Isn't it about time YOU got a job?
You got your lube job, your blow job and
your day job. All suck in a very special way. When I told my
girlfriend that I was going to write about how to get a job,
she said, "I thought you only wrote from personal experience."
Funny. Very fucking funny.
My work has been interrupted only by periods
of employment. The problem: The work I'm good at makes no money
whatsoever. Zero, zip, zilch, nada, nothing. This column is a
good example. Other non-money-making ventures include music,
working on Macintosh computers, digital mastering, oral sex and
burglary prevention. To make ends meet I do various odd jobs.
The odder, the better. My jobs include gardening, correcting
college essay exams and CD dubbing. This week I'll make $75.
But it's been a good week.
Obviously, I need a better paying day
job, so lately I've been looking for more gainful employment.
I send out many resumes. I get few responses.
Let me tell you about one interview I
had. It was for an assistant editor position with the Association
of Associations. Seriously. Other associations outsource work
to this company to create newsletters and other printed materials
for trade associations such as the Young Republicans of Texas,
Mothers Against Drunk Driving and Women Who Love Too Much.
I walked into the main office of the Association
of Associations -- resplendent in paisley tie and sport coat
-- and checked in with the receptionist. "Yes, Mr. Jasper.
Yes, you're on the list. You have a 10 a.m. appointment. Before
you meet with Susan, you'll need to take this spelling test."
Hmmm. I thought I was meeting with Mary?
Whatever. A spelling test? For an editor's job? Whatever. I've
been asked to do stranger things. For example, at one interview
for the Santa Rosa Press Democrat I was forced to talk to Bruce
Kyse. (By the way, when you see me use the word "whatever"
it should be read with the Bob Dole inflection, not the Buffy
The Vampire Slayer inflection -- got it Carouba?)
I sat down on the clean, cream-colored
sofa with my pen and spelling test in hand. I looked around the
office. A lot of green and maroon. The color scheme made me nauseous.
Everything was neat, clean and as plastic as the phoney ficus
in the corner. I hated this place on principle, but I knew I
had to follow through on the interview. Life sucked in a very
special way.
I looked down at the spelling test. It
was multiple choice. I remember one example, since it's on every
spelling test I've ever taken: "Choose the right spelling:
a) mispelled b) misspelled c) misspeled. Of course, the correct
answer is, "Fuck you and your fucking spelling test,"
but I circled b) misspelled. I finished the pathetically easy
spelling test and handed it to the receptionist.
"If I miss any words, let me know,
cause I'm going to have to kill myself."
She misunderstood me. "Oh, don't
worry about that. I missed almost half the words and I still
got the job."
Well... gooooooood.
I waited on the sofa for a good 15 minutes.
Finally, Susan emerged. "Are you Mike Jasper? Let's go back
to my office. Do you need any coffee?"
I refused the coffee. I don't want anyone
to know about my compulsive habits too early in the game. We
nestled into her office and she asked for a copy of my resume.
This annoys me no end. They grant me an interview based on my
resume, but they never, ever have a copy of it at the interview.
She looked at my resume, glanced up at
me, read the resume some more, glanced up at me again. She does
not like me, I thought.
"It says here you used to work for
newspapers."
"Yes, I did." She wasn't going
to hold THAT against me, was she? She didn't seem that insightful.
"You know, we're really looking for
people who have more of a sales background."
"For an editor's job?"
"Oh... oh... oh, I'm sorry. There's
been some mistake. You must be here to see Mary."
I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. I imagined
the receptionist telling the next applicant, "I failed the
spelling test and I have no idea who works here or why, but look
at me. I'm employed."
I met with Mary. My newspaper background
worked for her. She told me the job was intense and that deadlines
must be met. Drugs would be supplied. Or so I assumed.
"Your resume is fine. Let me introduce
you to Lana, our production manager."
The words sent chills down my spine. Anyone
who has ever worked for a newspaper, magazine or association-of-associations
knows what I'm talking about. Production managers are the most
evil, overworked, intense, ill-tempered, psychotic and disturbed
people in the publication food chain. Why did I have to meet
her? I'm applying for the assistant editor's job.
Mary took me to another office, a meeting
room. Lots of green and maroon and a huge formica-topped brown
table, likely used for editorial meetings. I waited. And waited.
A half hour went by and it was now 11:30. I was thinking the
receptionist told Lana to meet me at Denny's.
Finally, Lana materialized. My worst fears
were realized. She had the frizzed hair and darting eyes of the
overworked speed freak.
"So, have you worked with PageMaker
and Macintosh computers?"
"Sure. I have PageMaker at home on
my computer." PageMaker is a program for making documents
-- layout, text and art.
"Good, cause you really need to know
PageMaker extremely well."
Extremely well? Extremely well?
"Ah... I can definitely layout the
news pages and such. What exactly will I be doing as an assistant
editor? Will I be doing any writing, or am I just going to assemble
pages?"
She laughed. A macabre laugh, not a reassuring
laugh.
"I don't know why they call this
job assistant editor. This is really a production assistant job."
Well... gooooood.
She put me through the test by PageMaker.
First, I had to make a business card from scratch using the "Association
of Associations" as the company handle. That came out all
right. Next, I had to do a cover and create my own artwork. Let
me tell you about me and visual design. Whatever I make, it's
one of two things: if I'm working with clay, it's an ashtray.
If I'm working with paper, it's an abstract monkey-spanking and
you JUST DON'T GET IT.
I made a magazine suitable for a grade-school
mom's refrigerator.
In short, I failed miserably. Since it
was now lunchtime, I managed to leave the building without anyone
spotting me.
I did not get the job. I escaped once
again.
In general, job interviews suck. The question I hate the most: "Where do you see yourself in the next five years?
Answer: If I'm still here, I see myself on the roof of the building next to us pumping your sorry skull full of lead.
Every interview question sucks.
"Why do you want to work for the
Association of Associations?"
Real answer: I need the dough.
Answer you give: "It's been a dream of mine to work in a
maroon and green office."
"Why do you like doing community
journalism?"
Real answer: I need the dough.
Answer you give: "Unlike national or state journalism
where you cover current events and politics, community journalism
allows you to cover real people on such topics as the biggest
vegetables grown in the county." (No shit. I once had to
write a caption for a photo of a guy holding the biggest squash
grown in Sonoma County. "Mr. Casaba displays his enormous
squash." My editor came unglued.)
"What skills do you bring to this
job?"
Real answer: Contrary to the bullshit listed on my resume,
I bring enough skills to get a paycheck and avoid promotion.
Answer you give: "The same fucking thing I wrote on
my resume."
"How do you picture a typical day
at work?"
Real answer: I see myself drinking coffee, sneaking out for
smokes, sending lewd e-mail to sexy co-workers and working like
a greased weasel at the last possible moment to make deadline.
Answer you give: "Nice tie. Really nice tie."
The best job I ever had was being the
doorman at Lovejoy's Pub in Austin, Texas. But one night the
boss kicked me in the nuts, so I quit.
* * *
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 1998 by Mike Jasper.
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