The Unemployment Logs, Chapter i

~ 3/13/2018 ~

Currently listening to an audiobook called Nomadland about American seniors forced into nomadic living and migrant work when their finances failed, and the more I listen the more I realize that I could never live this kind of life. Mostly it's the migrant work that I just know I couldn't handle. They travel from place to place working for a few weeks or months in an Amazon warehouse or harvesting sugar beets or working as campsite hosts in national parks, and from the stories in the book they're treated like shit, paid minimum wage, work mandatory 12+ hour days, frequently perform unpaid overtime, and expected to grin and say, "Thank you, sir! May I have another?"

I couldn't do it. Companies who break the law - many of them contracted by the government who is supposed to enforce that law - and then expect their employees to be grateful for it send me into a rage that - were I in that position - would probably end in murder. Am I just spoiled?  According to the people profiting on the backs of senior labor I am, and apparently those companies are staunch vertebrae in the backbone of the economy!

I don't think I can ever work full-time for somebody else again anyway. That is my goal in life at this point: Find a way to work only for myself from now on. That is the central theme that all my post-layoff plans revolve around. I'm both excited and terrified to see if I can make them work.

On a related note, drug tests piss me off (*drum fill*).

Seriously though, it really is the ultimate violation. If I were an employer and asked a potential candidate to drop trou' and let me inspect their genitals, I'd be driven out of business overnight and probably locked up, but when a potential employer demands to look even deeper inside, at the fluids and sometimes tissue produced by those intimate parts, that is not only considered completely reasonable in the minds of the public, but to some that employer is looked upon as a stand-up member of the community - a bastion against a propagandized plague they've been taught to revile and fear their whole life. Forget that, provided it doesn't affect my on-the-job performance, what I do in my private time should be my own business. Forget that I should be able to do whatever I want with my own body, so long as it doesn't infringe on the rights of others. Forget that uncounted millions of Americans ingest intoxicants every single day and yet still manage to be productive, contributing members of society. Forget all of that, because we have to stop drug users from...what? Getting jobs so they don't have to steal to support their either recreational or habitual drug use?

Fuck that. I'm never taking a drug test again. If I starve, so be it. I'd rather be dead than live in Gattaca.

We should boycott companies that conduct routine and/or random drug screenings. Of course it would mean boycotting damn near every company, but maybe we could all just start with one and work our way out to the others in turn.

Yeah, and maybe people will start thinking for themselves instead of blindly accepting what the media/government/church/society tells them to.

I need to stop thinking so much. I need to learn to turn off my brain, eat my heaping bowl of shit, smile, and say, "Thank you, sir! May I have another?" I'd probably be a lot happier that way.

~ 03/15/2018 ~

Had a meeting with WorkSource when I got to the office today. They're the company that handles unemployment for my state, I guess. Is every government program contracted out at this point? I don't know which is more disconcerting - the idea that I'm going to have to apply for a government program every week for the next few weeks/months/who-knows-how-long or knowing that my ability to collect unemployment benefits rests in the hands of the lowest bidder.

(I feel I should note at this point that I don't actually know whether WorkSource is a private contractor or a government agency, and I don't want to mislead anyone into thinking that I do. All I know is that it kinda feels like one, and I worry about that sort of thing. If it turns out that I am wrong, I apologize. Don't take my word for this shit. How 'bout a little due-diligence on your part, slacker!)

On the upside, it turns out there are programs available for people like me, who hold grand delusions of self-employed success and would rather suck crabs off a camel's sandy sack than have to apply for the privilege of doing a job we hate in order to fill someone else's pockets with the fruits of our labor. 

Did that sound bitter?

Well, fuck. I guess I am a little bitter. Maybe I would be less so if there were some individual or small group of individuals that I could convince myself were responsible for the sorry, cock-biting state of affairs that is the American job market, but there isn't, and consequently there is nowhere to aim my frustration, so all it can do is stew. This cluster-rape of the local economy was carried out by dozens - if not hundreds - of individuals spread out all over the country and was facilitated by laws and oversight that every American of voting age (myself included) allowed to spin out of control like a freebasing figure-skater and kick up the whirlwind of middle-class devastation that currently ravages the socioeconomic landscape.

Which begs the question, whom am I to blame for this mess, when the pool of those responsible stretches as far and wide as the borders of this country and is saturated with the apathetic urea of three hundred million citizens, none of whom seem to have read the sign about not pissing in the water?

In the end, I guess I can only blame myself for staying mired in a puddle of lukewarm safety when what I should have done years ago was pull myself out and lay something on the line. Yeah, it could have ended badly, but at least I would have been striving for something worthwhile. Now it's still ending badly, but all I can say is that I risked nothing for nothing to no end.

On the bright side, I'm still eligible for unemployment.

~ 03/17/2018 ~

Submitted a story for publication for the first time in nearly two years!

Now, to be clear, I'm not talking about a new story. In fact, it's the same story I submitted almost two years back. Yay progress!

I'm not proud of this level of procrastination and I realize I should have been submitting my finished stories left and right until I either found someone to buy them or exhausted every market and had to resign myself to the fact that they are unsellable, but I'm doing it now which is a step in the right direction, so fuck you for being so goddamn hypercritical (he said to the one actually leveling the accusations at him - namely, himself)!

Now I just need to get some actual story writing done

-GABE


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The No-Shave November Logs, Day 16: Dust Yourself Off And Try Again

Well, I don't know what part of the process did it, or if it was all of the parts working in congress, but the depression is gone. After talking about it with my friend Rob at our weekly writers' meeting and writing about it here, I put on my iPod and listened to OMC's album How Bizarre and The Best of Patti Smyth back-to-back.

But the real turning point was Pete Seeger. When his incredible live version of "We Shall Overcome" - probably the greatest protest song ever written - started playing, I had to stop what I was doing and just have a manly cry. By "manly cry" I mean, of course, that I sat there for two minutes breathing deeply and bravely holding back tears. Then, when he got to the part of the performance where he talks about the verse, "We are not afraid," I squinched-up my face for 1.5 seconds and allowed one tear to fall from each eye. Then I took a deep breath and felt much better. Sometimes you've just got to let your emotions flow like that.

Next time I get depressed - and believe me, it's only a matter of time - I'm going to try the exact same sequence of events. It might not work again, but what's the worst that could happen? "On The Run" and "I Should Be Laughing" rack up an extra play and you people have to endure another self-indulgent blog post. It could be worse.

I'd like to take a moment to thank my family, friends, and fans (I must have at least one of those who isn't already in one of the previous two categories, right?) for putting up with yesterday's whining. I'd especially like to thank those of you who have real problems to deal with for not tracking me down and slapping me silly. Some of you are in agonizing pain all day, every day, and here I am griping about existential ennui. Your forbearance is neither unnoticed nor unappreciated.

Until next whine!

DAILY NO-SHAVE NOVEMBER PIC:

I call this look, Just Reached Base Camp.


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The No-Shave November Logs, Day 15: Tell It Like It Is

I don't know whether it's passing the 10 year mark at work, getting such a swift rejection for Monica's Portrait (I totally called that one), or even something as ridiculous as an argument I had with my wife yesterday before work, but I'm really depressed today. In fact, the only reason I'm even bothering to write this is the miniscule possibility that writing about it will make me feel better. So far, it isn't working.

I've struggled with depression my whole life. I'm sure there was a time when I was 3 or 4 years-old when I didn't, but I don't have actual memories of things before I was 5, only scattered images that I can't put in any sort of order. Since then, it's been depression in increasingly regular rotation, and I have to say that it sucks just as much today as it did when I was in first grade.

It's not entirely bleak, I guess. I do take a sort of grotesque pride in being the most cynical person most people I'm acquainted with know. Still, the only reason I carry that dubious honor is because I have literally no hope. I don't believe things will ever get better. To put it another way, I have never understood the horror that most people seem to regard the concept of total oblivion with.

I believe in an afterlife. In fact - based on experiences I've had that I'm not going to share with you, because you wouldn't believe them if I did - I can't not believe in an afterlife, and there are times when that is the only thing keeping me from killing myself. Mind you, that's not because I'm afraid of going to Hell. Unlike many Christians, I don't believe God is either impotent or hateful. It's just that the idea of facing a life that will never end absolutely terrifies me.

I read a horror story once that took place in Hell, and in this particular version of Hell there stood a door which led to a total and ultimate end of existence. The main character wouldn't even consider running through it, because the idea of ceasing to exist was even more terrifying than eternity in Hell. I just couldn't relate. Personally, given the choice between that door and Heaven, I'd choose the door, because the idea of continuing to exist for eternity - in any form - is the most horrifying thing I can imagine.

Well, this whole sharing thing doesn't seem to be helping. Maybe it's a long-term solution, though. We'll see. Hope I didn't drag any of you down with me. If I did, just remember that I'm completely full of shit.

DAILY NO-SHAVE NOVEMBER PIC:

I call this look, Halfway There, I No Longer Care.


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