Advice for Day 72: Be Young, Passionate, Genius and Lucky

OK avid readers, settle in as I tell you a story about my jobless life on day 68. It is a story about a girl, 7 rounds of drinks, a basement bar and two editors of the Chicago Tribune. It is a story about all the best things in Chicago: passion, genius, youthful drunkenness but most of all insanely privileged luck.

It was Monday night and in an attempt to savor the real chicagist's chicago, beyond my beloved chicago-style hot dog shops, I turned to every real chicagist's favorite book: the Fodor's Chicago tourist guide. Under cheap and greasy in the index, I found Billy Goat's Tavern, the inspiration for the infamous Cheeseborger SNL skit.

After being convinced into a double cheesborger by the delightfully no bullshit waitress, I sat down at the red checkered slightly sticky table to indulge in a borger packed with onions, relish, pickles, ketchup and mustard sliding out the sides. As I attempted to keep white shirt presentable for the gathering crowd of middle aged men, I glanced up at the news to see that the Tribune Co. had filed for Chapter 11.

Billy Goat's has the good fortune to be situated directly across from the towering Tribune building, nestled onto lower Michigan, below the glits and glamour of the loop, but in proximity to feel the after shocks of the news. As a journalist- if not practicing than at least in spirit- I felt a pang of distress for the Trib journalists left without job security and the entire industry suddenly facing it's own mortality as it knew it.

Then I suddenly realized this same emotion was being emitted by the 5 or 6 greying men at the bar. Dressed in stretched out sweaters and coffee stained dress pants, I knew these kindred souls were Trib workers themselves. I had found the Trib lair.

I asked Payne, the best waiter who never actually waited on anybody, if any of these guys were journalists. And as luck would have it, Payne knew the guy walking into the bar was the sports editor of the Trib himself.

Relying on the fact that i had managed to keep my shirt free of pickles and that i still might look presentable, I waved Mr. Sports Trib himself over to our table of idealistic youth. And so began a night of stories of old newspapers ways, current business models and new media possibilities; it was the Christmas Carol's ghosts of newspapers' past, present and future.

Mr. Sports Trib told stories of his first newspaper gig as a delivery boy and how he used to get in trouble because he always read the newspaper "front to back" before delivering it. He told stories of small town newspapers and big breaks, of superbowls and world series, and frankly things i have never heard of and didn't understand. He said journalism was a thinking profession and that's why he loved it. And he kept muttering that we were just so young; not young and foolish like others have implied but young and potential, young and eager, young and lucky.

And that is what I felt that night- extremely young and extremely lucky. As the business editor rolled in at 11:30, I managed to buy Mr. Sports Trib a round before he could buy us our 7th round. He of course protested but it was the least i could do not only for the advice but also for this feeling- this renewed optimism of youth, that youth wasn't just inexperience and entry-level positions but that it was a time that allowed you to be foolish enough to follow passions, a time to drink too many rounds on a Monday night, a time where luck could still change the course of one's life.



Norman Mailer once wrote to a friend ""Now, of course, all of this is every artist's anguish- so many of us could have been geniuses if everything had worked out right- but i had so much more good fortune that the others, and I've fucked it away so wastefully."

Of course Mailer had a surplus of genius and for as much luck as he pissed away he still manages to be hero-like statue for many journalists and artists. But for the rest of us with our status-quo amounts of genius, luck, mixed with the passion to pursue that good fortune, might be enough to get us our dreams or at least to land us in a dive bar on a Monday night with enough good stories to entertain any pretty idealistic girls who might have wondered in.

Advice for Day I stopped counting a week ago: Have a Plan G

I always thought “if all else fails” I would work as a secretary in the big city for a while, freelancing what I could, until someone recognized the genius underneath their upturned noses.

But then today “all failed” including my brilliant Plan B, which was actually Plan F, after failed plans B, C, D and E. So here I am wondering how could I be so stupid not to have planned a Plan G.

After some soul searching, cross-legged meditation, a few yoga poses held too long, an expensive reiki session, and every other hippy practice I could partake in the fine anti-boho town of Green Bay, WI, I decide I needed to get out of this charming town now. I needed to get out NOW, not when I find my dream job but NOW before winter sets in and my ’96 Geo gets stuck underneath 3 feet of snow.

Now problem, I will just launch Plan F, find a temp agency and get some decent paying work, just enough to afford a sweet pad in the city and chill for a while.

And then the temp agency rejected me.

Yes the temp agency rejected me- a UW-Madison college graduate with a 4.0. How the hell does Plan F fail? How does a college degree not qualify me for the rigourous tasks of photocopying, answering phones and taking messages? I am an educated, dedicated and honestly pretty damn perky employee- how can a temp agency not want me?!

OK you know life is really out of control when you ignore four years of journalism training and add two unnecessary punctuations to the end of a sentence. But it is at that point now. Suddenly it isn’t just that college grads have to settle for a less than desirable job but that they can’t get any job.

A effin 4.0. What a the hell?!

So on to Plan G: begging; just plain pathetic pleading, as old as Jonah imploring the great white whale to please throw him up, as classic as Oliver Twist asking for another cup of gruel, as annoying as that screaming 6 year old in Toys R Us nagging her mom for a bratz doll and just slightly less pathetic than Wall Street soliciting Congress for a bail out.

So a pathetic plea to all out there: know anyone in Chicago? Then please please hit me up with their info so I can gravel at their feet for a job. Please folks ‘cause there ain’t a Plan H.

Advice for Day 50: Sometimes you need a slow song and some effin sentimentality

In the air the questions hang
Will we get to do something?
Who we gonna end up being?
How we gonna end up feeling?
What you gonna spend your free life on?
Free life.

Let's fall in love again with music as our guide
We'll raise our ready hands and let go for the ride
Down into unknown lands where lovers need and hide

We got these lives for free, don't know where they've been
Don't know where they'll go when we are through with them
Starlight of the sun, dark side of the moon

-Dan Wilson "Free Life"

Advice for Day 48: Makin' Mistakes, Makin' Decisions

So why did I suddenly decide to go all hippie and get in touch with the inner boho? The truth is I feel, i've felt, trapped with the decisions of tomorrow. Yes, i've been over analyzing per usual. I've been wanting to take the right steps instead of just moving. I've always been so obsessed with not making any mistakes that i usually end up not even making a decision.

When I was 16, I got stuck in an intersection. I was taking my driving test and I was so nervous my hands were shaking at their proper position at 10 and 2. I was turning left at a light and i couldn't decide if i should scoot up into the intersection to cross at a break in cars or wait til the light turned red and i got an arrow. I froze and waited and then got the safety of a green arrow.

The instructor marked off 8 points for what amounts to unsafe hesitance. unsafe hesitance. it turns out over thinking it isn't always helpful in driving or life. I failed my first driving test. The next one i passed with only 3 points off. I just drove, I didn't think.

The problem is you don't get a redo at life. If i keep waiting, I won't be living. If i make a decision i might make a mistake. But that is really what i want. To make a big huge effin mistake.



So the reiki, my attempt at hippiehood, was really suppose to give me some clarity as to what i wanted to do with this potential of a life. But it just made me realize I need to just do what i feel and stop trying to stop myself from making mistakes.

So I'm moving to Chicago January 3rd and I'll plan the rest of my mistakes from there.

Advice for Day 47: Note to self: There are no nervous hippies

Have you never noticed that there are never any nervous hippies? No groups of dread-locked, tattooed, flowey skirt flower children gulping lattes and bemoaning the economic crisis in increasingly higher frequencies. No hippies got zen or pot or something that makes them immune to the useless feeling of anxiety and nervousness.

Needless to say my panic attack ridden self has never been a hippie, merely a proud faux hippie aka wearing bell bottoms in 7th grade and signing a legalize marijuana petition sophomore year of college.

But on Wednesday, i took one more step towards hippie heaven when i partook in the highly bohemian activity of reiki. You know, reiki- energies and chakras and healing without touching- everything hippie in one convenient activity.

And what was the soul revealing conclusion of my brush with hippie heaven?

That i am indeed a nervous person- ridiculously and painfully nervous.

It took the reiki master a good 40 minutes to rid me of my nerves. As i laid down on the table i was completely relaxed but as soon as she put her hands to my head, lord, my heart sped up and my mouth went dry. I could feel the nervous energy running along my skin but i couldn't let it go. It just ran along my skin like it was being chased.

And then i let it go and it felt really damn good. Like floating without the realization the gravity exists. Like being calm without remembering the sensation of panic. Like happiness without thinking about what might lead to sadness. Like the future without fear.

It was a rare gift that makes me want to be a full fledged for real boho.

It was also makes me wonder what my nerves have stopped me from in the past. How different could my life be if i didn't live with this tightness in my stomach? If i could let go of the anxiety what could would my world be? And can I ever really let go of nerves that have been part of me for so long?

Wow for those counting that was four rhetorical questions for a self proclaimed rhetorical question hater. And I'm not even freaking out about it...well maybe i am, just a little. Damn there goes hippiehood.

Advice for Day 40: Extended Metaphors Help

Got some more good secondhand advice via facebook today. My wonderful friend Kastastrophe tells me: "The most difficult thing about being amazing and multi-talented and just plain kick ass at a lot of things is that you have tough decisions to make because you have so many options."

There is no way to hide it- i am no decider. I am a horrible decision maker, always has been. When I was little my mother used to threaten to leave me at restaurants because i could never make up my mind what to order. I would often call the waitress back to the table because 2 seconds after i ordered i changed my mind. It all drove my decisive mother nuts.

Today I still stand at the counter at the Chinese food restaurant in town for five minutes trying to choose. Part of it is a lack of gut instinct on what the proper choice is but more is just taking in all the possibilities of that extensive menu and all the outcomes those possibilities could have. After all a night of sesame chicken has totally different implications than a night of steamed dumplings.

Yes this is the metaphor i am going to use for life- ordering chinese food. Until now, life was like jenny craig pre-packaged meals- college, journalism, study abroad- and now i have the whole effin buffet in front of me complete with appetizers, soups, main dishes and desserts. And my glutenous gut wants a little of everything.

The one thing I am trying to remind myself is i usually figure it out in the end, i have never starved, usually giving into ordering within reasonable time frame. My routine is this: I will ask 3 people advice on what to order and i'll get three different responses- the general tso, the garlic chicken, the ragoons. Then i say nope to all of those and order a pizza.

That is what i need to do with life right now, i need to order a fatteningly amazing pepperoni pizza- with stuffed crust.

I may be taking this metaphor too far.

But here is my point- my "reasonable" ordering time may be a little longer than others, i may annoy the crap out of my waitress, i may annoy the crap out of my mother, but in the end I make a decision and i am almost always happy with it because in the end it is always my decision.

That is these unemployed months- they are Jon and Kate Plus 8 marathons, chocolate chip oat muffins, New Yorker articles, dinners at restaurants i won't be able to afford in a few months with my generous mother, they are a million self indulgent activities that may look like stalling but are really me figuring it out. It is me looking at that menu on the board, listening to the suggestions around me, ignoring them and then ordering something no one expected.

Advice for Day 35: You gotta stop letting the Universe kick your ass all around this world

So I am going to try to make a long story short, which is rarely successful in the garrulously wonderful world I have created for myself...look I'm failing already.

Anyway, the short story is my boss (aka my very temporary part-time I will never put this on a resume boss) is crazy. She has been sucked into some bogus religious/pyramid scheme called Avatar (yes like the second-life video game) created by a man that got KICKED OUT OF SCIENTOLOGY- how crazy do you have to be to be kicked out of a church that eats placenta.

In her crazyness, she has decided that all her staff should also be educated in the Avatar way, which is a waste of time, money and my precious little sanity. But amid all the crazy, I have actually found a pretty genius nugget of less crazy.

The story Avatar tells is of a kid coming in from playing in the snow one day. He is standing in the doorway, letting the snow blow in. His mother yells at him, "Either choose in or out or i will choose for you." Avatar explains that the same is true for life; if you don't choose, the universe will choose for you. We call this fate but really it is just indecision.

For years I have thought fate was pushing me to be a journalist. I became editor of my high school paper with virtually no effort. I got these random articles published in local papers. I worked with a news organization in Argentina. None of this was really intentional career moves; it seemed fate wanted me to be a journalist.

Or really it was just mother universe slamming the door on an indecisive child, making me stay in the warm comfort of the house I know so well. I have always known how to write and I have always know how to tell a damn good story but it has not always been my conscience decision to be a journalist; it is my default.

When i try to get in touch with that illusive gut it doesn't want to move to Roswell, NM to live on 18,000 a year and 5 vacation days. It doesn't want to chase cop cars or listen to the police scanner. It doesn't want to have a "beat." It doesn't really want to be a reporter at all.

Still I love seeing my name in print and the newsroom does have this frenzied caffeinated smell to it that i love. I love listening to someone's story and then retelling it better. And finding the perfect quote to end a story makes transcribing 3 hours of tape worth it.

And so i am still a contradiction of guts. Which is why i am still standing in the doorway, sending resumes to papers i will never work at and not yet understanding what i really want to do.

But i know this time needs to be different. This time I have to stop letting mother universe kick my ass where ever is easiest. This time I know i don't really want to stay in the kitchen; i am done with safe. This time i have to step out of that door and into that blizzard of uncertainty.