asked if he could meet me manana to show me more cool places to shop. I reluctantly agreed.
The next morning he was sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Colon, in the same clothes he had worn the day before. Strange...but he was just trying to make a buck. He told me he worked in the Coca-Cola factory at the edge of town, had a wife and bunch of kids. He told me we going someplace special, to the giant mercado in the center of town. Off into the tropical heat we walked, he, cool as a cucumber, me sweating from head to toe, looking every inch the tourista that I was. We found the huge mercado, and looked at serapes and silver jewelry, then he led me up a series of stairs to the third floor. It had a strange ambience and was air-conditioned. As I stood taking in the vibe, I noticed a door opening on the other side of the room. In walked my erstwhile tour guide with three teenaged girls, dressed in tank tops, mini skirts and platform shoes. He presented them with a flourish of his hand, then he moved close to the wall and said, "You like these girls?" I hadn't expected this at all, and even though I didn't want to insult him or the girls, I politely declined. The girls didn't seem to care at all, and I told them all I wanted to buy was some silver, not sex. They hooked me up with a jeweler downstairs where I bought a really nice, fine silver chain, and a strange closed fist bauble to hang on it. I let my tour guide take me to a couple more places where I bought a hammock, a guayabera shirt, and some other little tourist things.
The next day my plans changed unexpectedly. That's part two, and my next post.
I'm Qualified to Comment, You are too!
I haven't written on this topic in awhile, so, I have a few new insights to share with you. My last post dealt with my frustration in trying to find a job in my town. Mainly, my frustration stemmed from trying to get a job with our local United Way food bank. I've had to accept the fact that this organization will probably never hire me. It's not because I'm unqualified, it's because I am a man!
That's ridiculous, I can hear you thinking. But stick with me and I'll explain how that is exactly the reason why all my applications, resumes, etc, have yielded nothing, job-wise. I can trace my belief in my assertions to an incident I experienced last fall. Here goes...
After many failed attempts to get an interview at the food bank, I decided that the best way might be to volunteer. So, one fine autumn day I sauntered through the front door of Lift Up, our local food bank, and asked the woman at the desk how to sign up for volunteering. I'll skip the details here, but it was easy, and they were happy to oblige me. I just had to complete a one-page application. I was selected to do "grocery rescue", which involved driving to the loading dock of our local Safeway store, picking up all the stuff to be "rescued" and driving it back to the food bank to be weighed, logged in, and put out on the floor for the clients.
It was easy and fun, and I felt like everyone was part of a team, working together to help the less fortunate in our town. I couldn't help noticing that there were no men working there. There were a few male volunteers, but all the employees were women. There was a middle school aged girl about 13, volunteering for the summer before she started high school. She and I became friends, and I told her it was my intention to get a job here, after I had put in some hours volunteering. She told me she'd keep her ears open, and she heard of any job vacancies, she'd let me know. I need all the help I can get, even if it's from a kid, I thought to myself.
About two weeks later I noticed an ad in the local paper seeking a part-time employee at the food bank. I emailed my resume in, and mentioned that they should have a current application on file. That week, when I came in with my rescued Safeway groceries, my young friend motioned me over, telling me she'd heard something important. She told me that she'd overhead the employed ladies talking about how great it was to work in a "man-free" environment. She then glumly said she thought I'd never get a job there after hearing that comment. I was non-plussed, and realized that this information was just what I had suspected all along.
You may be wondering why I'm telling you this story, and I'll explain. You see, necessity is the mother of invention. I don't know who said that, but it applies to me. I have been forced to recognize that I am at a disadvantage in this current time in history. Being white, educated, middle class, used to be the ticket to success. Not anymore. And I'm not complaining, just to be clear. In fact, I used to be a high school teacher, gainfully employed at Orange County's first Alternative School. I was paid well and respected. But that was twenty-odd years ago, and I've moved on... or out of town, state, and lifestyle, actually.
My life changes have forced me to examine my own skills and motivation. I've always been a reader, and a researcher, only about things that interest me of course. So, my current writing is to begin now, sharing my observations and opinions on life, re-invention, history, music, cats, etc. I've finally come to the conclusion that I am indeed qualified. I'm not an expert in anything, but I can do a lot things well. I'm still learning new things, and as I stumble upon newer tidbits of esoterica, I'll try to write about them. This will be my forum. If you want to comment or add some ideas of your own, go ahead. I'm listening...
That's ridiculous, I can hear you thinking. But stick with me and I'll explain how that is exactly the reason why all my applications, resumes, etc, have yielded nothing, job-wise. I can trace my belief in my assertions to an incident I experienced last fall. Here goes...
After many failed attempts to get an interview at the food bank, I decided that the best way might be to volunteer. So, one fine autumn day I sauntered through the front door of Lift Up, our local food bank, and asked the woman at the desk how to sign up for volunteering. I'll skip the details here, but it was easy, and they were happy to oblige me. I just had to complete a one-page application. I was selected to do "grocery rescue", which involved driving to the loading dock of our local Safeway store, picking up all the stuff to be "rescued" and driving it back to the food bank to be weighed, logged in, and put out on the floor for the clients.
It was easy and fun, and I felt like everyone was part of a team, working together to help the less fortunate in our town. I couldn't help noticing that there were no men working there. There were a few male volunteers, but all the employees were women. There was a middle school aged girl about 13, volunteering for the summer before she started high school. She and I became friends, and I told her it was my intention to get a job here, after I had put in some hours volunteering. She told me she'd keep her ears open, and she heard of any job vacancies, she'd let me know. I need all the help I can get, even if it's from a kid, I thought to myself.
About two weeks later I noticed an ad in the local paper seeking a part-time employee at the food bank. I emailed my resume in, and mentioned that they should have a current application on file. That week, when I came in with my rescued Safeway groceries, my young friend motioned me over, telling me she'd heard something important. She told me that she'd overhead the employed ladies talking about how great it was to work in a "man-free" environment. She then glumly said she thought I'd never get a job there after hearing that comment. I was non-plussed, and realized that this information was just what I had suspected all along.
You may be wondering why I'm telling you this story, and I'll explain. You see, necessity is the mother of invention. I don't know who said that, but it applies to me. I have been forced to recognize that I am at a disadvantage in this current time in history. Being white, educated, middle class, used to be the ticket to success. Not anymore. And I'm not complaining, just to be clear. In fact, I used to be a high school teacher, gainfully employed at Orange County's first Alternative School. I was paid well and respected. But that was twenty-odd years ago, and I've moved on... or out of town, state, and lifestyle, actually.
My life changes have forced me to examine my own skills and motivation. I've always been a reader, and a researcher, only about things that interest me of course. So, my current writing is to begin now, sharing my observations and opinions on life, re-invention, history, music, cats, etc. I've finally come to the conclusion that I am indeed qualified. I'm not an expert in anything, but I can do a lot things well. I'm still learning new things, and as I stumble upon newer tidbits of esoterica, I'll try to write about them. This will be my forum. If you want to comment or add some ideas of your own, go ahead. I'm listening...
Monday, May 9, 2016
I see I haven't written in over month! Could it possibly be because I still am confronting the same dismal job scene? Yep, thats it. I struggle to find more things to say. And I don't want to use this space to whine. But maybe thats thats what I'm doing. If you have any response to my comments, go ahead and write them down.
Or, if perchance you've found yourself in a similar situation, tell me about it. Believe me, I'm interested in what you have to say. Who knows?
Well, on a positive note, I have a job coming up in June as a hot air balloon chase team dude. It's not a great gig, but it sounds fun. Thats why I'm doing it. Oh, and of course, to make some money.
Or, if perchance you've found yourself in a similar situation, tell me about it. Believe me, I'm interested in what you have to say. Who knows?
Well, on a positive note, I have a job coming up in June as a hot air balloon chase team dude. It's not a great gig, but it sounds fun. Thats why I'm doing it. Oh, and of course, to make some money.
Monday, April 4, 2016
Over or Under..qualified. It doesn't really matter
Over and Under- Qualified
Maybe it's just me, but it seems as though everyone will fall into this category at some point in their life. In my life, it's always been one step forward, two steps back. So too, in the job qualification department. These days, I don't think of a job as a career, unless its so awesome that I can't stop, won't stop, would never want to stop. Kind of like a drug, but one that pays. The only thing I've ever wanted to do in that category, is play music.
More on this in the next post. Comments please. But who knows if anyone reads this?
Maybe it's just me, but it seems as though everyone will fall into this category at some point in their life. In my life, it's always been one step forward, two steps back. So too, in the job qualification department. These days, I don't think of a job as a career, unless its so awesome that I can't stop, won't stop, would never want to stop. Kind of like a drug, but one that pays. The only thing I've ever wanted to do in that category, is play music.
More on this in the next post. Comments please. But who knows if anyone reads this?
Friday, April 1, 2016
Sometimes it seems the best thing to do is something new. Something you've never tried before. That's the new plan today. I have a couple of different options, drug counselor, hot air balloon chase crew, and thrift store donation center person. The drug counselor gig is full time, but do I really want to hang around people trying to recover from something I recovered from (well, mostly) twenty years ago? I think it might be really depressing, so I'm gonna pass on it. Just for today!!
Balloon chase crew. Wow, I'm on board with that, and it starts in June, when the weather is better. Thats a fear I want to overcome. The very idea of going up in one of those things terrifies me, but maybe I'll get over the fear. At least thats what I'm hoping for.
The thrift store donation center is cool, but I've applied before and have never had an interview. How difficult could it be? People come in with all their old stuff, in bags or boxes. From there, it's all gone through by volunteers, sorted, priced, etc. Funny that I'm unqualified... Is it just me, or does it seem like a form of anti-man discrimination? You see, the entire staff are women. A cabal of hens, I sense that when I shop in the thrift store. They're all really serious, and rather glum. Am I just imagining it? It's hard to tell, but I trust my gut instincts. They know me there because I've bought hundreds of things, books, clothes, assorted broken radios and computer parts. They must think I'm just a weirdo.
And they're right, I guess. God, I am a weirdo...but I'm okay with it.
Well, the sun is out, the snow is cold, it's calling me. I'm gonna put on all my wool pants, strap on my ski boots, and go sliding around for awhile.
You know, I'm probably just writing this for myself. I really don't think anyone will ever read this. Hopefully I'm wrong, but I have another "gut instinct" that my problems and concerns are no one else's. And thats okay too. This is therapeutic in some way. More will be revealed.
Balloon chase crew. Wow, I'm on board with that, and it starts in June, when the weather is better. Thats a fear I want to overcome. The very idea of going up in one of those things terrifies me, but maybe I'll get over the fear. At least thats what I'm hoping for.
The thrift store donation center is cool, but I've applied before and have never had an interview. How difficult could it be? People come in with all their old stuff, in bags or boxes. From there, it's all gone through by volunteers, sorted, priced, etc. Funny that I'm unqualified... Is it just me, or does it seem like a form of anti-man discrimination? You see, the entire staff are women. A cabal of hens, I sense that when I shop in the thrift store. They're all really serious, and rather glum. Am I just imagining it? It's hard to tell, but I trust my gut instincts. They know me there because I've bought hundreds of things, books, clothes, assorted broken radios and computer parts. They must think I'm just a weirdo.
And they're right, I guess. God, I am a weirdo...but I'm okay with it.
Well, the sun is out, the snow is cold, it's calling me. I'm gonna put on all my wool pants, strap on my ski boots, and go sliding around for awhile.
You know, I'm probably just writing this for myself. I really don't think anyone will ever read this. Hopefully I'm wrong, but I have another "gut instinct" that my problems and concerns are no one else's. And thats okay too. This is therapeutic in some way. More will be revealed.
Thursday, March 31, 2016
I've lived in Steamboat for 19 years, but I've been coming here since the early 1970's. I remember once coming to stay for the summer when I graduated from college. So, I started looking for a job in the classifieds, in the Pilot, which only came out once a week, if memory serves...
Here's what I found: construction jobs, heavy equipment jobs, waitstaff jobs, county jobs, and a few specialized type gigs like nursing, attorneys, doctors, etc.
Well, I was a newly minted grad with a BA in Anthropology, hardly a marketable skill set, but still, I was young, wanted to work, so I got a job at the Holiday Inn. At the "Greenhouse", a 24 hour restaurant. I turned out to be the world's worst waiter. In fact, and I don't know if this was "gender discrimination", or just red-neckness, but almost every baseball cap wearing, pickup truck driving dude, specifically asked if debbie could please wait on them, not me.
I handled the rejection well, but the message was clear: this was not a man's job! At least, thats how I felt. I was unceremoniously fired a few months later, when the cash register was short fifty bucks. I didn't steal it, but I got fired for it as if I did. No biggie. That was just the first in a long series of shitty job experiences in Steamboat Springs.
In the next installment, I'll tell you a few more stories of being overqualified by virtue of my higher education. I had to lower my expectations... so I left town, went back to Orange County, and enrolled in grad school. Not all bad.
Here's what I found: construction jobs, heavy equipment jobs, waitstaff jobs, county jobs, and a few specialized type gigs like nursing, attorneys, doctors, etc.
Well, I was a newly minted grad with a BA in Anthropology, hardly a marketable skill set, but still, I was young, wanted to work, so I got a job at the Holiday Inn. At the "Greenhouse", a 24 hour restaurant. I turned out to be the world's worst waiter. In fact, and I don't know if this was "gender discrimination", or just red-neckness, but almost every baseball cap wearing, pickup truck driving dude, specifically asked if debbie could please wait on them, not me.
I handled the rejection well, but the message was clear: this was not a man's job! At least, thats how I felt. I was unceremoniously fired a few months later, when the cash register was short fifty bucks. I didn't steal it, but I got fired for it as if I did. No biggie. That was just the first in a long series of shitty job experiences in Steamboat Springs.
In the next installment, I'll tell you a few more stories of being overqualified by virtue of my higher education. I had to lower my expectations... so I left town, went back to Orange County, and enrolled in grad school. Not all bad.
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