Well, it's Thursday, so that must mean it's high time for another "oh woe is me, I lost my job" post from yours truly. Kidding. While the above statement is certainly true (it's Thursday and I did lose my job), I at least have a small modicum of news to report.
I went on my first post-job-dissolution interview yesterday afternoon. It went pretty well -- so well that they called me back this morning to continue the dialogue. That this particular media outlet likes what it sees on my resume and has liked what I've had to say so far is hugely encouraging. I'm not entirely sure what will happen next -- given a variety of factors which I'm not going to go into here, as the process is still unfolding -- but at the very least, I'm relieved and heartened that my search for a new job is progressing beyond me just sitting at my computer, firing off e-mail after e-mail into the ether.
To celebrate (well, not really -- but it seemed like a good enough excuse), I met up last night with my old friend and fellow former TIME news desk monkey, Hot Johnny (himself also unencumbered by employment these days) for a beery trawl around our old stomping grounds in the East Village and Lower East Side. With Peggy and the kids off visiting some family in Pennsylvania, I had the evening free and no reason to be up especially early. So it was the perfect opportunity for John and I to meet up for a long overdue night on the tiles.
Over some frankly mediocre grub at Katz's Delicatessen on East Houston (are knishes supposed to be that lackluster?), John and I discussed each other's vocational aspirations, before deciding that said discussion was too depressing. As such we repaired to the streets of the L.E.S., in search of cheap beer.
This particular mission brought us to Welcome To The Johnsons, a now somewhat rote hipster bar on Rivington fashioned to look like a suburban basement rec room circa 1980 (replete with wood paneled walls, beat-up Ethan Allen furniture, framed prints of pastoral scenes and mallards and family photos of anonymous 14 year olds). This bar arrived around the same time my days of staggering around the neighborhood were coming to a close. As such, I couldn't help feeling about fifteen years too old to be hanging out in the place, surrounded by dudes with ill-considered side-burns, intentionally geeky glasses and tats galore. My inner oldster also gets riled up when I see youngsters barely past the threshold of 21, shouting along with the potty-mouthed bits of the Violent Femmes' "Add It Up" from an album released two years before they were even born (but I guess that's why they call it an "enduring cult classic"). This all said, the place serves Pabst Blue Ribbon on the cheap. While it's the goto beverage of choice for irony-addled hepcats, it's also the perfect beer for two jerks without jobs who need to spend in a frugal fashion. So, we made do, shouted over further uninspired jukebox selections like "Panama" by Van Halen and such and waited for our friend and former colleague Ken to show up.
After Ken's arrival and several more PBRs, the air-conditioning was starting to get to me, so I offered to the gents that we find a new spot. Not wanting to get all weepily nostalgic for the bad old days by going to Max Fish, I suggested the comparatively far-flung and incongruously Swedish (I shit ye not) Good World Bar & Grill on the southern-most end of Orchard Street. Several blocks later, we were ensconced in said bar, rubbing shoulders with a decidedly upper-tiered variety of patron in comparison to the folks we'd just been sharing a space with. No longer in the realm of cheap-o brew, I opted for three pints of a Belgian pale ale named after our dark lord and master, which arrived in handsome snifters bearing the beverage's infernal moniker (see pic). The gimmick of Lucifer beer --- beyond appealing to blasphemy-addicted idiots like myself -- is that it packs more punch in the alcohol department. That said, I was sort've hoping for something a bit more evil tasting. We downed'em, then opted for other brands (though I believe our Ken might have helped himself to one or two of the glasses -- cheeky bastard).
The evening continued with stops at fine institutions like Motor City on Ludlow Street and our beloved Manitoba's on Avenue B, where several high spirited rounds of air hockey climaxed in a volley of rude hand gestures and zealously obscene commentary. It was also at this stage when Ken seemed to mysteriously vanish into the mist without so much as a word to either John or myself (both of us still caught up in a frothy air hockey frenzy, admittedly). I hope he made it home alright. John and I adjourned to the nearby Lakeside Lounge (which still finds lovely Leslie from the Prissteens and now of Purple Wizard tending bar, who I proceeded to bore into a stupor with pictures of my kids) for a final pint to discuss Ken's disappearance.
This morning, despite not having to be up at the crack of dawn, I awoke exactly at 7 am, like the good, drooling Pavlovian canine I ultimately am, albeit with a whopping great headache. A couple of hours later, I fielded that second call from my interviewers and have spent the rest of the day furrowing my brow as to my next move and firing off several more resumes.
I'm still waiting to hear back from a few preferred media outlets, but at least things are starting to happen.
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