The streets are a wonderful place for spotting memorable people.

The guy across from me on the streetcar this morning had the face, bristle, and thick-rimmed glasses of Elvis Costello, the fashion sense of Paul Giamatti, and the hair of Sideshow Bob. I walked through the entrance to my building with the spitting image of a female manservant Hecubus. We both passed the building’s property manager who bears more than passing resemblance to Dr. Evil.

Shouldn’t people like this be on camera? Some people don’t think so.

In an article today, The Star published a publicity piece for a group (led by Ryan Ringer) calling themselves Methinks Presents, which if you ask me, is a total misnomer.

What they intend to do is to swarm the Google Street View car that has recently been making the rounds in Toronto in order to bring attention to the “creepy nature” of Google’s project. As part of the event, they’ll probably be taking pictures in a public location.  In the process, they’ll probably be capturing the numerous random faces of people who just happen to be passing by and won’t have any say in  (or even knowledge of), being photographed. Not to mention the number of random webcams, camera phones,  and “security” and traffic cameras that cling to every available nook and cranny downtown. It’s a safe bet that everything will find its way onto Flickr, YouTube, blogs, etc.

To argue that Google is invading our privacy from the inside of a car, from a public road, means that it shouldn’t be legal for anyone to take photographs from anywhere, of anything, for any reason. Or is it just Google because they’re “evil”? Maybe Methink’s protest is intended to be somehow artistically ironic? Somehow, methinks not.

My shitter being equated to the middle of my street throws the notion of “reasonable expectation of privacy” out the window. Everything would be considered private (if the street would, what wouldn’t be?). Recorded images of any kind would have to be illegal, probably forcing the government to ban the use of cameras. While at it, why not extend the same courtesy to audio recordings? That would really suck for quite a few people.

I suppose one alternative would be to ask permission whenever you took a picture; permission of anyone in the shot (or blur them out); permission from the owners of any properties in the frame (or blur them out); permission from owners whose pets appear in photographs (or blur them out). God help you if an identifiable airplane or bus happens to pass into your shot.

Sounds silly, doesn’t it?

Not only does Methink’s plan sound horribly illegal (“hey, let’s go swarm a car because we don’t like what it’s doing”), but they’re pushing an idea that is contrary to the public good. Mine especially. I bought a brand-spanking new camera not too long ago and I don’t want to be  ambushed by Methink’s grouptards for taking a picture of the Eaton Centre.

I don’t think most people would be bothered  if they saw themselves walking down the street in a Street View scene, unless maybe they were caught doing something questionable. In that case, may I suggest maybe not doing that in public?

Oh, and when the Google car does approach, I think there’s a much better way to deal with one’s public image. Do a quick straighten-up, put on a giant shit-eatin’ grin, and give a crazy big thumbs-up as the car passes. The virtual tourist will find Toronto to have very inetersting people. Isn’t that much more productive?

It’s a little shameful to admit, but when I first heard of “bum fights”, my mind immediately sprung to a well-lit bedroom, two attractive young ladies looking at each other over their shoulders with lustful disdain, ready to have at each other with their voluptuous heinies. It sounded absolutely delightful.

It may have been the general aversion to such a word as “bum” by the company I kept during my formative years, but other than being used to describe:

 
…well, you’re not supposed to call people of no fixed address that. That is the only foul version of that word.

Panhandling is done for many different reasons so I try to judge each book by it’s cover. If the person looks really destitute, I won’t miss a quarter. But there are others who make it a bit harder to part with my nickels.

This morning, for example, I passed a fellow under the subway tracks who I recognized as an area local. Aside from not being able to figure out if people were dropping imaginary money into his cup, or if he was taking sips of imaginary coffee, or if both were real and he was just drinking change, I couldn’t help but notice his clothes.

His shoes were sparklingly new, as were his bright white slacks and a gorgeous scarf tossed carelessly around his neck. Yes, he had an ensemble. Meanwhile, I was walking by in deep need of new shoes and a winter jacket that finally allows me to use the word threadbare. It’s a good word. Lotsa uses.

No, my money wasn’t going into that coffee.

As I stepped on the escalator to the platform, the word “bum” floated through my consciousness and I caught myself feeling a bit embarrassed. But then, with majestic bravado, the manly part of my brain walked on over, swooped that little lady off her feet and told her everything would be alright. After all, he really was trying to “bum” money off me. If the need were great, it would be “begging”, “panhandling”, or “soliciting”. If the need doesn’t seem that great, it’s “bumming”, and the person performing that action is a “bum”.

If we take some of the generalized pejorative connotations out of the word, it sounds a bit more reasonable. In fact, I’m in favour of adding a little weight on the cheeky side of the definition because I believe those kinds of “bum fights” would make the world a better place.

Though down, be not thee out.

I’m sure you’ve experienced this too; walking down the street just thinking your own devious thoughts when, all of a sudden, synchronicity jumps out from around the corner, grabbing your wallet and sprinting into a nearby entrance in one clean, continuous, and startling motion.

That was my morning commute;  a drab, water-logged grey smear with occasional pelts of icy snow.

I thought a little old-school tunage would be appropriate, so I plugged in my Zune and managed to run through about three songs in the Trip-Hop list before rounding the building to the 540 King streetcar stop. There, Tricky’s croaking “hell is around the corner” cut into a chill Massive Attack groove, the words foreshadowing the presence of something dark and evil just a few feet away.

Let’s call her L.

I’ve known her professionally for a number of years. Our paths have managed to cross on more than one occasion, and each of those times I was reminded of why I wasn’t keen on seeing her again. To sum it up succinctly, she doesn’t get fired well.

It’s not the kind of not getting fired well you’re probably thinking of. There are no angry expressions, violence, or bridge-burning words; just a psychotic grin accompanied by a wholly unsettling and removed calmness.

Allow me to paint the picture for you. On each occasion, settings aside, the situation is the same: At the time of the incident, she has either spent the previous six months or so producing something she was never asked to produce or, sometimes, nothing at all. There’s usually not great shock when the head of HR approaches her to “have a chat.” After this she returns to work at her desk, broad grin adorning her wide face, giving everyone the impression that she’d just received a raise.

On the contrary, she’d just been let go. Only she’s not letting go.

Management circles her desk and and explains slowly that she’s no longer an employee. She nods, eyes focused, clear, and clearly failing to take in reality, kind of like a serial murderer trying to figure out why the skin suit she fashioned isn’t giving her the power of its’ victims. Then she turns her head back to the monitor and resumes working.

At this point security usually intervene, physically escorting her from the premises. She flashes that magic smile at everyone as she leaves, perhaps still unaware of her situation, or perhaps deciding how best to decapitate all of her favourite ex-colleagues. That, in a scary nutshell, is L and her unceasing smile (trust me, it’s not incredible positivity).

As I swung around the corner this morning, that smile cut through the crowd like a bloodied knife. She looked straight at me with a horrible focus and a curt little Asian head-nod that indicated I was now very possibly the next unsolved murder of the year. Evading conversation seemed like a quick way to a sliced carotid, so I waved and said hello.

Despite my lack of interaction with her in the past, she knew my name, my age, where I’d lived and worked over the past few years, the name of my cat, and other creepy factoids meticulously gathered from the few sentences I spoke in front of her (not to her, as she explained).

My own memories  stopped at the companies where she claimed we had worked together (until they came flooding back later in a long-repressed deluge).

“What’s your name again?” I asked.

“Oh, you don’t remember?” she replied with an even deeper and more unsettling grin.

I glanced nervously at my watch while shaking my head no. Twenty minutes to my destination; God, please let me live through this!

Between stealing government secrets and sleeping with unbelievable women, I recall when I’d have some time to spend with the weekend newspaper; just me and the weighty Saturday Star or, if I’d forgotten to pick one up, a yucky morning yarn with Christie Blatchford and the Sun. It didn’t matter that much either way because I was young, licensed to kill, and coffee was always the first thing on the table at the local breakfast nook.

Recently it’s gotten real bad. Where I used to have a chance to read of my covert  yet well publicized exploits of the previous day, I now barely have time to get through one story before the bacon’s hit the table. In fact, the order’s in the kitchen the moment my foot hits the establishment’s floor. That’s bad juju for a man with no name and a price on his head.

It’s sad to see how much the quality has slipped.

Chew Chew’s Diner used to be a reliably shady spot where I could relax with a paper and surveil my targets. I now have to resort to poring over the comics with after-breakfast coffee and sometimes wonder whether I should even bother bringing a paper anymore. Other than its use  for covertly delivering microfilm or defending against knife attacks, I barely get a quarter’s worth out of  it.

At least not everything in the place has gone to hell. I get a smile and a “good morning, Patrick” from the staff who’s names I’ve yet to learn (I’m hard that way and change for no one). The interior of the place is one I assume to be inspired by fifties’ java joints; red booths, stainless steel, and espionage-efficient layout running the length of the narrow eatery. It has remained spotless and surveillance-bug-free since my first visit, and I have no reason to suspect that the kitchen has betrayed me. Yet.

I await the day when I run afoul of a nefarious international spy ring or organized crime syndicate. I’d be pretty easy to poison (in the relaxed way befitting a weekend), with my clockwork order of the three-egg breakfast, brown toast, and coffee. Black.

One day, perhaps a few years from now, I might get the waffles. Today, I live dangerously.

I can thus provide an expert examination of the staple plate that every good breakfast place must have. Chew Chew’s keeps it simple, starting out with a couple of healthy looking pieces of fruit that, in the context of the plate are there mostly for colour. Healthy’s on the next page. If you want hard liquor with a side of steely death, I believe they’re licensed too (don’t quote me on that).

A proper field agent breakfast includes eggs. A whole new paragraph just for eggs? Yup. They may not be much in a gun fight but they’re pretty versatile otherwise. To mask my pitiless brood, I take mine sunny side up. In order for it to qualify as a proper greasy spoon, a restaurant’s eggs must have a layer of grease that is both thick enough to exhaust repeated attempts to pick them up while being simultaneously thin enough for there to be more egg than grease. Chew Chew’s walks this tightrope with deft, almost deadly precision, producing eggs that are both tasty and impossible to get on the fork. At least, they would be if  “impossible” wasn’t my middle name (no, surprisingly not “danger”).

Enter the bread.

Evenly browned and copiously buttered, the toast comes in unpretentious white and brown. Pumpernickel and other fancy-schmancy breads aren’t on the menu, but you can probably get them if you ask. In my opinion, without proper Beluga caviar and the coldest Cold War Soviet vodka, why bother?

Next the bacon. It’s how I would have wanted Blofeld to die; salty, dried, and crisp. As part of my incredible arsenal of knowledge, I recall watching a training film about the differences between dry and wet cured bacon. My keen eye spotted it on my plate right away; bacon that’s straight as a board. This dry cured strip is a bit less salty, a bit harder to come by, but crisps up nicer and tastes marvelous. (lip smack)

The potatoes are the one thing I could possibly change. The cook adds onions which really puts a damper on my ability to get intimate with the ladies. Plus, they add a funny aftertaste that just doesn’t do anything for anything. Oh well, I guess that’s the kind of danger that goes hand in hand with the hard-edged life I lead.

Orange juice is freshly squeezed. Analyzed by Q branch and came back authentic. Vodka, Florida sunshine, and a golden bullet make for a great ending to a meal. Here’s why:

At this point I’d usually get up to leave but today a heavy hand clasps my left shoulder and pushes me back down into my chair.

I drink the OJ down until there’s only about an inch more at the bottom. I put the glass down, stare Breznedev coldly in the one eye without the patch as he sits to face me, and with ice coursing through my veins I say, “Last chance. If you leave now, I might let you keep the other eye.”

Of course, I’ve no intention of  doing that.

I know that as I take my last gulp of morning happiness,  he’s reaching, infuriated, for his standard issue. I slam the glass back down, the gold bullet that had been laying dormat under the final inch of juice now lazily ricocheting up the inside as if in slow motion. It’s registered by Breznedev’s eye with horror and disbelief as a slim trickle of blood makes its way down his face from a hole in his forehead. The effect is cool beyond words.

“Should’ve looked both ways before crossing me,” I chuckle, thinking how clever the line is on a former nemesis with one eye as I put the smoking gun back into my jacket, pay the reasonable $11 bill, and leave for my first appointment of the day with destiny.

Horrible service, but I’ll probably be back again next week.

Today it rained all day.

May flowers are looking pretty distant right now. My shoes, having been on my feet most of the winter, are now starting to get that glorious and ripe spring aroma that is released through repeated drenching in April’s showers.

On my way home I passed a few hotels with some unprepared tourists milling about in front trying to figure out how to stretch the openings of handbags wide enough to use them as dilapidated hats. Others were pulling their t-shirts over their heads, shoulders shrugged in a in a pitiful huddle to accommodate the relocated collar, which was now an elongated port hole through which they peered helpless, dazed, and destitute.

Poor poor people. Did no one tell them Toronto weather can’t be trusted?

Weather. Yes, fine topic. Isn’t that the topic you choose when you want tell someone that you’re absolutely not interested in any sort of meaningful conversation?

It’s a conversation that too few travel guides about Toronto have, if you ask me. What’s there is usually something like: “…frigid in January…blah blah…sweltering in August…blah blah blah David Miller is so hot…blah blah.” It’s fair to say that this crass generalization encompasses all guides about Toronto so there’s no need to provide links or supporting quotes.

Instead of waiting for them to get their acts together, I’m going to deliver my piece on Toronto weather in a single word: layers

Start with a comfortable cotton undershirt. A button-down shirt with expertly “distressed” cuffs and collar on top of that. Next, a loosened cravate emblazoned with a funky puke green-brown, retro seventies, broken strip pattern; or maybe a happy, bright, fun one with a stylized flower in a gay colour.

Slide into a happening blazer. Water-proof, wind-proof, child-resistant, anti-corrosion, and weather-treated coat to top it off. Now you’re ready.

The thing that the guides rarely mention is that you’re as likely to spend your time indoors as you are outdoors. There are a couple of times in the year where the outdoor temperature and humidity match most indoor ones, but these are as rare as the savage marital rites of the women of Balthazar. Never heard of them? Exactly.

For all other times in the year you’re either going to be:

1. One of those Starbucks-carrying chicks (sorry, but it usually is chicks), twitching spasmodically down Yonge street in a frantic attempt to keep warm with nothing on but a t-shirt, torn jeans, and irresponsibly tiny shoes, as the outdoor temperature starts to fall below -10^oC (14^oF) .
2. A delirious puddle of flesh swimming in the squishy lining of your massive parka that, now that you’re indoors you either have to wear, or portage above your head like a canoe because it’s just too fucking big to carry any other way. Why the hell did you buy that thing?!
3. Just dripping. I mean totally drenched; socks, underwear, inside, outside, every layer; you name it, it’s wet. Summer soakers are even worse. In an air-conditioned mall, hypothermia sets in in minutes. A combination of hyper-erect nipples and annoying squeaky sneakers can result in severe and dangerous facial flushing.
4. Some really funny combination of the above.

Even Toronto’s famous soupy summers require layering, but for a different reason. In this type of weather an undershirt does most of the absorption and evaporation of sweat. Unless your pits are soaked, most of it won’t transfer to the light shirt you wear on top. An extra sweater comes in super handy when you sit down at the movies where the A/C always seems to be cranked to 11. Finally, a light jacket should make you more comfortable in the wind by the water, and protects your clothing when tucking into a leisurely nautical meal where “instant seagull delight” is on the menu.

Funky fresh dressed to impress, ready to party.

Nerdiness — with an “i” in the middle — is, in fact, not the right word. It implies a superficial or physical quality: taped glasses; gangly appendages; possible tendencies to be aroused by Klingon women.

Nerdness implies a more profound enlistment of less tangible, but more powerful, traits: the ability to hypnotically cause others to lose all sense of self and surroundings through a dark power called “work talk”;  the skill to instantly and deeply connect with anyone who thinks that the word “nybble” is funnier after learning what it means; the cojones to wax non-commital* in such a way that a deeply engaging chat can continue for upwards of thirty minutes.

The men and women that together comprise this second group are the people who could turn into super villains so easy, it’s best that we do everything we can to push them toward the good side. I am, of course, talking about Saturday morning library patrons, of which I am occasionally one.

So I speak from experience. I too have bathed in my own inner turmoil, distanced by those I had tried to help and left to question my place, if any, in society.

After travelling to Mars and building a giant, crystalline, clockwork palace of thought, I set upon contemplating whether or not humanity deserved my help; would they not simply work towards destroying themselves in increasingly ingenious new ways? Had I not been reminded by my foxy protege of  various great works of human artistic aspiration, I may have simply left this galaxy altogether.

The others, battling Eric Van Lustbader in the stacks and some horrid deformity of Dewey’s in the Hindi magazine section, too would lose faith unless…unless that which gave them to know in their hearts that humanity was still worth fighting for, was re-affirmed. That thing most upheld and uplifting, the beating heart of humanity’s purest hopes: beauty, love, truth, wonder — and art.

Art, above all others. The purest pursuit.

This, surely, must be the reason why the library had decided to widen the MAP program to all regular patrons. A blast of culture and learning to sweep over our fair city and its citizens, heroes, and villains alike. A vertiable explosion of truth and purity to expel the sicknesses of corruption and crime from our streets.

And by virtue of a clumsy four-paragraph segue, I am now free to mention completely out of context that the library carries comics and graphic novels as well. You know that MAUS one? Yeah, even that one; assuming whoever’s had it out for six months returns it.

If you’re cheap and sans BitTorrent, DVDs and CDs are available too, but the selection should not be described as dazzling. Keep hopes and expectations at low to low-medium for best results.  Besides, library loaners are a poor substitute for stuff you would otherwise have to pay for. Only trick is, ticket numbers are limited weekly.

Get yours tomorrow (or later)!

* The ability to carry on a conversation without actually saying anything about anything or, to put it another way, avoiding commitment to any possible viewpoint whatsoever (i.e. “Certainly a lot of weather we’re experiencing today” or “What a season the team’s having, huh?”)

is for the short, stout girl I passed this morning whose gait and cocky plummage taught me why the British call them “birds”.

is for the dual undulating artery blockages that obstructed the mid-section of the streetcar I thankfully missed.

is for the foppish dandy whose unseemly insertion into the lunch line was set aright by his  roti during its inaugural cut as it tossed a healthy amount of curry and karma onto his fancy threads.

is for unsullied spring.

I know, technically I’m a couple of weeks late, but when the buds on the trees and the sprouting Crocii eclipse such an unique day, isn’t that worth noting?

I know that I run the risk of being accused of being one of those celebrities who don’t stand behind a cause unless it affects them personally. The general line of questioning goes: Would Reagan have stood so vehemently behind Alzheimer’s research if he wasn’t starting to get a bit sketchy himself? Would Chris Reeve have been so supportive of stem cell research if it hadn’t been for his own accident? Doesn’t this mean they’re just self-serving pricks who don’t really care about moving the cause forward except when it comes to them?

I say “hell no!”  on their behalf, and and also for me by way of corollary (pure logic, baby). There’s a million and one things to get behind, from diseases, to famine, to war. Expecting anyone to get behind them all of them really just mirrors the decrier’s own lack of sanity. It’d be easy enough to clam up anyone who decides to go down that path by scaling the question  down to pleb level and asking which local charities they themselves haven’t contributed to. The only correct follow-up to their answer is, “well why not, jerk face?”  — that usually pacifies everyone.

Oh, and also, I’m not a celebrity. So with righteous aplomb, I continue.

I have the flu. If it isn’t the flu, some bacterium is a master of disguise. I have all the classic symptoms; chills, intermittent fever, headache, sneezing, snotting, and otherwise expelling pus. I’m writing this from my convalescence couch (eh, who am I kidding, by convalescence I mean just regular ole’ life. I just like alliterations).

“Oh, big whoop,” I hear you say, “everyone’s had the flu. My four-year-old niece doesn’t blog about it when she’s sick; what’s so special about you?”

What a loaded question, dear  imaginary interlocutor. Let me start by casting doubt on your niece’s ability to write a multi-paragraph expository work of any kind. That is all. I guess I shouldn’t have started that without a second point. Oh well.

My aim wasn’t to heap aspersions on your nieces or nephews anyway,  but rather to draw attention to the fact that Influenza is probably the world’s deadliest communicable disease and, since it’s affecting me, to try to encourage you to do something about it.

The statistics are a bit fuzzy at the upper end of the scale because Influenza is lumped into the “Lower respiratory infections” group (basically lung problems). A bit of reading reveals that yes, the flu can cause this type of complication, but not always. Usually this happens in the elderly or infirm, but there’s always one variant or another that has the ability to be more profoundly harmful to everyone.

On top of all this, apparently the influenza group hasn’t budged from its number one spot in the charts for decades. H5N1, the bird flu; that scared quite a few people because of the possibility of another pandemic, but once all the birds were dead, people pretty much forgot about it. Getting all lathered up does nobody any good, but there should be a level and ongoing discussion on the topic of Influenza in general (including all its variants, not just the few in the spotlight).

The government is quick to point out that flu vaccines are not entirely effective (roughly 80%), in staving off infections. This stems from the virus’ ability to evolve and change outfits before going out on the town.

The virus essentially wears a chemical mask which it uses to sneak by our body’s bouncers and get in. By the time the bouncers realize what’s happened, the virus has already taken control of the bar.

Vaccines work by providing the door security with photos of the virus’ newest disguises, but that 20% miss rate indicates that two in ten virii still manage to sneak by undetected. The other problem is that, in a typical season, we provide the bouncer with snapshots of only three of the most common viral disguises (which are many and growing each year). If any one of those variants decided to bring a weapon, that would really suck.

In other words, flu vaccines are a stopgap solution to a potentially deadly and widespread problem.

Academia and government are definitely concerned over this, but I don’t remember the last time someone marched up Yonge street waving a “United against the flu” placard. Don’t remember the last time I saw that for HIV/AIDS neither, come to think of it.

We need to get out there and rally against this horrible, horrible disease. It’s making me not enjoy Ren & Stimpy and I can’t taste hot dogs. I can’t imagine how it could get worse, but apparently it can. The flu must be stopped now.

Please, for my sake.

It’s innocuous and mostly ignored. It just stands there performing its function as best it can, providing a vital service to thousands of Torontonians each day without so much as a mumble, and lately it’s been spitting up gold.

Here is my accumulated trove from the past few days, complete with a likely reconstruction of the sequence in which they came out →

Aren’t they great? Each one a unique fuck up; some mis-cut, some mis-printed, and most that didn’t fully make it through the rollers. Then there’s Blue Mountain of messed up transfers, the double-print. Super gracias, TTC!

These will find a home somewhere on my shelf, lovingly enshrined in my homage to the quirks that make the city great. MiCkie Dick’s and towers don’t a shelf make nah more.

Should you care to brighten your own morning, visit the right-hand machine at the Dundas southbound subway platform, when it’s “fixed”. I’d be just chuffed to share your own sunny treasures here (comment or email, whatever floats your boat).

A few days ago I received a heartwarming email correspondence from a guy I’d never heard of. It brought unintentionally good tidings regarding employment in Toronto (at least in my field of work), as well as reaffirming my disdain for that barnacle of the professional world, the head hunter.

First the employment.

I don’t want to paint an unnecessarily rosy picture; there are certain sectors out there that are getting beat up left right and center. These seem to be mostly in old, established manufacturing jobs with most of them tied to car makers. However, many emerging and newer fields are on a broad upswing. Consider the letter I mentioned above. What makes that email uplifting is that it’s for the job in which I’m currently employed; I know because I helped to write the job description. We could chalk this mistake up to ignorance (more on that later), but le’s say for a moment that this was for a job that I wasn’t already in; what does the email say about the job market in my field (Flash developer, if you didn’t bother)?

First of all, the employment agency went to the trouble of describing my employer as a “Medium Sized Trendy Company”. In a brief discussion about this, my fellow developer and I came to the conclusion that we most certainly are the heppest things since hep became a word.

Going to the bother of adding trendy words indicates that a little bit of extra oomph is needed to attract candidates, something to which I can definitely attest. We’ve been trying to fill this position for about a year now. There have been a lot of dismal, head-shake-inducing entries and unfortunately, those that have been good were poached by competitors.

I don’t think that this job situation requires any heavy analysis (like this helped any “experts” forecasting our current monetary troubles); it’s a simple matter of supply and demand. Most high-tech skills, especially really nerdy ones like programming have large gaps between what employers need and what they can get. Sure, the learning curve is pretty steep but I think that an intensive six month course in your technology of choice should be enough to get you in on the $60K/year gigs. More often than not, there will be good room for negotiation.

Most developers I know are aware of the current global economic fiasco by name only. If you’re looking for a job, Toronto is probably faring a bit better than most places, but it’s hurting just as bad in those areas where people are getting axed globally. Despite this, it seems to be smooth sailing for all the fields that are opening up either because of changes in technology, ageing of the population, or recognition of global problems like the environment. By new, I mean somewhere in the neighbourhood of five to six years. I’m considered senior for God’s sake!

Don’t poopoo jobs because they’re different. Work environments are bound to change; if you’re freelancing now you probably have a better idea of what the workplace of tomorrow will look like than the standard nine-to-five guy. Keep your mind open when looking for a new job; the opportunity may seem unlike anything you’ve ever tried, and that’s usually what makes it the one to go for. There is an element of uncertainty, but as a general risk-averting pussy, I can honestly say that it’s a lot smaller than you think (mostly just an excuse).

In closing, I wanted to just touch on head hunters in the employment maelstrom. You can do without them! After all, their modus operendi is to make money off of you in exchange for providing a job seeking service as well as backing you up when you’re on the clock.

At least, that’s the theory.

In my experience with about seven different agencies, most fucked off after my first day on the job. In most cases I had to hunt down my rep who, more often than not, would be generally unavailable because of “meetings”, and that didn’t go down well on payday when the cheque didn’t show up. For the forty-odd bucks they were charging on top of my hourly, you’d think they’d be able to actually do what they say they’d do. Besides this, I had better luck finding good jobs myself ; they exist and agencies usually don’t have exclusive dibs. My delicate feet never hit pavement either.

And do keep in mind the level of competence exemplified by some of these chuckleheads; like the one who sent me a job offer for my own job. I wonder if he has opposable thumbs.