The Freelance Transition

It's official: I've been bitten by the freelance bug. And after 10 months, it's gotten to be a lot of fun.

Last year at this time, I never expected to be able to sustain myself by freelancing. As a proponent of the old model of survival (ie. working 40 hours a week complete with lunch break, smoke break and hotmail checking), I thought I would work for a newspaper for 50 years, leave with the gold Timex and move to the Villages in Florida. Of course, the idea of being able to have a career in a suitcase never occurred to me. I will admit, I hated the Internet a mere six years ago, because I thought it was destroying the old way of life. You know, the one where men in fedoras would sit at the dinner table and thumb through the daily paper after a long day of work. If you need a visual, watch the Christmas Story. When Ralphie isn't try to connive his parents into buying him a hand cannon, his father is eagerly looking for the Bears/Giants score in the paper.

I don't think I've made enough money yet to live lavishly, but I can buy the occasional steak and pair of jeans from the Gap. I'm stealing learning how to find work online and am totally open to any suggestions.

My Anniversary

I hate to start a blog with "according," but dammit, I'm going to do it! According to a study I read today, smaller cities are losing their luster during the economic downturn. I could care less about the numbers! If I've learned anything during the past year (aside from it's bad to hit a moose with your car) it's that small cities are where's it's at. During my trips to Vermont, Rhode Island and New Hampshire, I've found the people nice, the food eclectic and the traffic not so bad. Even Burlington, the biggest city in Vermont has traffic that pales in comparison to cities like Syracuse and Rochester. I'd much rather deal with a longer commute than four lanes of traffic packed with cars driven by blokes with cell phones and Marlboro Lights. During a week in Burlington, I didn't get flipped off once.

And speaking of economic downturn, the one-year anniversary of becoming a laid-off is right around the corner.

Yup, one year.

I'm not gonna lie, but it's been a great year filled with freelancing, dangling participles, traveling, and seeing the family. and Adobe CS4. I've basically taught myself how to design newsletters and brochures and to edit pictures. My favorite has to be the one of the sea monster eating my girlfriend. It's not that I want her in Davy Jones' Locker, rather, I just wanted to see if I could create the image.

So, as I start year two, I'm confident full-time employment is right around the corner. I've made good connections, watched the necessary chick flicks and kept my skills updated. If I was more superstitious, I'd be worried about the bridge between New York and Vermont being condemned. I'd see it as a sign.

But no way. They have ferries across the lake.

Today, the Bridesmaid

Today, I received good and bad news. The bad news is that I pretty much came in second for a great job in Burlington, Vermont. The good: they really liked me but opted for the person with more experience. It's a great feeling being told "you did everything right." Basically I came in second in a height competition, and as you know, height is something you can't teach or earn.

I'm a little disappointed and actually sad, because the people there would have been great to work with and who knows what the future holds. Another great part is that I can finally exhale. Monday was filled with utter nervousness and trepidation. So much to the point, that my girlfriend encouraged me to drink a fine brew of cider and wonderful Kentucky bourbon. But as I've learned, all bourbon is from Kentucky.

On very rare occasions does the woman in my life plop down a glass of 80 percent booze and tell me to get to work. She could see my nervousness, especially after I turned down the dessert with pumpkin in it and a night out filled with baby bottles full of beer and chocolate cake.

So, does rejection sting more when you don't get a phone call or come so close to getting the job? I'm not telling.

The Skill Set

In a perfect world, the wisdom of Yoda would hold true and we'd all be walking around speaking in inverted sentences. "Need breakfast I do" would be a popular saying in my domicile. The reason I respect the little green bugger so much is that he definitely had a plan, even if Luke Skywalker couldn't see it. Luke probably didn't think that wearing a blindfold and trying to slice a robotic floating orb would pay off later.

The same went for me about a decade ago while I was covering a fire in Boonville, N.Y. ruining a $100 pair of pants from the Gap because I was too close to the smoke. But instead of swatting a robot, I was learning how to talk to people and negotiate tight situations. There's a certain gross pull when you have to write a story about a shop owner who just watched his entire life go up in flames.

It all adds to your skill set, no matter what road you took to get there. Last week, I had two amazing interviews for a PR gig in Vermont, and it seemed that my skills culled from the journalism realm really meshed well with what they're looking for. I didn't realize how much I learned from being in the media for a decade. But when you're doing something every day of your life, very rarely do you stop and look around.

Maybe Ferris was right.

Up For Breakfast

Breakfast as a freelancer tastes different than being a full-time newspaper employee. When you're honed on a diet of granola and Mr. Goodbar every day for three straight years, you develop a yearning for eggs. Particularly the ones that come from chickens with large talons raised in the Northeast.

A few days ago, I decided to drive to Vermont for breakfast with my father. Not just because his mother just died, but also because Vermont is rife with great breakfast options and a flair for local products. If I learned anything from Michigan, it's not just that Pabst Blue Ribbon is still consumed in mass quantities; it's to appreciate local products. Growing up in Upstate New York, I didn't see any local products except the illegal stuff smoked by thrash metal fans standing next to bike racks.

After a few hours on the road, my father and I stopped in Manchester, Vermont, an oasis in the middle of the rugged Green Mountains and throngs of moose crossing signs. My girlfriend and I have developed a fondness for anything with a moose on it from shirts to mugs and snow globes. We once drove to Vergennes to buy socks with moose on them. Hey, we're dedicated.

In Manchester, there's a place called Up For Breakfast, serving up the best in local fare with some of the best coffee I've ever had. Driving three hours is worth it when you can munch on a Brie omelet with fresh apples and bacon. Every week during my former life, I reviewed a different restaurant, but I never experienced a place with food so fresh and diverse. I’ve never seen my father eat more food in one sitting, even during Christmas Eve of ’89, when he was pumped because the Browns made the playoffs.

I should have taken a video with my phone and put it on Youtube and used tags like “eating clinic,” “eggs” and “pancake demolition.” It might not have turned up on many searches, but true seekers with a penchant for savory pancakes and syrup sweeter than a cherry Lifesaver dipped in sugar would understand.

Our trip lasted nine hours as we drove up the left “coast” of the Green Mountain State. We basically ate our way up and down Vermont, munching on huge chocolate chip cookies and donuts culled from small shops along the way. And on the way out, we stopped for a Moose postcard and sent it to my girlfriend. It said simply, “we wish you were here. We wish we were here too!”

The Shootist

Death is never a fun topic. This past week, my grandmother passed away. It was an exhausting week, considering that throughout it, my grandfather threatened to shoot two people.

It's difficult to think of freelance work and the job hunt in trying family times. But when you grandfather hurls threats at family members along the lines of "if he comes to front door, I kill him," you feel a little thrown off your game. No, I didn't leave out a "the" in the last sentence. My grandfather likes to get his point across as quickly as possible.

Lets roll back the days a bit. Approximately 10 days ago, I was sitting in my girlfriend's studio apartment applying to jobs and trying to get the dog to shake with its left paw. My father called with the bad news and I raced home to a solemn house and a kitchen full of food brought by generous Italians. Three days later, I was sitting in my grandfather's kitchen with Polish relatives who like to drink shots and accuse the 7-year-old paperboy of being a meth addict. I argued to the contrary, but they heard nothing of it.

During the afternoon, my grandfather turns to his cousin Henry and after a few choice shots at his character, threatens to shoot him if he doesn't carry out my grandfather's plans to the letter. I think those plans included something about pulling weeds and reading Exodus. Then, exactly one day ago, my grandfather threatens (via long-distance phone call) to shoot his granddaughter's licentious ex-boyfriend if he ever steps foot on the family property again.

Threats of death have never sat well with me. How does one react when they witness such things? Not that any of us believe the old man can actually stand up, much less hold a gun and aim it at a moving target. Such words have become "normal" in these parts, but to my knowledge no one has ever been shot with anything except a cork on a bottle of wine.

This week, thank God everything is back to normal. The Photoshop tutorials have continued, the resume is updated and I'm looking up bullet-proof vests on Ebay just in case I don't show up for Sunday dinner on time.

Waiting on a call from you....

I'm not a huge fan of bridges. You know, the type where you can't see the bottom and you pray the maniac driving behind you listening to thrash metal has the same type of fear you do. Most of the time, as he drives his 1987 Z-28, he doesn't. And then you can feel his angry eyes fixed on your bumper as you plod along 20 miles slower than the rest of humanity. This happens to me at least on a bi-monthly basis as I drive back and forth to Michigan, via the illustrious Grand Island bridge outside of Canada. Four years ago this month, I decided to accept a great journalism job in Lansing, Michigan, and since I still have a life there (girlfriend, friends, etc.) and my family lives in New York, I must travel through Canada to see them. They might as well have put a flaming moat in between them filled with vodka and cranberries.

The road from New York to Michigan, by way of Canada is set-up with countless roadblocks to haunt you. If it's not the traffic, it's the border where grown men have been known to wait for five hours in blazing heat or abhorrent weather in vain attempts to show their passports to the customs jockeys. I've been literally pulled over for having nothing in my trunk expect a pair of swimming trunks and Hostess cupcake. Not exactly part of the terrorist tool kit.

Then you can deal with construction, black traffic cones, and wild chappies from Ontario in minivans with lead feet. The latter will get you every time, because there's a deadly game they secretly like to play. It's called, "Don't Let the Americans Merge." The winner gets four tickets to a Tuesday night Maple Leafs game.

Each time I travel, I bring a few new CDs to get my brain off things, but it doesn't work. I get caught in traffic and Canadians yell at me. This week, I rocked the new Dead Weather CD. Musical pundits have told me Jack White can do no wrong and at this point in my evolution, I have to agree.

There is though, only one thing that bothers me more than Canada: no return phone calls from job prospects. Between freelancing, drinking large amounts of dark roast coffee and looking for a job, I don't have time to convince the cat that peeing in my sandal is not a good idea.

I recently applied to a job about 20 miles away from my parents' house. I was qualified. I was familiar with their business. I followed up twice. You know, the basic "did you get my information" deal. Maybe leaving a message wasn't the best idea. My days as a reporter have taught me to be persistent, be nice and leave strong messages. Still, no return phone call ever came. But being a reporter taught me to never stop until you get your story. So now I approach getting a job like trying to get a scoop. Even if you don't call me, I'll call you.

And if you do call back, I'll even answer my phone on the big blue bridge to Canada with the Slayer fan on my tail.