Everything happens...

We all know the old cliche "Everything happens for a reason." (And if you don't, where do you live, and can I come with?)

If you want to be technical, this cliche is true. I mean, every action has a(n equal and opposite) reaction, and every effect has a cause, and vice versa. So strictly by definition, nothing just plain happens without something having led up to it, so yes, everything does, in fact, happen for a reason. But that's not what the cliche is supposed to be saying.

It's understood that the cliche is supposed to mean that all the crap that happens to us is supposed to fit into some greater plan. I may not identify my spiritual beliefs as that of any religion, though I do consider myself spiritual (though I think spiritual is the wrong word. I think "zen" is more like it...), and while I've had my "there's reason in this" stage, I've come to realize that that's a bunch of, well, hogwash.

"Everything happens for a reason" is the passive approach to life. That action is usually followed by the reaction of, "let's see what this universe has in store for me." That's all fine and good and a good way to get through some tough times, I guess, but I've taken on a different approach.

No longer is it, "Everything happens for a reason," it's just "everything happens." And no longer is that followed by "let's see what happens next," but rather, "let's see what I do next."

That's right, ladies and gentlemen, I'm telling you to stop focusing on the universe and start focusing on you. Luck favors those who work, the only way to get ahead is to take a step forward, and most importantly, the universe doesn't give a crap about you.

But if it makes you feel any better, I do!

Failure

Okay, I’ll admit it: I’m scared to death of failure. But not in the way you think. I’m not afraid of failing. I’m afraid I haven’t failed enough.

I know what you’re thinking: “What the hell is wrong with you?” Yeah; I ask myself that all the time. I talk too much, I tell the same boring stories time and time again, and tell the same not-boring stories so many times that they quickly become boring. But nowhere on my list of what’s wrong with me does this particular problem show up.

I was listening to the radio this weekend and heard Malcolm Gladwell being interviewed by Tavis Smiley. Say what you will about Tavis Smiley, but he gets wonderful guests and is always well-prepped such that the interviewee always manages to say something noteworthy and interesting.

Gladwell started talking about his failures in the job market and the advertising world. He and Smiley reminisced that it seems all people who show amazing successes always failed first, or at least faced some sort of adversity.

This got me thinking. Sure I’m amidst a change from front-of-the-house of the music business, so to speak, and moving to the business side of the business, but am I too young and inexperienced for that to really count towards my failures and adversity check-box? I’ve had it pretty easy; no opportunity has been spared, I’ve never been fired from a job, I’ve never had any disability (aside from chronic knee issues, which I usually follow up with, “Yeah; so I’ll ice later…”), and I’ve never had any massive academic speed bumps.

Sure I’ve made mistakes, but do these count? Are these failures? Have I hit the ground enough to make me stand taller?

Of course, maybe just the fact that I’m thinking about this is enough. Or maybe I’m not giving my failures enough credit. Maybe quitting my job and being rejected by job after job since is enough, and I’m just lucky enough that my failures spanned a small chronological period.

And then, there’s the chance that Smiley and Gladwell are wrong, that success does, in fact, exist without massive failures.

Or my failure is yet to come.

Okay – now I’m scared of failure. And in the way you’d expect...

Another year, another birthday.

Another year has gone by, and for the 24th time, I survived my birthday.

Some years are easier than others – and I'm not talking about the year, I'm talking about my birthday itself. I'm not a big fan of my birthday, even though my mother wants to disown me when I say that. Part of it is that I don't like being the center of attention when I've done nothing more than being born. (I mean, let's be honest, my parents have a lot more to do with my birthday than I do. The only thing I've done to deserve a birthday is not die.) And part of it is that if I had my way, I'd spend my birthday in relative solitude, and people always make me feel quite guilty when I say I want no party or hoopla.

But anyway – this year was wonderful. All it takes is a few friends, in very small groups, and baked goods. Yes, baked goods.

I'd go all retrospective about the last year and where I was one year ago today, or I'd get all hopeful about where I'll be a year from now.

But I won't. Let's just say that things are good right now, and that's all I can focus on now – and all I should focus on.

So here's to not the next year, not the next month, but the next day.

Happy no-longer-birthday! 'Cause every day should be happy, not just one out of every 365. (Or 366 every 4th year...)

You know what they say...

"With a sharp enough knife, you don't need a cutting board."

Okay -- I don't think anybody's ever said that, but it sounds like a probable Southern Cliché, one that we all know has been said forever and must mean SOMETHING but we aren't quite sure what.

Maybe it means that the right tool doesn't need another. Or maybe it means you should keep a cutting board on hand if you don't own a knife sharpener. But I'll get back to the made-up cliché. For right now, I'm going to discuss actual clichés. Not any specific clichés, but clichés in general.

The thing about clichés is that almost everybody hates them, and yet everyone still uses them. (Of course, some people use way too many clichés, specifically sports figures at press conferences.) But there's something about clichés that makes them unique to annoying idioms; they're usually true. After all, things don't actually get repeated unless they're true.

I guess that's why it's so hard for me to come up with a new cliché; there seems to be no truth to the random sayings I manage to blurt out.

'Cause you know what they say: "Even the sharpest knife in the kitchen needs a cutting board."

And that's the truth!

Instant Coffee

Good coffee, There is a process to it. And you have to wait. You first smell the beans while they are ground, then the smell and feel of seeping and steam, and then finally the taste. Instant coffee, you get the taste sooner, and it may be good for a sip or two, but you really should have waited for the good stuff to brew.

Coffee is such a simple thing, and it's a staple to most Americans. (Not me, but that's not the point here.) And yet, so many people still pick the instant stuff when there are better things out there.

The recent introduction of the Starbucks brand instant coffee is a perfect example. I've heard -- though I cannot find a link now ('cause I'm not looking, really...) that in the rest of the country, the taste-tests have been mostly quite positive. In New York, however, not so much. In New York, you can get a better cup of coffee that has at least had a couple more steps than "just add water!" in how it's been made, and it's waiting for you so you get it nearly isntantly. As a result, Starbucks instant coffee has been getting quite negative reviews here.

But the problem is that this attitude has gone beyond coffee.

We're all about instant gratification -- myself included. Hopeless romantics are only hopeless because they are too romantic to go beyond a first date when a click isn't instant.

Patience no longer exists in the northeast. The only thing people here will wait for is the next pitch during the playoffs. Outside of the baseball diamond, nobody is willing to put in an extra second, or an extra ounce of work. We all want that perfect job to come right along, that perfect employee, the perfect relationship, the perfect shoe on the first try. And when we find one that feels great from the first second, we take it. And if it feels okay, we toss it aside forgetting that tough leather needs to be broken in. And then they are the greatest shoes you've ever owned, and that before pretty designs hit the sky, the fuse of the fireworks has to be lit.

I'm mixing metaphors, many times over, but I'm sure you get the point.

And if you don't want to weed through the metaphors to figure it out, here it is: Sometimes a little work and patience is worth it.

In other words: Smell the beans, then make the coffee. Micro-ground powder is not a bean. After all, nobody's ever said, "You have to try this instant coffee! It's amazing!"

Things I've learned while looking for a job

I've been unemployed for a week now. My final paycheck came in the mail yesterday and I think my replacement may finally have figured out the last few things such that I won't be getting daily emails from her anymore.

In this week, I've still managed to stay quite busy, with interviews and meetings and lunches with friends and general activities to keep me from realizing I'm unemployed. (Tomorrow is no different, but I think Tuesday is the day I'll start to actually feel unemployed, so I need to start thinking of activities to do to get me out of my apartment at least once a day to stave off unemployment-depression...)

But in my first week of unemployment, I've actually learned quite a few things.

I've learned that I really like wearing nice clothing. My life's goal is a job where wearing a suit is normal...or at least nice pants, a blazer, and a tie. (In fact, if my next job is merely an administrative assistant position, I'm going to set the precedent that I am the guy who comes in wearing a blazer 3-4 days a week, unlike before when I started doing that a few months in and always got the "special plans after work?" questions.)

That my people-skills will get me halfway to wherever it is I'm going. (Side-story: I once said to Mark, my first restaurant manager, that I was scared of being a musician because of employment and bills, and he told me that if I could get myself in the door for an interview, I could wow anyone. Of course, he also warned that that doesn't mean I'll get jobs, but I'll at least get chances to get jobs...)

That if your resume says you type 95 WPM, you better be able to do that on a slightly-off day, too.(I hit 92 earlier in the week at a temp agency, under pressure, and was given an all-in-good-fun hard time about lying on my resume. Had I hit only 80 or 85, I think the reaction would have been much harsher.)

That being young is a disadvantage only if you act your age. Wearing a tie and exuding confidence is a good way to avoid being seen as young.

That you never decline an interview. Even if it's in a field you really don't belong, interviews are good experience. And sometimes if you're on the fence, the interview will push you one way or the other. Not to mention the fact that a positive interview for a field you shouldn't be in could be a great networking opportunity!

There's no telling how long this unemployment will last, but I'm completely certain that it will be longer than my parents would like it to be, shorter than I fear it will be, and filled with valuable lessons and experiences that I would have no other way of getting. That, and a few matinee movies. Free Tuesday movies at select theaters in Manhattan, here I come!

Listening to the old folks

This past weekend, I was at a favorite hole-in-the-wall eatery this weekend on the Lower East Side. (Best Vietnamese sandwiches EVER! They also have wine, beer, coffee, and it turns out, really wonderful M&M cookies. Kinda glad I was waiting for someone and the kitchen was closed on Saturday! But anyway...)

I had no idea that this place, in a neighborhood that's part slum, part Chinatown, and part old-world Lower East Side, was a hangout for old Jews on Saturday afternoons. Outside, on the first day that I was wearing a jacket all year, there were 15-20 elderly Jews, all friends, all talking. Come to think of it, i don't think they had actually bought anything from the shop, they just loitered in their sidewalk seats, completely unbothered.

As a people-watcher, I love to watch people interact and make up their stories, filling in whatever gaps aren't readily apparent. But this was a gold mine, as I didn't have to guess anything, they said it all.

I zeroed in on two white-haired men. One was emptying the entire contents of his wallet on the small table -- a risky move considering the steady breeze. Included were business cards with handwritten phone numbers on the reverse side, credit cards, his ID, and black-and-white photographs. He was carefully examining the contents while the other man spoke.

The first man started examining his photographs, looking lovingly, as he carried on conversation. The second man spoke. He had the raspy voice of someone who has had a long life and loves to talk about it, and the confidence in tone of someone who was clearly the dominant figure in the relationship.

"I don't know how people survive 10 years in prison. I couldn't survive 10 hours," he said. The other man looked up from his photo, confused. "I never told you about this? I was young and I had no idea what was happening. I was just in the truck. I wasn't driving. I didn't know it was stolen!" He continued to tell stories of the pair of shoes he had just been given that he was wearing and the minority men were eyeing them. (Oh, the colorful language of the actual story that I feel uncomfortable typing...) "I told them that if they wanted the shoes, they'd have to pry them off my cold, dead feet. They woulda done it, too, had I not gotten the hell out of there!"

The men continued their conversation with unashamed cultural observations about prison, the neighborhood, and anything else that came to mind in ways that were both insensitive and more honest than you will ever hear people now in this politically correct and culturally "sensitive" world that is the Northeast United States.

Another man walked by and asked how Pauly was doing. "Oh, you didn't hear? He died on Thursday night. The funeral's tomorrow." Discussion about the burial plans ensued. "They're cremating Pauly?" "Wow. Do you think that's what he wanted?" "I dunno. It could be money. But his uncle and aunt were cremated. His mother, though, she's in a box."

Allow me to step outside the narrative for one moment. There's something about watching old men discuss mortality that is oddly comforting. These men, who have seen their contemporaries start to drop, seem so comfortable with it. They clearly know that one of them is going to be the last, and everyone seems okay with it. I almost assume they have a pool going, and to the winner goes the box of unopened Cubans from well before they were illegal.

This led to the talkative man calling a friend on the wallet-explorer's phone to tell of Pauly's death.

"Hello, Marty."
"It's Marty!"
"You only know one Marty, I thought!"
"Yes, I know it's your name, too. It's my name, also."
"What do you mean Marty who? You've only known me for 64 years."
"Yes. Yes, Marty. It's Marty!"
"Pauly died..."

The conversation continued, but at this point, Marty realized I was there and knew everything. In the same way that this man so bluntly spoke unapologetically and uncaringly before, he looked at me and said, "I cannot believe he doesn't know me! I hang out with a bunch of old men!" He then told me to sit because it was better for my back. He pulled up a chair and had me sit at the table next to him.

He continued his conversation. I got cold and wanted hot chocolate, so I went inside.

There was no "goodbye" or "have a nice day." In fact, while I tried to give him a glance and a nod, he ignored me, went back to looking at wallet photographs, and discussing shoes.

I've got a feeling that Marty's the one who's going to get a box of cigars when all is said and done. And he'll be okay with that.