That's Camping

My resume is a perplexing piece of literature. It is filled with many a job, but almost all of which require some amount of explaining as to what I actually did for eight hours a day.

“During any given week, I’d say I do about 15 minutes of real, actual work. The rest of the time is spent trying to get people I’ve never met to laugh at me through an anonymous blog I keep.”

But in all seriousness, I’ve worked at obscure magazines, publishing houses and government organizations that often cause an inquirer to dig deeper to dissect my daily itinerary. This became abundantly clear to me the other day, when forced to explain my most recent role at a summer camp.

“Oh, that sounds like fun! So, what sports are you coaching?”

Damn! Even at a summer camp, the most self-explanatory job there is, short of “I pick apple trees or haul garbage,” do I have a complicated work title.

“Well, I don’t exactly coach anything,” I tried to explain. “See, I’m the site coordinator’s assistant, so I spend my days setting up the fields, coordinating the different camp schedules and filling in any necessary gaps.” And, oh yea, I get to dress up as this:
That would be the camp mascot, Gomer. Twice a week, I get in this sweat box that smells like it hasn’t seen a cleaner since it was purchased, dance around, and four-year olds giggle until their heads explode.

Fortunately for me, that is not the saddest thing about the camp. That would be the guy I report to (perhaps working below him is the saddest thing?), a self-nicknamed, mid-30s, slightly balding, unmarried, baseball burnout known as Devo. I have held many a shitty job, and have learned one unfailing truth: your boss will be an idiot and an asshole. Why? Because they too worked said shitty job, never graduated from it, are bitter about that fact, but have been finally promoted to the head position and feel a false sense of power and accomplishment.

Upon first meeting, Devo seemed like a nice enough guy with high energy for the camp. I was excited about working a summer camp, because it allowed me to be outdoors, figured to be pretty low stress, and would give me some experience working with kids, hopefully boosting a resume that one day will land me a teaching job. But as the week progressed, I realized this guy was not terribly bright or enjoyable to work under.

The camp is fairly well-known and respected throughout Metropolis (it was rated a few years ago by Sports Illustrated as the best sports camp in the city), and this marked the first time the camp had been held at this locale, and I quickly learned this was this guy’s first week at this particular job, so I gave him a break. But I began to sour on him when he debuted a giant, oversized, red fist that he wore during morning carpool.

See, the camp developed an asinine way to give a sign of acceptance to the campers, known as the first bump. Worst of all, camp protocol is to “bust the rock” upon making contact with the receiver of said fist bump. But Devo went a step further. He used a giant red fist (seen here at a Flyers game) to give each camper a fist bump, and then, as their parents were driving away, He fist bumped the parents! While I understand using the fist bump to avoid potential hugs that could lead to sexual assault trials, or high fives that miss and slap a kid in the face, where in God’s name is the professionalism? There is no reason to be fist bumping men in suits on their way to the office when you are in a red tee-shirt and gym shorts. Making the matter even more hilarious, I decided to inspect the red fist, because it had a circular hole on top of it that oddly seemed fit to hold a beverage, adult or otherwise. Sure enough, right there on the fist, in bold letters, said:

“This is not a toy. It is a beverage holder. If consuming alcoholic beverages from this, please drink responsibly.”

You can’t make this shit up. A mid-30s aged man was using a koozy to great five- and six-year olds each morning, and in order to reassure their parents they were in good hands, used it to send them off to work for good measure. The week went on like this; the guy scammed on the women who came in to set up the cooking camp for next week, would disappear for about an hour while I went about my work, rarely ate or sat still (leading me to believe and joke with the other counselors that he was bumping lines in a middle school bathroom stall) and was adamant that we follow the schedule, even when weather or other factors suggest we amend it. For example, one day a series of thunderstorms blew through the area, and more were in the forecast. But at the first sign of sunny skies, he had me head out to the field, lug the obnoxiously heavy pieces needed to assemble a dunk tank, and begin the long and tedious task of filling it to the brim with water. Needless to say, the storm blew through, and I got to take it down in a thunderstorm before enjoying a very damp drive home.

Yet, it pays pretty well ($400 tax free a week) and is all I have to get me through Europe in a few months. It is admittedly embarrassing as a college graduate, but I always liked camp as a kid, and it isn’t too bad of a way to make some spare change till I find something permanent.

Work for Hire

While enjoying a rare victory by the Phillies and an even rarer quality start by Jamie Moyer on Tuesday night, my phone rang, and by answering it, I invited a giant headache that has consumed the past two days of my life.

On the other end was Skinny, who you may remember from my Spring Break trip to New Orleans a few years ago. He last earned mention in this space for his ability to hook up with a bartender in Chattanooga, Tenn., to save us over $100 on a bar tab. Recently, he earned a position working as a personal assistant for a lawyer in downtown Metropolis, a position I too interviewed for. He was hired, and has been working for him for close to a month.

However, due to the verbose nature of this lawyer, the long hours he has been forced to work, and the mandatory dinners he attends with the lonely bachelor have put him well behind in a summer class he is making up in order to graduate. The course, Introduction to Macroeconomics, is a requirement for graduation, and he is failing after scoring a 42 out of 100 on the first exam. He called to ask if I might be willing to complete a few homework assignments for him and help him catch up.

I made a living freshman year taking exams and doing homework assignments for two kids who spent their time playing poker on line. They each paid me $250 an exam and $100 per homework (mind you, they were in the same class, so all I had to do was take one exam and I got paid double) and I helped them lift their failing averages up to Bs. I had taken a strong interest in economics after taking the AP courses in Micro and Macro in high school, and I got them through it for two semesters.

Knowing this, Skinny called me up.

“Carter, I need a favor. The Lawyer is killing me at work, I’m failing Econ and if I don’t pass they’re going to fire me from this job.” Great I was thinking, will they then hire me?

“I’ll give you $80, I need three of them done. One by tomorrow [Wednesday] and the other two by Thursday.” The price was considerably lower than what I used to command, but in true confession, I ripped those two kids off. I would log online, hack into their Blackboard accounts, do the homework, and the other kid would sign into his and copy it in. I am not working this week, and I could use any spare cash for Europe, all while helping out a friend in need. I agreed.

Skinny drove to my apartment to drop off the book so I could complete the assignment. After traipsing up the stairs, he looked like he was working for George Steinbrenner. His hair was cropped close, his baby face gleaned from the work of a razor and his shoes would have made Andy Dufresne jealous. He then launched into a long speech about how awful the job was, how The Lawyer forced him and the rest of the team to go out to dinner and drink with him and often how he did not get home till past 10 o’clock each night, all of which made me feel better that he was the poor slob that got stuck with the job, even though unemployment still sucks.

While he rambled on about how hard the class is, how he never has time to go and often is not allowed to leave work to attend class, I flipped through the book and wondered how in God’s name he had not passed intro Econ yet, and why he chose to take Macro, the harder of the two options. It wasn’t until he uttered the words “problem set” that my attention snapped back.

“Wait, these homeworks aren’t online? On blackboard?” I asked.

“Well, yeah, I’ll give you my password, you can log in and print them out,” he said as he began flipping 20s onto the table.

“Shit, these aren’t multiple choice questions, they’re like calculating GDP and unemployment and all that crap?” I moaned. “Skinny, I haven’t done this shit in years, my father has a PH.d in this shit, I don’t think even he could do this off memory.”

“They’re not that hard, I did the first one, and did pretty well,” he countered, explaining the fourth one was due as scheduled on Wednesday, and the other two were several weeks late, but he had talked his way into an extension. “I just don’t have time to do them, and if I don’t, I’m fucked.”

Guilt-ridden from his pathetic state but smiling inside from the money jangling around in my wallet, I relented. See, Skinny is a fun guy to go out with. I had a lot of fun with him in our younger days, going out and getting drunk, chasing after different groups of girls, listening to him retell his tales of conquest in the morning. But I began to realize as time went on that he was a bit of an ass, and not just to the girls he never bothered to call back. He has a horrible talent of “never having time” and often needing a favor. And after he lived in a satellite house with my former roommate BC, I learned of his spoiled inability to clean up after himself or be considerate to the needs of the others in the house.

Skinny asked me to complete the homework, but since he wouldn’t have time to come back to State College Town in time to collect it, copy it into his handwriting and turn it in to his teacher on time, he asked me to scan it and e-mail it to him. I recently purchased a new printer complete with scanning capability, so this would not prove to be a problem. I took his money, the book and he went on his way.

Wednesday morning dawned, I undertook my normal routine of dishwashing, breakfast, SportsCenter and news-gathering, wrote a weekly column I’ve been doing for a local state representative and then set in on the homework. The homework was as I feared, long, annoying and requiring a great deal of calculations, and I began to regret the assignment. Many of the things looked familiar, but I could not recall without a healthy reading of the text how to complete the questions. After spending three hours on the first one, I decided I would leave the next two till Thursday, since they were already late.

I booted up the printer, and placed the first page on it and prepared to scan. But, only an error message appeared, telling me to attempt to scan from the computer. Now, I’m not great with computers (it is the reason I spent all that money on a MacBook, which has proven incredibly idiot proof), so I attempted to find the instructional manual, but all the printer came with was a basics guide, requiring me to download the full manual from the printer’s Web site. It was there I learned that to take advantage of the printer’s scanning capabilities, I would have to download the software it came with. Unfortunately, the object’s resting place was a complete mystery to me. So, I called up Skinny and explained the dilemma to him. I tried the campus library, but being the summer, it’s copy shop had already closed. I was in no interest to trek to Kinko’s and pay the exorbitant price to fax everything to him, seeing as how it was unlikely I’d ever be reimbursed that sum, and I had spent enough time on the project and was frustrated over the amount of time it took me to complete it.

I had glanced at the syllabus and saw the class met on Wednesday nights, and offered to just hustle over and drop it off. But Skinny was terrified the teacher would recognize his handwriting (despite only taking one test and turning in one homework to that point, and that he has missed so much class it’s unlikely the teacher even recognizes his face) so that wasn’t an option. I told him he’d have to come out to State College Town to pick it up himself then, and to call me when he got here.

The night went on, and I soon forgot about it. At around 11, Skinny calls me.

“Carter, you got to do me another favor,” he demanded. “Jill [his ex] has a scanner, which she stupidly never told me.” - because that’s high on a dumped girl’s priority list, “I’ll give you her number, call her up and give her directions to come pick it up. Oh, by the way, she’s pissed.”

Well of course she is, asshole. After getting her on the phone, I learned she was studying for her own exam, and had been plagued by his badgering all night. She asked if I could make the trip to her, which I agreed, taking pity on her, and she huffed her way downstairs to pick up the homework and send it off. Mission accomplished.

But Lee Corso stuck his ugly catch phrase into my life about 45 minutes later.

“Carter, what is this? I can’t read any of it.” It was Skinny. He couldn’t manage to figure out what was what, likely because Jill was forced to remove the staples from the papers in order to scan it to him, and all the answers were out of order. I calmly explained to the best of my memory the labels I had used and the order it should go in, all while he whined about the horrible situation he was in and how no one had the flexibility or back strength necessary to save his ass.

With my frustration rising and Audrey trying to sleep, I again hung up the phone. But ten minutes later, my phone rang once again.

“I can’t figure this out, none of it makes sense. I’m driving over now to pick up the book so I can make some sense of it.”

In no mood at this point to deal with him, I told him I’d be in bed by then, left the book on my coffee table, told my roommate he was coming over, and bid him a good night.

But, like the Cowboys draft room, no one had cleaned the shit off the fan for day two. I was rudely awakened this morning by not one, not two but three phone calls. The reason? Skinny had inexplicably taken the book from my apartment, the one, you know, I needed to do his dastardly homework, and failed to return it to my apartment. Rather than inconvenience his self any further, he left it in the possession of Jill, instructed her to return it to me in the a.m., but could not sufficiently give her my address. So, I was awoken to learn I not only had to do more of his bidding, but I had to traipse all over campus to accomplish it. Worse, Jill had tried to drop it off, but couldn’t find where I lived, and had headed off to study, probably because he had interrupted her the night before.

Skinny continued to pester me throughout the day while I attempted to do the work as fast as I could to get on with all the things I needed to do, like, look for full-time work so I would never put myself in this position again. He would call to find out how much progress I had made, if I would be able to get it to him this time, since he was so greatly inconvenienced the night before and to ensure I was working on it

Because my scanner didn’t work, and because I had no interest in jumping through the hoops once again, I elected to do all the work on the computer, so I could easily e-mail the document to him and be done with it. Well, even that wasn’t good enough. Since the word document robbed me of the ability to draw graphs, I simply wrote out an explanation on how they should appear, giving him step-by-step directions on how to draw them, since he had to copy all my notes by hand any way.

“Carter, why didn’t you finish it?” was the rude greeting I received upon stupidly answering his phone call for the 15th time inside of three days.

“What are you talking about? I just fucking e-mailed it to you. It’s done. Leave me the fuck alone.”

“I don’t have time to draw these graphs out. I paid you $80...”

I lost it.

“Fuck you and your $80. You want to calculate that $80? Lets see. I began the assignment at 2:30 p.m. yesterday, finished it by 5:30, tried to fax it till six. So that’s three and a half hours. Then I dealt with your bullshit till midnight, so that’s another six hours on the clock. You then woke me up at nine to tell me I had to traverse the campus to track down the book I needed to finish your shit, worked on it till two. So that’s around 13 hours I’ve been on your clock. Migrant farm workers earned more than me in that time.”

“Well, I would hope as a friend...”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. This is your assignment, and I did it for you. You contracted me for work you can’t complete. That means you couldn’t do it. You then don’t get to tell me how the fuck to do it. It’s done. If it isn’t satisfactory, take it up with customer affairs.”

“Carter, I can’t have The Lawyer seeing me drawing graphs at my desk. I need this or I’ll fail and lose my job.”

“But I suppose he’s ok with you picking up your cell phone 12 times an hour to bug me?” I said as I hung up the phone.

The irony is that Skinny had me work on economics homework, all while failing to understand the simple theory of opportunity cost. Had I properly weighed out the costs of this job, I would easily have seen they would have exceeded the pittance $80 salary and laughed in his face. He should have thought of that before he hired me; hope my performance was better on the homework than in deciding if I should have done it in the first place.

So this is how Earnest Byner felt?

I do not like myself right now.

I have been known to have quite a quick temper, sitting quietly one minute before flying out of my chair and letting loose with a tirade at a seemingly benign individual just seconds before. I’ve been restrained on basketball courts when the trash talk gets a little too ugly. I’ve been in a scrape or two in my life. And don’t get my started on a Jimmy Rollins GIDP, Donovan McNabb overthrow, a Todd Pinkston (RIP) drop or the famed and frustrating Jose Mesa blown save (Mesa!).

But never does frustration burn in my belly like when I am upset with myself. When opportunity floats over my head but bounces off my hands like they were concrete. So you might imagine how I’m feeling today after fumbling away another opportunity at a job.

The day started so well. I was awakened by a phone call offering me some part-time work beginning next week, something I’d spent the two weeks since commencement searching for. I made myself some breakfast, watched a little television, went out for a run, and came back to shower and ponder the rest of my day. As I was finishing shaving, the phone rang. No bother, I said, I’ll call them back. But as I finished drying my face, I heard that tantalizing sound that signals I’ve received a voice message. No one under 25 leaves voice messages, so that must mean its an important call, hopefully from an employer.

“Hi, [Carter] this is [name redacted] from ESPN. I have your resume in front of me, and I wanted to discuss with you our opening for Statistics Associate. Please give me a call back at your earliest convenience.”

Oh happy day! A job offer in the morning and an interested employer in the afternoon. Perhaps my long days of filling out applications would finally come to an end! I have a friend at ESPN, he put in a good word for me, and only three days after sending in the app I was getting a call. Surely, my fortunes were changing, after securing two part-time positions last week and a bounty of booty from my graduation party this weekend.

But, I am an idiot, and destined to type this blog for the rest of my days from my parents' basement. The call started innocently enough, with her wondering why I wanted to work at ESPN.

“Well, ESPN is the gold standard in sports journalism. I know, having recently graduated from State College, that so many of my peers aspired to work at the World Wide Leader in Sports. Its the culmination of a career, and to have the opportunity to start one there would be great.”

She explained the position, what it would entail, and asked me if I was still interested. Of course, lady, do you know too many kids sending out apps that aren’t interested in talking about a job? Do you read the papers?

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied cordially to the women who probably isn’t more than five years my elder.

“Ok, great, I’m just going to ask you a couple questions to test your general sports knowledge, because this position requires quite a bit of it.”

“Sure,” I said, chuckling and smiling under my breath. This will be a walk in the park, I live on ESPN.com and watch Sportscenter on loop, since I have little better to do. Bring it on, lady.

The first few questions, no sweat. But she soon tripped me up.

“Name the last five Heisman Trophy winners, and the schools they attended.”

Damn, I hate college football, mostly because our team has sucked and I haven’t attended a game since joining the fraternity and drinking as much as possible at every tailgate.

“Bradford, Oklahoma,” I began. “Tebow, Florida.” I started thinking about flipping open the MacBook and cheating, but I was afraid of taking too much time and her hearing my fingers flying across the keys as I searched out the answer.

“Sorry, I’m trying to write it out,” I said through the receiver as I began to sweat. Who the hell won the Heisman the last couple of years?. “So, the last five years, that’s 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005 and 2004,” I said, trying to stall, but she stayed cool and silent on the other line, giving me no help. “I think Reggie Bush, from USC, was 2004…is it ok if I do them out of order?”

“Sure, I just need the last five and their schools,” she deadpanned, probably wondering why she wasted her time with me.

I thought some more about the the computer, but decided against it. She won’t kill me for missing one, so what, I can’t remember Heisman Trophy winners. I could give her the NFL and MLB MVPs.

“Sorry, I’m blanking on the other two years.”

“Ok,” she said, “Name two players on the Lakers,” she asked feeling sorry for me, “other than Kobe Bryant.”

Well, make it a little difficult. Ok, Lamar Odom and Pau Gasol. There.

“What are the four major Golf Championships?”

The Masters, The U.S. Open, the British Open and the PGA Championship, I responded, nailing them in order.

“Ok, how about the winningest coach in Men’s Basketball History?”

“Oh, it’s either Sutton or Knight,” I stalled. “I’ll go with Bob Knight.”

“Ok,” quickly becoming her annoying catch phrase. “How about the leader in NFL Touchdown throws?”

“Jeez, that’s either Marino or Favre. I’ll go with Marino.” Wrong, jackass. BSB is snickering somewhere, but fuck you Favre, I just thought you had the picks record.

“Ok, well thank you [Carter], but I’m afraid we’re looking for someone with some more knowledge. Please check out ESPN.com for more job opportunities, and best of luck in the future.” Click, before I could get another word out.

Wtf? I didn’t know the Heisman winners, but where else did I go wrong? Well, I pulled out the computer, which I should have done 10 minutes before, and found out it was Favre with the TD record, and Sutton wasn’t even close to the top in Men’s wins. But Bob Knight was, just not number one. That would be some ass hat from Northern State known as Don Meyer, who has been coaching since 1972 and has run up 910.

With a golden opportunity, I choked. Bush won in 2005, his teammate and Co-ed slayer Matt Leinart in 2004 and everyone’s favorite Buckeye, Troy Smith, in 2006. I hate myself. Why I didn’t just cheat, like every other candidate probably will, I’m not sure. Why I didn’t try to fight her, and beg for some more questions to redeem myself, I’ll never know. But I shanked the kick, sliced the drive and drove the car into the ground with the finish line in sight, and I’m not sure how I’ll ever forgive myself.

The lady certainly didn’t help. She never told me if I was right or wrong, which whittled my confidence as I second-guessed each answer. I knew I remembered Favre passing Marino a few years ago, but I yipped it, going for the safe answer. And I’m fairly certain she penalized me for hesitating on the answers, not merely coming back and firing responses at her right away. This rejection stings more than all the others, because it was a job I certainly could have done and excelled at. And at ESPN nonetheless. A day that began with so much promise crashed and burned like so many more before it.

Cooking with Carter - Mac and Cheese

As I have let on before here at Press On, I am an avid cook, somewhat of a foodie and kill an unspeakable amount of hours watching the Food Network, Top Chef, etc. My friends often ask me, “Carter, how did you learn to cook?” Well, the simple answer is that I loved to eat long before I ever picked up a spatula, and my mother was not always willing to make for me whatever it was I desired. Since I didn’t always have a car or money at my disposal to order out, I was forced to try my hand at it.

Cooking can be a daunting task for some, as it requires some practice, patience and attention to craft meals that you enjoy at your favorite restaurants. But, I assure you, it is not impossible, and not even that difficult, to make a delicious meal at home for yourself and friends. But first, you have to have on hand a couple of simple ingredients that are the base for almost anything you’ll make.

Milk
Eggs
Bread (for sandwiches, whatever your favorite may be)
Olive Oil (can be expensive, so you can substitute canola, peanut or vegetable)
Salt
Pepper
Basil (one of my favorite spices, I use it in almost everything - oregano is the same way)
Thyme
Chives
Crushed Red pepper (if you like things spicy)
Fresh garlic (or garlic powder - don’t buy the garlic salt, because it’s, well, too salty)
Onions (or onion powder - same thing as the garlic)
Frozen vegetables (I love fresh, but if you aren’t going to be cooking that often, they will go bad and waste a bunch of money)
Butter
Soy Sauce (great for marinades and a good way to add some flavor to plain old salt)

These are all ingredients that have longevity in your cabinet or fridge and can be used universally and substituted for many other ingredients a recipe may call for. You will also need some hardware.

Cutting board
Chef’s knife (as seen at this link)
Spatula
Saute´pan
Wooden spoon
4 quart pot
Glass pyrex (as seen here - can be purchased for under $20 at any grocery store)

If you are going to be doing a lot of cooking, invest in a 6-piece set. I recommend stainless steel, because it lasts forever, is easy to wash and works well on all cooking services. Teflon pans are nice, because food doesn’t stick as much, but if you buy cheaply, they will flake off into the food, and that can be dangerous and not too tasty.

So, what do you like to eat? Today, I will debut my favorite recipe, my home made mac and cheese. This is the beginner’s version, the one I started with. I have progressed beyond this since I started with it about five years ago, and if you are ready to move on, shoot me an e-mail and I’ll walk you through it. But this is a great recipe, and a nice change of pace for ridding the blue box blues.

You will need
1 pound macaroni (elbow, shells, it doesn’t really matter)
Cheese (I like to use a variety - cheddar, Parmesan, mozzarella, jack - but I will leave it up to your discretion) For a pound of mac, you’ll need about two cups of shredded cheese
Butter
Onions
Garlic
Milk
1 8 oz can of a creamed soup (chicken, mushroom, celery, it doesn’t matter)
Bacon
Goldfish crackers

To begin, bring about 4-6 cups of water to a boil in your pot. Add salt to help it boil, and oil to avoid it bubbling over. Once it boils, drop in the macaroni and cook for about eight to ten minutes, stirring occasionally so the noodles don’t stick to each other or the bottom of the pan. Strain the macaroni.

When the macaroni is done and straining in the sink, drop some butter back into the pan . Add some chopped bacon, garlic and onions into the butter (An aside here - to chop garlic, place a clove, pictured here, on your cutting board, and take the flat edge of the knife’s blade and smash the garlic, so the wrapper peels and the garlic begins to fall apart. Throw away the wrapper, cut off the hard bottom end and toss it in the trash, and carefully chop the garlic as fine as you’d like. For onion, chop off the top and bottom, peel off the skin, cut the onion in half from top to bottom. Then, lay the onion flat on the cut side and slice it, then finish by chopping the slices.) Let the onions and garlic cook, stirring frequently, for about 2-3 minutes over medium heat. If you let it go longer, the garlic will begin to burn. The bacon won’t be done yet, but that’s ok, you’re going to bake it soon. If you like your bacon crispy, cook it alone for 2-3 minutes before adding the veggies, but be wary of burning the bacon as well.

Once the veggies have cooked, dump in your can of soup, add half a can of milk, and stir. Cook for about 3-5 minutes or until it begins to steam. You don’t want it to bubble. Once it is starting to steam, dump in your cheese and stir until the cheese melts.

Once the cheese melts, slowly add macaroni to the pot and stir; if it doesn’t all fit, that’s ok. Once you have added as much macaroni as possible, dump the remaining pasta into your pyrex dish and top it off with what’s in the pot. Turn on your oven to 350 degrees, at this point. Top the macaroni in the pyrex with pepper, basil and chives and add any left over cheese to the top. Then add some crushed up Goldfish crackers to the top (you can use bread crumbs if you don’t like Goldfish) and slide it into the oven. Bake for about 20 minutes, or until the cheese bubbles or it begins to brown. Remove, let cool for about 5 minutes, and enjoy! Makes about 5 to 10 servings.

Graduation Gifts

“Carter, I really liked your entry on Moses and BSB,” Gervin said as he stuck his head in .

“Thanks, I really need to get some more writing done,” I lamented. “But, when all I have to write about is the crushing depression that stems from this job search, it doesn’t make for terrific entries.”

Gervin commiserated as he dropped his suit jacket on a nearby couch and settled in next to me to take in Sportscenter that blasted from the chapter room TV. He had spent his afternoon meeting with important people in an attempt to find his own job, but had not had much success, and heard many of the same things I had.

“Congrats on your recent graduation, you should be very proud. But, unfortunately, we don’t have any opportunities right now. Good luck!” It’s as if this generic response was stamped to the end of the stimulus packages that have flown through the Capitol building in D.C. and forwarded to every office building in the nation.

Gervin chuckled. “Yea man, I know it’s tough, but if you don’t have anything to do during the day, the least you can do is write. Just write what is on your mind. You’re a good, writer, it’ll come to you.”

So, what is on an unemployed grad’s mind these days? Is it lament from missed opportunities during my four years of school that may have ensured employment? Based on the state of many of my classmates, it doesn’t appear my level of achievement was insufficient considering they have a similar circumstance to me. I have wondered if the time I squandered early in my career and the resulting unimpressive GPA (2.8) I accumulated would be my undoing, but many classmates with sterling records are in the breadlines with me. I managed to stay employed with internships and jobs throughout my four years, but the grinding economy has left them without any funds left in the coffers to add me to their ranks. Perhaps I should have picked a different major.

Sports have certainly helped. The NBA Finals will finally tip off tonight (why the TV stations cannot adjust if series do not go 7 games I will never fully comprehend), and while it is not the scintillating battle that many had hoped for (Lebron v. Kobe), the Magic present match-up headaches galore and should prove a formidable opponent in the way of Kobe’s first Shaq-less ring. The Phillies continue to enthrall and baffle, as they have ripped off six in a row and run their record away from the cozy confines of Citizens Bank Park to a league best mark of 19-6 despite the underwhelming 12-14 they’ve played to at home. And all-world (and aging) Eagle Brian Westbrook will get sliced again, leading to a mass panic by the midnight green faithful and some fun reading.

But economic realities are beginning to set in and cripple my dreams of restful nights. I received my last paycheck a week back from my former job, which was forced to let me go because their policy is only to employ full-time students in intern capacities. My once crisp, clean Macbook is beginning to turn a shade of maroon from the constant pounding the keys have taken while I fill out applications and churn out cover letters, but little good news has come my way. Even my search for part-time work has proven fruitless, which has taken me from construction companies, to law firms, doctor’s offices and even City Hall, where I had the dubious honor to apply to be a meter maid the other day.

Making matters worse is a decision I made a few months back. I had long hoped to travel across the pond, and Audrey expressed an interest in returning, particularly to her native Poland, where she has yet to be since she left at age 7. With my lease running till the end of July and her move to Florida for full-time work not set to take place till September, we decided to book a three week trip in August as a going-away present to ourselves, if you will. I expected that I would be able to continue on my $9 an hour salary through July and that a sizable windfall would come my way from graduation gifts, and any gaps that remained would be filled by my parents. However, that job is gone, my graduation party is not till Sunday (leaving my unsure of how much I can expect from my gracious family) and my parents do not seem so willing to help me as I had believed.

Before booking the airfare, I had sent my mother an e-mail expressing an interest in going and asking if she would be willing to float me a loan for whatever shortcomings I might encounter. She replied, “I think that’s a great idea, and I would be more than willing to help you out!” With the finances in order and my interest piqued, I found tickets for $666.67 (the first dubious sign) on British Airways, and the decision was set.

The dam finally broke on Monday night. My parents invited me over to dinner (sans Audrey) to tell me what they planned on giving me for graduation. I had long known that they had invested a considerable amount of money for my education, and since I saved them a ton by going to a state school, I expected I was in line to see some of that back as a gift to me. I learned my expectations were right; however, the gift came with some strings attached.

“So, Bud, we decided on this about a year ago. As you know, we have money for you in Stock Company A and B, and since you went to State College, you will be able to see that money; your sister is unlikely to be so fortunate,” Pop started. “So, we are giving you a choice. The stocks have grown to about $20,000, and we are going to let you see half.”

Wow, this is great. My smart, thoughtful parents had the foresight to invest for me, and since I didn’t blow all of the money on college, now I’ll get it to get my finances in order, cover my unemployment, find an apartment, etc.

“What we had originally decided was to buy you a car, but we are going to let you decide which one you want,” he said as he started adding the strings to the marionette. “I am not prepared to give you this money, because I can’t have you going off and blowing it, especially in Europe, and I know that’s what will happen.” String number two.

“If you don’t want to use it on a car, as I know you have often stated how you don’t want one and you’ve always gotten by without one, you can save it for grad school, as a down payment on a house, etc. But, if you do want the car, you can’t have it until you get a job and can pay the insurance.” String number three. “I have to get you off the insurance, Bud. I can’t have something happen that might jeopardize the house,” he said, as he knocked on the floor holding up his four walls.

I sat there with what must have looked like the most spoiled, brat filled expression the world has ever seen. My parents had given me $10,000, and I was disappointed. But, to recap, I could only have the money to buy a car, and I could only get the car when I get a job to pay for it, which, while reasonable, doesn’t really help me today, and, doesn’t seem like a graduation gift, but as an eventual “you finally managed to get a job you worthless, lazy shit” gift. Further, I can’t be trusted with any sum of money, because I will immediately go out and blow all of it on something deemed worthless, although I don’t see the value of a vehicle when I live within walking distance of a subway. And finally, the gift is only being given because my driving is too big a risk to Pop, who is almost certain to lose his house after I kill somebody, but which wouldn’t happen if his son had his own insurance, killed someone, and got the pants sued off of him.

But he wasn’t done. “And I cannot condone you going off to Europe with your girlfriend. I am not willing to let you have the money and blow it over there, and I cannot give you money for something I do not agree with. You are almost 22-years old, and you make your own decisions, but I refuse to finance something I am against.”

My parents are uber conservative, having married at ages 22 and 19, raised my sister and I to be steadfastly Catholic and have expected us to uphold all that entails. I still hold on to my faith very dearly, and I understand the potential “inappropriateness” that could be construed from a three week trip between boyfriend and girlfriend. However, Audrey and I traveled to Jamaica already. Audrey has lived down the street from me for an entire year. And when she was away in Philly working in Spring ‘08, I often borrowed my parents’ car to go visit her for the weekends. While they expressed disdain to all of these things, they enabled me to do all of them, as well. I had to borrow their car to drive to Philly. I had to spend money I saved for Jamaica that could have gone to rent or tuition. So, now they are concerned we might share a bed in Germany?

I was forced to call my mother and ask her for the money which Pop refused me on Monday, because my job had dried up, my graduation is still a few days away and the credit card is fat from the plane tickets and the due date occurs during my party. I asked her why she had agreed to loan me the money a month ago, but now had backed off that stance. She countered that she assumed it was something I would undertake when I was employed (fair, but like I need to hear that again) and that she was still willing to loan me the money, but certainly not to fund the trip. She admitted there was a lack of communication between her and my Dad, and that she did not realize he would be so rigid in his stance on the trip.

I, under no circumstances, expected my parents to fund the trip; I even knew that they wouldn’t like that I was going with Audrey. That was why I checked with them to make sure they’d be willing to help me fundraise, because their interest rate is merely guilt, which, while annoying, is cheaper than money. Now, instead of a gift from them, it feels like a bill. I have to find a job to get the gift, which will in turn cost me money (what car will I find for $10,000?), and pay the insurance, upkeep and gas for the car.

I also had the dubious honor of playing ungrateful son. I have turned my nose up at a gift they have worked on for years but that I deem unworthy because it is not what I want at the present time. I’ve never owned a car, and I would prefer to go as long as possible without one, but that is sure to become more difficult as time goes by and my days aren’t spent between academic buildings 15 minutes apart.

I took a risk by planning a trip I could not afford at the time and relying on future circumstances which have not since panned out. The trip comes in the middle of my job search, which may prevent me from getting an offer, since I’ll have to take 3 weeks off after a month or two on the job.

But, Audrey is leaving in a few months. She could be gone for as many as two years, and we will once again be forced to play the long distance game. And, when I finally get a full-time job, when will I have an opportunity to go off to Europe again? I can take out a loan to buy a car (I have had credit cards for years and have been excellent in paying them off), but asking a company to finance my escapades in Europe is sure to result in laughter or, at best, a raised eyebrow.

The trip might not happen at all, now, and I may be forced to pay up to $250 in cancellation fees if I cannot raise enough to go. But yet, each cheery voice is at least sure to offer the necessary “Good luck!” after telling me even their toilets are too pristine for me to clean.