February 2009 Archives

I have been slacking off.  I realize that, to the untrained eye, it might seem like I have no excuses.  “You have plenty of free time, not having a job.  Why the heck can’t you write more?!”

Well, my friends, it is a little thing I like to call DEPRESSION!  I’m not even talking about the emotional kind, either.  Think of it as inertia.  Bodies in motion tend to stay in motion; bodies at rest tend to stay in, eat five things of yogurt, and take at least two naps per day.  You can imagine how hard it must be to fit writing into such a rigid schedule.

Monday I had a really great job interview, which, in a circle-of-life, Lion King kind of thing, was balanced out by me receiving a rejection letter from Category I job that I actually really wanted and wouldn’t have to move to Houston for (vomit).  To continue with the metaphor (this one is going to be convoluted, so I will include aides as I go along): it’s like Mufasa just got trampled by the wildebeests.  It is not surprising and I totally knew it was coming, but when the tattered remains of my psyche  (Simba) poke at the moldering carcass of my hope for employment and ask it to wake up, I am still totally crushed when it doesn’t spring to life and start playing tag with me.  And obviously it is going to be okay in the end and Simba returns to Pride Rock with new, ugly friends, and Elton John starts going as the end credits begin to roll.  But the journey, my friends—the journey, like Scar and his hyenas, is…well, really effing annoying.

Wow, that was a terrible, terrible metaphor, even for me.

What else.  Oh yes.  As I was lying in bed the middle of the day on Monday—as one is wont to do—I sneezed in bed.  A number of things ran through my mind.  First: why the heck am I sneezing?  I very rarely get sick, unless it is psychosomatic and I am trying to get sent home from work.  Second:  what if I am getting sick?  I can’t afford medical care.  I can’t even afford to buy into COBRA.  Third: holy crap, my jaw is broken—how can I possibly have broken my jaw just from sneezing?  I hope my jaw is not broken, since that is likely more expensive to correct than some sniffles.  Fourth: okay, it is not broken, it just really hurts.  That night I was tossing and turning, alternating between massaging the right side of my face and typing “jaw pain” into WebMD.

The next evening at rehearsal, I couldn’t open my mouth up all the way to sing a proper “ah” vowel, which is quite important in any language.  As I was tossing and turning that night, all I could think of was the audition I had this weekend.  What if my jaw had completely seized up and I couldn’t open my mouth?!  I am not worried about not being able to eat, really—I could always huff slim-fast through my nose—I was worried about not being able to sing.  In fact, I had visions of myself stepping onstage holding a sign that said “Good afternoon.  My name is Sebastian,  and I would like to present for you the bass part of the humming chorus from Madama Butterfly.”  Or maybe it would say, “Good afternoon.  My name is Sebastian, and I would like to present the scene from The Magic Flute where Papageno gets lockjaw.”  Or maybe…okay, I ran out of funny things.

The jaw pain and stiffness subsided a bit by Thursday, but I still had a spectacularly bad voice lesson.  It wasn’t a question of not sounding fantastic—if that were the issue I would have given up singing ten years ago—it was more like I had regressed a bit.  I was singing an aria that I have actually sung for two auditions before, and with pretty good success, and you know what it sounded like?  It sounded like when I stepped on my cat’s tail that one time when I was walking to the kitchen in the dark.

So what?! Is this audition cursed?  I would normally be fine with a cursed audition, you see, but I really need the work (read: the money) this time.  So please, Lord Baby Jesus, uncurse my audition.

I was ready to call the whole audition off, actually, but then I realized that because my jaw had seized up reflexively, I was not seized up in terror.  And because I had an awful voice lesson Thursday, I had a moderately good coaching today.  I’m not even nervous about tomorrow—which, frankly, is the best way to go into an audition.  The worst that can happen is they turn me down.  But, to be perfectly honest, I am used to this after the past two months and so I’m not even worried about it.

So we’ll see.  Tomorrow may actually determine whether or not I can stay in my apartment after my lease is up.  Should be interesting!

Thanks, Johannes!

I am well aware that I have not written here in several days.  Let me rehash how my week has gone.

• Sunday: went on a diet.  This is the iPhone diet, where my iPhone tells me how many calories I can consume, and I obey.  Because I am a slave to technology.  The roughly 120 pizza rolls in my freezer provide plenty of temptation, but in the end, fitting into interview clothes that I already have is more important since I can’t afford to buy new ones.
• Monday:  turned down for a job that I forgot I applied for.
• Tuesday: turned down for a job that I really wanted—but at least they turned me down instead of stringing me along (read: my college romantic experiences). Symphony chorus rehearsal.
• Wednesday: spent all day (after awesome former coworker lunch) in bed.
• Thursday: should have spent all day in bed and did my best to make that happen.  10AM voice lesson: awful.  7:30PM Church job: quite good actually.  Came to the depressing realization that I need more than ever to be in therapy but can afford it less than ever.  Somehow this made me feel better.
• Friday: accomplished some things.  Haircut.  Grocery shopping.  Video game p0wnage.  Bought an iron so I can look starched for interviews.
• Next week: application for New Dream Job (NJD) due at 10AM GMT on 23 February (Yes.  GMT.).  10AM interview for a Category III job, also Monday.  This interview involves giving a “ten minute presentation on whatever you like.”  I am not looking forward to it, but at least they are not asking me to sing—I’d give a presentation any day over an audition.  Also next week: holy shit I have an audition on Saturday.

So you will have to forgive me if I have been absent from writing.  But let’s face it: reading nothing is infinitely better than reading ten pages of woe.  At least things are looking up—even the abject horror I feel thinking of next week is a step up from what I was feeling on Wednesday.

So that is good, right?

According to Forbes Magazine, St. Louis is America’s #10 most miserable city in 2009.  Says the website, “The Gateway City scored in the bottom half of all nine categories we looked at for the Forbes Misery Measure. It was the only metro area to pull off that feat.”  Oh, St. Louis.  You are doing me proud.  Surprisingly, Chicago placed ahead of my hometown at #3, which I don’t know if I would necessarily agree with.  But then, I haven’t lived there.  I could wax philosophical about the presence of St. Louis on this list, but it is neither surprising nor especially interesting to me, because my life has been miserable here for a while now.  I didn’t need a magazine to tell me I need to get out of this crazy town.

My bout of bitterness over high-earning executives has largely abated.  I think I am starting to really, finally, settle into unemployment, something that is both comforting and terrifying (terrifying because unless something crazy happens, it is likely I will be this way for a while).  It’s not really a huge change for me; I think it just requires accepting the fact that I can’t afford anything, and accepting the fact that it’s probably going to be that way for a while.  And it also requires a lot of hope that nothing (else) that I own breaks.  Because losing the shelf that was suction-cupped to my shower walls (on which I kept my shampoo and soap)—and knowing that I will not be able to replace it because it is cheaper just to keep everything on the floor—was a humbling experience for me. 

Obviously I am always looking for new leads on jobs, but I am not terribly hopeful that I will find something more fantastic, or even equally in the same league of fantasticness, as the two jobs for which I have already interviewed (and from which I have not heard back, in case you were wondering).  Things that I would not mind doing all day every day: singing, writing, voiceover work, talking to people, eating noodles, singing about noodles.  I will settle for answering phones or preparing mailings for an opera or theatre company.  Pretty much anything that will allow me to start saving money.  Because the next time I don’t have a day job and make all of my money from singing, I want to be able to afford neckties in case of emergency.

You will be assimilated.  I just wanted to get that non-sequitur out of the way so that I can get on with the complaining.

I have spent probably the last 24 hours feeling really indignant (also indigent.  But mostly indignant).  This culminated today when I read this article in the New York Times, which is about how hard it might be for executives in New York to adjust to the half-a-million-dollar per year salary cap that Obama has proposed for executives who work for companies receiving bailout money.  The things that I was bitter about prior to reading this article seem sort of like the salad I had before eating an overlarge meal of bad shellfish.  I AM FOOD-POISONED VOMITOUSLY BITTER ABOUT THIS.

I am probably bitter because my parents struggled to raise me and three brothers (not to mention the live-in houseguests) on a combined income of approximately one eighth of what these people make—and that was in a good year.  Private school?  Tutoring?  I will buy it.  If I could do it over again, I would want more quality elementary and secondary education (most of my teachers were great, but the system itself was kind of screwed up).  But fucking.  $16,000 for biannual vacations?  The only vacation I have ever been on was when my church job raised money for me to go with them to Paris so I could help with the low notes.  Chauffeurs?  Limos?  I can’t even afford a car because of my absurd student loan payments.  $35,000 for three formal gowns per year, not counting the cost of a plate at a charity dinner?  COME ON.  I can’t even buy a suit on clearance from Men’s Wearhouse, and my cat just ruined every single tie I have ever owned, 100% of which were purchased for less than $25 each, and most of which came from TJ Maxx.

I understand that image and appearances are important.  They are for any job (even mine: it is important for fourth-string opera singers to look pretty.  You can’t be fat and ugly unless you’re already wildly successful.).  But seriously, people.  The economy is crashing all around you, and once EVERYTHING ON THE PLANET CLOSES DUE TO LACK OF FUNDING, your children, as well as the children I may someday have, will probably be taught arithmetic by Harvard-educated bums living in cardboard boxes on the street corner, and they will have to look up “bank” in the dictionary.  So by all means, continue spending money on gun-carrying limo drivers and your summer home in the Hamptons.  Douchebags.  (Secretly I am bitter because I should have gone to business school.  No class on Fridays and ABSURD amounts of money.)

I promise to stop being indignant tomorrow.  I may even come back with more Star Trek references.  

The Post-Dispatch finally picks up on what the New York Times reported on last week.  I am very excited about all of these closures, because at least two of the bus routes that I used to depend on are being cut completely, and the trains, which I already feel did not run frequently enough, are going to be running less frequently.  I have to get out of this crazy town.  I need to live in a place that meets the following three requirements: blue state, adequate mass transit, Ikea.

Also, I am slightly bitter that the vinyl hoods, which are going to be placed over the 2,300 bus stops that are no longer being serviced, are missing a much-needed complementizer and maybe some commas.  BUT I GUESS SINCE WE ARE IN AN ECONOMIC CRISIS, WE DON’T NEED TO WORRY ABOUT SUCH PALTRY THINGS AS GRAMMAR.  COME ON!

Today has been slow on the job-search front.  I feel unmotivated to look for new jobs right now since I am waiting to hear back on the interviews that I had last week and the week before.  And since I know that that is not exactly a constructive way to go about looking for a job, I want you to know that I looked for jobs anyway today but didn’t find any worth applying for.  Did you know that the economy is slowly collapsing and it turns out that like ten percent of Americans are looking for work right now?  In a market where fewer jobs exist already because any company being run by someone with a brain is trying to keep costs down as much as possible? Hmmm?  Because I did.

Instead of writing cover letters today, I vacuumed my apartment, which was necessary since tumbleweed-like formations of cat hair were forming on my hardwood floors.  I also mopped with eco-friendly cleaning products that I bought back when I had a job (which, if you were wondering, was over a month ago).  My entire apartment has been cleaned.  And I did it all with the windows open, because in addition to being an economic crisis, we are having a climate crisis.  So it was a sultry 70°F. In February.  Early February.

So far this week, my pizza roll count is at 0 and my yogurt count is at 2.  I am bringing you the statistics that matter.

Diane Rehm just used the phrase “massive stimulus package” and I can’t stop giggling.

…

…What?  When she said it, it sounded dirty.

I haven’t made a habit of writing on the weekends, but I think today deserves an entry.  Mostly because I have been pressured into writing one.

Yesterday I came home from a brunch with my college a cappella group to find that I had accidentally shut one of my cats in my closet for a few hours.   He was not happy about it, I’m sure, but really I am not the one to blame.  I am not the one who ran into the closet while the door was open so that a person could put a sweatshirt away.  I entered my bedroom to hear mewing from an as-yet undisclosed location, and I opened two separate closet doors before I hit the right one and found my cat, who bolted out of the closet as if he would never want to be in one ever again.  He reminds me of me in high school.

And, just like high school Seb and R Kelly, my cat was unhappy about being trapped in the closet.  So he did what any cat would do: he scratched at the door.  This particular closet door was protected from scratching, however, because it was being shielded by my entire collection of neckties, which were hanging on a necktie hanger on a hook on the inside of the door.  So instead of scratching and potentially ruining the door of my closet, the cat just scratched at and definitely ruined all of my neckties.

It’s fine, though.  It’s fine.  It’s not like I needed them for job interviews or anything, and I definitely have the resources to upgrade my wardrobe anyway, so like losing my job and having my bus service cut, this is really a blessing in disguise.

FATE CERTAINLY DOES HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR, DOESN’T IT?

A-hole.

On the upside, a friend of mine just got me an in with another opera company—this one a little closer to home.  If I am lucky enough to get an interview there, I suppose I will be wearing a mock turtleneck.

Today after my unemployment lunch (which included pizza, but not in roll form (it was purchased FOR me by my lovely former colleagues—thanks dudettes!)), Diane, my unemployment buddy, and I headed to the unemployment office for our four-week report.  I do not understand the purpose of this report fully, even now that I have completed it.  My hypotheses until today included: it is to keep people from falsely claiming benefits for deceased members of their family; they want to make sure I really exist; they just want to put a face with the name; they are lonely and want to get to know me better; and they want, in spite of themselves, to give me as much money as possible but would like to see the joy on my face when I receive the check.

However, given today’s experience, I now know that none of these are true.  Absolutely all of them are in all ways false.  It. was. ludicrous.

When we walked in, we stood in front of the reception desk for a few seconds before they noticed us.  When they did, they spoke first to Diane, who was carrying the letter telling her that she needed to report in.  “Oh, you’re here for your four weeks,” said one of the receptionists.

“Yes,” said Diane.  And then before she could say anything else, she was being instructed to key her Social Security number onto a keypad.  The other receptionist looked at me then.

“Are you together?” She asked me, indicating Diane.

“No,” I said.  “I mean, yes.  I mean, we’re together, but we’re not together.  I mean, I’m here for my four week report but I forgot my letter and…”

“Key in your Social, please.” Once I had finished, she instructed me on using the computer to do my report.  There was no standing in line, there was no waiting around, there was no calling of numbers, no interviews with career counselors or social workers.  Nothing. After she finished her thirty-second demonstration, Diane and I found computers next to each other, and seven minutes later, we were done.  And the next time we go in, it is going to take us six minutes less because now we have our profiles set up.  All I have to do is type in my name, click a button that says “I was here,” and then go.

I now fully understand why Missouri is running out of unemployment money.  They didn’t even require a picture ID.  I could have sent ANYONE in, told them my social, and had them do my reporting for me.  Seriously.  I could probably file for unemployment for my father and collect his money for him for months without ever being questioned.  And he has a job and lives at a different address.  That’s how easy it is.

On the upside, I did get my first payment of unemployment money.  Yeah, buddy!  Now I don’t have to buy yogurt at fifty cents a thing.  I can upgrade to 60 or 75 cents a thing.  I am so excited.

This makes me a little sick to my stomach.  St. Louis is screwed up about a lot of things, and Public Transit is probably the biggest of them.  Obviously, the community is going to find some way to cope with this.  Maybe the dishwashers and housekeepers who lose their jobs can be replaced with people like me, who have no job even though they have degrees from top universities.  Or maybe all of the people with masters degrees who I’m competing with for work will finally be able to find work as a cook or launderer, so as to free up a high-paying, rewarding job for me.  It’s like some sick circle of life.

THANK YOU FOR VOTING ON PROPOSITION M, DOUCHEBAGS.  Because it isn’t already hard for people to take the bus in this ridiculous city.

Sorry.  I am filled with bitter unemployment-bile today.  I think it may be related to the pizza rolls, cheez-its, and yogurt which are now 80% of my diet.  Oh, and discount candy bars (a man has to LIVE, after all.).  Maybe next time I go shopping I will buy some spinach or broccoli or carrots.  And by carrots, I mean Diet Dr. Pepper.  And by broccoli, I mean canned soup.  And by spinach, I mean peanut butter.  Vegetables are too expensive.  There goes my trim, recession-enhanced waistline.

The most interesting part of my job interview today came when the interviewer was describing the particulars of the position I applied for.  One of the functions will be to plan an outdoor summer concert series in a local arts district (how this job continues to be more and more perfect for me, I do not know).  The way she was describing it, she is looking for off-the-wall ideas for musical fusion to happen in this concert series.  “For example,” she said, “We might talk to some Symphony violinists to come and play outdoors, but instead of Bach or Mendelssohn, we’d have them play hip-hop.”

“That’s perfect,” I said, genuinely excited.  “Because one of my favorite hobbies is singing rock music operatically.”

She wrote that down on my resume.  Other than my salary history, it was the only thing she wrote down during the interview.  I can’t tell if this is good or bad.

Anyway, I am supposed to find out next week if I’m still a candidate.  Obviously, Internets, I will keep you updated.  Because you are my BFF.

This is the story that I woke up to on NPR this morning.  Two thoughts come to mind. One: how can Missouri's unemployment fund possibly be so close to exhaustion when I have not received a single dollar for the weeks of unemployment that I’ve claimed?  Two:  HOLY FUCKING SHIT WE ARE ALL SO FUCKED.  Would anyone like to start a colony on Mars with me?  I don’t understand anything about economics, so I guarantee you nothing so huge and complicated as this huge and complicated global recession will happen.  Economic crises might include: we have run out of Cheez-its, which, being non-perishable and valuable to me, are our planet-wide form of currency (This will only happen when I accidentally ingest 200 million Cheez-its worth of Cheez-its.); also, maybe the economy might freeze if my six-year-old iBook dies (this is likely: the battery doesn’t hold a charge and that shit can’t even do YouTube.), because I will naturally have to administrate the economy from my laptop and I don’t think I will have room on the space ship for my also-aging desktop computer.

Also: in these trying economic times, with unemployment and zoo funding dwindling, a local groundhog tries to save money by going on an All-Finger diet.  The mayor claims the groundhog was trained by Al-Qaeda.  Mostly I think he’s just jealous that he didn’t think of this money-saving technique first.  After all, he has a head start: he has ten fingers already (well, I guess now he has 9.99)!

This morning I have my first job interview and with Emily’s help I have decided that I am going to wear a sweater vest.  This is for the theatre management position, which involves a lot of planning, coordinating, and scheduling.  As it is currently nine degrees Fahrenheit outside, I want to show my prospective employer that I am the kind of homosexual who plans ahead.  So I am dressing in layers.

So far the morning hasn’t been too disastrous, but then, I did just spill pumpkin spice coffee all over my desk.

This weekend I opened and closed a production of I Pagliacci, which is an opera whose name you probably don’t recognize, but from which you probably know at least one of the arias thanks to Saturday morning cartoons.  I learned a lot in this production, such as the answer to the question: how on earth can they possibly expect to put up an entire opera in only nine days, even if it is only two acts long and is usually only one-half of a double bill?  I can’t actually tell you the answer to this.  I just know it’s possible.  It also helps if you have completely bad-ass choristers like me.

(PS - If you feel like supporting a burgeoning young opera company in a city that is literally starving for art, check out New Opera Saint Louis or Union Avenue Opera. Both are great little companies!)

I almost didn’t close this opera.  Let me tell you a story about a twenty-something with problematic insomnia.  This person went to bed at 11:00PM on Saturday night, after responsibly choosing not to go out, after responsibly laundering his own costume for the opera that he was in, and after responsibly showering so as to keep the stage makeup from clogging his pores.  This very responsible person needed to wake up at 6:00AM the next morning to ensure that he would be on time for his 8:00AM call for his church job.  This very responsible, unlucky person who would like nothing more than to sleep in on a Sunday morning for a change, DID NOT FALL ASLEEP UNTIL 4:30AM DESPITE HIS BEST EFFORTS.