Unemployed?

I guess that I could count this as a good thing. I write. I write much. However, I really haven't written for an audience to whom I felt a particular accountability. Now writing everyday I somehow feel that responsibility toward my reader(s) of which I have few. I like to write humor and could do a good impression Erma Bombeck's style. Having so much talent makes it hard to know where to put all that talent.

I have a problem. I take life way too seriously. Recently, I have tried injecting a bit of humor in my writing. On the positive side I find the funny headlines grab attention. You see the struggle. To thy own self be true. Does that include being true to one's pocketbook?

I have started this book about unemployment and the pursuit of its gainful opposite. Having lived these nearly six decades on the earth, I recognize that the powers that run things around here have failed to set things things up in my favor. For example, I believe that the whole cover letter/resume thing may just favor the businesses as opposed to the job seeker. Somehow I think they use this approach to weed humorous writers out the serious business of “making a living.”

My book, thus, has to do with circumventing this resume/cover letter process. I have based the book on two scientific principles (1) Valuing and (2) Six Degrees of Separation. I believe first of all that most people have as their greatest concern in life old number one. I feel okay with that. I think that God has hard wired us such. If we failed to concern ourselves with number one, who would?

Finding gainful employment follows the same route as following a gainful mate. Hear me out here. On a date we usually skip the cover letter and resume. And we usually skip the part about trying to sell ourselves to the potential mate as practiced in a job interview. Instead, we talk about them. “I love your sense of humor. I really enjoy talking to you.” We value them, right? In turn our value goes up in their eyes. My book builds on this principle. Value them. They value you.

Secondly, infiltrate the circles of those with whom you want to work. The job marketeers would have us shotgun the job market with our cover letter/resume campaign. Or they have us pick out one employer and try to convince them of our value. I believe in middle ground here. I say, “Conquer the world. Just make sure you pick a small world.” The book describes how to identify the six-degree worlds out there and make connections within that world.

So today, I throw out this blog to see what interest people have in the topic of unemployment mixed with humor. You don't find it funny? I don't either, but I tried.

Poseidon, Tridents, and Other Mysteries of the Sea

Oregon posted bounty on a fish lovingly called the Northern Pike Minnow aka Sqawfish. You see, Northern Pike Minnows have this bad habit of eating salmon smolt. If you catch enough Northern Pike Minnows, you can earn five dollars a fish. I figured it up sans calculator. All to soon I had visions of a bulging bilge of green-backed Northern Pike and a bulging bank account with green backs of another sort. I untied Lulu from the dock and set out to make my fishy fortune.

Northern Pike Minnows haunt the shallows where small salmon congregate. I own a sailboat with one of those things that sticks down about five feet. We call em keels. They keep one upright in the wind and downright stuck in the sand. The keel meant that I had to anchor out in the rapids as opposed to the safety of the shoreline. Lulu, my sailboat, settled up-stream of a wing dam. I suppose that I have to describe a wing dam for the non-native species among us. Interestingly enough, wing dams have nothing to do with wings or damming the water. Rather they redirect water and more importantly sand flow They help to keep river channels open for commercial traffic—read barges. Wing dams look like a tepee without the skin.

Lulu hated anchoring, and so does her skipper now. She started lunging and lurching at her water-bound tether. I felt before I knew that something had gone awry. Somehow the anchor line had wrapped itself around that keel. Lulu started spinning and slipping quickly toward the wing dam. Wing dams from the road appear rather small in contrast to the mile-wide Columbia. Let me assure you. Up close they have enough bulk to sink a sailboat with one wing tied behind their evil backs.

As Lulu slithered toward the wing dam, I started my motor to keep me requisite eight or so inches away from death. Running forward with a knife in hand (don't try this at home) I cut my anchor and escaped. Anglers watched wide eyed as I nonchalantly eased away from the wings of death. This day I felt glad to have covered my entire body with a water-proof rain suit. It failed to keep me dry on the inside if you get my drift.

All real sailors have a secret suicidal side. It really took little time to talk my friend Dave into an anchor recovery mission. With a grappling hook and fifty feet of line, we transversed the very burial grounds of my anchor. In short order we lost both the hook and the line. Dave has a firmer grasp on reality than myself. “Wait, till Summer. When the water level goes down, I bet you can stand over there and retrieve your anchor. This comes from a guy who fished his cell phone out of eighteen feet of water after having left it there for two days. It still worked. ” I figured with his record that I should listen.

Summer came. I took a pitchfork and carefully probed the river for my anchor. My boating adventure next to the wing dams had garnered some stares. However, if you really want to draw attention to yourself some time, try walking in the river with a pitchfork in your hand. “What's that?” The pitchfork caught on something. I pulled up his grappling hook, his line, my anchor, and my line. I pulled them ashore with a smile as if I always fished for anchors with a pitchfork nice summer days.

I never really understood the whole trident (pitchfork) thing with Poseidon. It makes sense now. For all you Greek mythology scholars it has nothing to do with dishing out godly disciplines on mere mortals. The poor guy just lost his anchor.

Writing with Brown Ink

I would like to tell you that I loved writing ever since I discovered brown ink in my gaping diaper.  Even though I spoke it every day, writing the English language evaded me most of my young life.  Every year the subject grew a little harder.  By the time I reached my senior year I just guessed at punctuation.

With my dread of English I have little idea why I chose journalism as an elective in my senior year of high school.  I just chock it up to one of my many clueless decisions in life.  The journalism teacher gave us a lengthy assignment on the first day of class.  Because it came on our first day, most of the students considered the assignment an unfortunate mistake.  I had a nasty habit doing my homework even if it took all night.  The next day the instructor asked who had done their homework assignment.  Only I raised my hand.  On the basis of that one assignment, she chose me as the paper's editor.

Even though English made little sense to me, journalism for some odd reason did.  It appeared simple enough.  Answer the five W questions, put the important stuff at the start of the article, create a catchy headline, throw in a picture or two, lay it out, and publish.   Fortunately, I had a column called Aden's Anecdotes which required little actual English.  I wrote this pun-filled satire about teachers with the help on an excellent caricature artist.  It usually ran a hundred words at most.

With that illustrious background I marched off to college to pursue a degree in Chemical Engineering which I abandoned when I discovered the true nature of engineering. Do you know that they actually calculate fluid flow through pipes?  I wanted something more exciting.  In another clueless decision I switched to English. They tried again.  I still failed to learn the fine art of writing.

Along the way, I have had  near misses with the writing life.  A seminary professor encouraged me to publish.  A pastor friend sent me to a writer's conference.  A friend explained to me the rules of grammar in a way that I could understand.  I sent an article to a health magazine. Wham, the first time out of the box I got published and a $300 check.  It still represents the easiest money I ever made as a writer. Evidently, fate has either blessed or cursed me and now you.  I'll keep on writing.  I just hope you'll keep on reading.  Oh, and send some money please.