Vacuosity

Sarah time

I got the chance to meet up with an old friend, Sarah Banani, today. It was supposed to be her house-warming, but the party had been cancelled and I didn't know. What ended up happening was me dropping in on an intimate evening of wine for three. It was fine, though, they were half-expecting someone not to get the cancellation email, and I was just as happy to have a chance to actually talk with Sarah more than just party chit-chat.

Sarah and I worked together on a corporate intranet project some years ago, but mostly we wasted time together. There were many days when we either had nothing better to, or just didn't feel like doing the better things, so we would spend hours at a time emailing or Instant Messaging. We were smug about the wit and intellect in our linguistic parrying. It was our only stronghold in a time of discontentment.

Sarah always intimidated me a bit in that she seemed so educated and more worldly than me. She'd read books I hadn't, been places I hadn't, studied things I never would. I felt that a bit tonight too, but it was tempered with the knowledge that I too have read, I know, I am aware. I'm maybe not as insecure as I once was.

Goodnight Sarah, and goodbye. I'll meet you in the electric night.

posted by David @ 1:20 a.m. 0 comments

Home free

I did it. I bought a place in Winnipeg.

That was the final blow; there's no turning back now. What follows is a retelling of the harrowing days prior to that monumental event.

I flew out on Tuesday morning, 9 am, or thereabouts. Erin drove me to the airport; the trip in itself was a comedy of errors. Neither of us truly knew the way, we didn't know what terminal to go to... you get the idea. Of course, we chose the wrong one. I had to jump a shuttle from terminal two to terminal three. When I finally arrived, they told me that it was too late to board.

"You have to be here at least twenty minutes ahead, or they can refuse you entry to the plane," the forcedly polite Rep told me.

"But the plane doesn't leave for twenty-five minutes!" I said.

She checked her watch, frowned, and radioed the plane. Alright, I was on. When I entered, the entire plane was staring at me. What a gyp; my fifteen minutes blown in a less-than-dramatic entry to a small carrier plane to Winnipeg. Heads turned as I walked down the aisle. Whispers fluttered to my ears, as well as some not-so-quiet comments. I heard "That's him, right there! That's the guy!" quite loudly and clearly. I didn't care, I was happy just to be aboard and almost seated.

Fortunately I had one of the few three-wide seats with only two people, so the leg room that was lacking in front could be made up out the sides. I noticed my row-mate was missing a hand. It looked as though it had been severed cleanly at the wrist. I had two hours in which to ponder that mystery.

My arrangements with Brad (Nance, not Usherwood) were that I would land, head to where I was staying, and call him from there. I had planned to stay at the local backpacking hostel which, from the web site, seemed quite nice. Later, when I told the girls that a lot of work had been done on it, they asked, "The building?" "No", I said, "The picture."

The place was an absolute hole. It was in rough shape to begin with, but add on the fact that the beds were nothing but 3/4" plywood sheets with a thin foamie for a matress, jammed five to a room smaller than my dining room, and you've got hell for a home. I high-tailed it outta there, down the street to a bed and breakfast that had still some space. On the walk there, I got a sinking feeling as I passed the dingy houses and the broken fences. A sign read "There are NO drugs, money or alcohol in this house!" That wasn't terribly encouraging. Neither was the other handwritten sign that read "NO TRESPASSING". This on a street where I had a couple of listings to view later that day. Then strangely, as I crossed the river, I was suddenly in a beautiful part of town.

The bed and breakfast was incredible. It was an absolute mansion like something straight from Gone With the Wind. Ornate woodwork, huge bedrooms, fireplaces and ensuite baths, I could barely believe my eyes when I entered. My bed was large and comfortable; firm too. The home-cooked breakfasts were a treat, as well.

Brad met me at one-thirty, and I have to say that he was not what I was expecting. From our phone conversations, I pictured him as a late-thirties, paunchy sort of guy, balding and very salesy. Brad was not like that at all. He is a mid-to-late-forties, high-energy guy, but not the leasy bit pushy. He is remarkably down-to-earth and very patient. Also, he's small, has a full head of curly, grey hair and seems quite fit.

The whole time I was there Brad was incredible. He drove me around all day on Tuesday, despite a the fact that he was managing a small disaster with another sale at the same time; a broken furnace/price reduction type of disaster. Anyway, after a full day of looking, he invited me back to his place for dinner so we could keep scouring the listings. He had a full understanding of the time constraints I was under and worked hard to keep us on schedule.

His family is great; he has a wife and two girls, late teens. They were all warm and receptive so it was easy to feel comfortable, despite the fact that I was sitting at the table, sharing a meal with a family I had only just met that day. Brad had to go out for a while at one point, and he told the group that I would stay and search the listings. I remember thinking that it was strange for him to leave me in his own house, with just his teenage daughter. I remember thinking that I wouldn't leave me alone with her, not that I seem like the type of person that would do anything to harm her, but I just wouldn't allow for the most remote possibility. I wondered whether it was just different there, if people are more trusting, or if I'm that transparent, that people I've only just met see me as utterly harmless, or if Brad just had a moment of carelessness. I expect it was the latter, since after what seemed a minute of urgent whispering, the plan changed, and the mother, Carol, stayed behind.

We looked all day on Wednesday as well. I noticed that Brad never once tried to influence my decision. He always reserved judgement on the houses, but strived to answer the questions that I had honestly and accurately. We stopped for lunch at a little Polish restaurant, that had delicious food. I'm not a fan of perogies, but I would go back for a second helping there. When John Candy was in Winnipeg with the Argonauts, he would always order takeout from there, or so the story goes. When we knocked off for the night I was still unable to make a decision. I hadn't seen anything yet that seemed perfect; something I wanted to make an offer on. Brad wanted me to start thinking about a decision. He had only a couple of hours on Thursday that he could spare to take me hunting, and we still had to go through the offer and negotiation process. I told Brad that I would go home that night, go though all of my notes, and chose two or three that I wanted to revisit. By this point the stress was wearing me down, and I knew that it was trying Brad's patience too, though to his credit, only the perceptive would have known.

That night I took a walk through the downtown area: Maryland, Simcoe, and Home Streets. I wanted to get a real sense of the degree of danger in that area, whether it was actually unsafe. I didn't get any sense of danger, not real danger, anyway. I even walked into dark alleys and the back ways, inviting trouble a bit, but none came. I get the sense that if the crime truly is higher there than Toronto, it's mostly just a nuisance to people, rather than a threat to their safety. People are not getting murdered and mugged by the thousands. Interstingly enough, I did see a long-haired native transvestite at the local Mcdonald's.

Taking that walk did two things for me: it reconvinced me that moving is the right choice, and it helped me decide that despite the fact that it seems safe, that area is not for us. I went back and restricted my search to the 4C area, the North End, which is a more traditional residential area. As I read some of my notes to Julia, one house, the big one, sounded much better than the way I remembered it. I began to wonder why I had discounted it in the first place. It was back on the list to see on Thursday.

Thursday morning, after our discussion about the lack of homes I was thrilled about, Julia phoned with a list of new houses to go see. I tried to explain to her that I couldn't see a whole lot of new places, I had only two hours with Brad that day, and needed to come to some sort of decision. Besides, the houses all sounded great in the ads, but weren't much different in reality. I had learned to look not for what the ad said, but what it didn't say. That is, if it didn't say "Newly renovated bathroom!", you knew that the bathroom was old and ugly; if it didn't say "Updated electrical!" then it was still running and 60 Amp service. Still, Julia was desperate that we try to get into one last new place. Brad agreed that we would try to fit it in.

It turned out to be nothing special. And I was similarly uninspired by another home that I had gone back to see a second time. Then I went back to the huge house on Cathedral.

Please bear with me while I digress about garden gnomes. They have become a bit of a private joke for me ever since I saw the movie Amélie. There is a hilarious subplot where she steals her father's garden gnome, sends it around the world with an flight attendant friend who mails Polaroids of the gnome in famous locations back to Amélie's father. At the 24-hour, one of the riders carried a gnome in his backpack, and I smiled with approval of his homage. When I returned to the big house, I noticed a garden gnome by the front steps, the only one I had seen the entire trip. It seemed like a good omen.

When I walked into the front foyer area, it actually took my breath away a bit. It seemed a touch majestic. High ceilings, 10" baseboards, old-world railings, it had all the character of a turn of the century home. I began to feel good about the place, and looked at it with the additional context of all the other places I had seen. I felt the personality of the house, and it was friendly. I thought about the lives of the kids growing up in that house, and it made me happy. When we left I said to Brad, "I think this is the place."

Greg, my old boss uses a term I like; it's "post-implementation rationalization". That's sort of what I do. I have to just feel whether something is right. Once it feels right, the logical, practical explanations and justifications of why it's right will follow. The house felt right, and the more I thought about it, the more sure I was.

It was listed at $69, 900, but that was more than we were planning to pay. I talked to Brad about putting in an offer around $58 000, hoping to land somewhere in the low sixties. He explained that putting such an offer, a "lowball", could potentially damage the negotiating relationship. After I thought about it, I realized that I was trying to play by Toronto rules, where $10 000 is only about 5% of the asking price. There, to drop 10 K would be to lose up to 20% of the asking price. I could see why an offer like that might not be taken seriously. I followed Brad's direction and went in with an offer $63, 000, verbal only. The listing agent did her best to appear affronted, but said to write it up.

For the third day in a row, Brad introduced me to a favourite local haunt: Bread and Circuses, a local bakery and café. We sat down there and prepared the offer over some fine dark roast and an excellent date square. What followed was an afternoon of stress and boredom. I returned to my room at the B+B to wait for the response. I waited and waited and waited. A half an hour after the offer had officially expired, the offer came back at $66 500. Hmmm. I felt "high-balled".

"Would they take $65 000?" I asked.

"I don't know," Brad said, "Would you like me to tell them that that's as high as you'll go?"

"That's a fair statement," I said, "I don't know if I would." In the time that followed I realized that I would, of course, go higher if it were necessary; a difference of fifteen hundred dollars shouldn't stand in the way of the right house. But that was after the hard moment of decision. I waited to hear whether they would accept it. After 45 minutes, the answer came back; they would. Brad had handled the negotiations so well; he knew my price, and negotiated it.

Friday morning was a frenetic couple of hours. There was home inspection to arrange, there was a certified cheque to have prepared, there were a myriad little details to finalize and secure. That everything got arranged seemed only by divine intervention.

Brad had been telling me about a fantastic bakery run by a group of ex-Hudderites. True to form, he brought some whole-wheat cinnamon rolls for us, and sent a loaf of bread home with me.

When he dropped me off at the airport, I told Brad that I couldn't thank him enough. It was true. I was so thankful for how kind, self-sacrificing, considerate, professional, patient and skilled he was. He had been my personal chauffeur for three and a half days, worked the deal for me, taken a genuine interest in helping me, and delayed his own departure on Friday to see things through (though he was too polite to mention it). Amazing.

He even got me to the airport on time.

posted by David @ 8:30 p.m. 0 comments

Back in the saddle

I have been remiss in my responsibility to this weblog, and to you readers, of whom there are precious few. So much has happened in the past two weeks, and I have captured none of it.

Let's start where we left off. Our hero was poised for disaster as he prepared himself for 24 hours of mayhem, asking himself all the while what would possess a person to ride almost 75 K in one day, a good portion of it in dead dark, and all of it over rocky, gnarly-rooted dirt track? Especially when there are perfectly good paved and lighted roads, like, everywhere.

Strangely enough, there was little opportunity to ponder that question once the 24-hour began. Like last year, I naively believed that a good portion of the time could be devoted to such relaxing pursuits as reading, lounging, swilling beer, and reminiscing with Adam (Some time ago I told him that I want to write a memoir of sorts, to capture the early years while I still have a vague recollection. Our years together would comprise a major portion of that work. When the time comes, I will need to rely heavily on Adam's more accurate memory.) Once again, the entire time was taken up either riding, or preparing to ride. There are tires to check, brakes to fiddle with, derailleurs to tune, lights to mount, and food to eat at just the right time. It needs to be digested but not forgotten.

On my first loop, I got the chance to feel out my new fanatik. I was tremendously happy with the bike, and while I had hoped to get used to it prior to the race, I was still pretty thrilled to finally try it. I have to admit, that bike saved me a good deal of pain over the course of the race; more than once it helped turn almost definite spills into close calls. My rear end thanked it profusely, after all, they had quite a long time to become acquainted.

The first lap went not too badly, all things considered. I was dying, of course, and couldn't bear to even think of the two laps to come. Once again our five-man team had become a four-man, which meant that there was no hope of escaping that third loop. There was a crazy hill, which hadn't been on the course last year, called Switch-back Climb, as in "Switch back to your Granny gear, Poncho, because this is the end of that leisurely Sunday afternoon downhill you've been enjoying" Climb. It was pretty brutal; I managed two in the series of three climbs, but lost heart and dismounted for the last one. My chagrin was buffered only by the wheezing trail of walkers behind me.

I was relieved to pass our campsite, which was supposed to mark the halfway point, but as I re-entered the bush, and rode for what had to be another K or two, I was told, upon passing a checkpoint that I had only 14 more K to go. My keen mathematical mind went to work and unabashedly reported that 14 K was not less than half of 24 K. In fact, it was significantly more, which I astutely observed, meant that I had a lot farther to go than I had just ridden. Truth be told, it was sheer disbelief that got me through the next 7K.

The second half seemed to just go on and on. The trail faked us out just a bit near the end. The last 3 or 4 K came close to the finish line, close enough to hear the music and the commotion for just long enough for you to believe that you were almost done, before it pulled you away into the woods again. There were a few hills at the end that were just nasty enough, too, for you to start wondering about the sadistic ass that mapped the course to begin with. If he never rode it, he deserves to be shot. It was hot, and I had run out of water.

I finally crossed the finish line after 2 and a quarter hours. I promptly returned to my tent to lie down, waiting for the queasiness to subside.

In an hour or so I was feeling much better, like the prospect of completing another loop was within the realm of possibility. I sat, rested, laid, ate, and prepared myself. I took my bike to the shop provided by the good folks at Sporting Life. Brad had told me that the cables would likely stretch a bit after the first ride, and the gears might be a bit slippy. As a preventative measure, I had the derailleurs tuned. The shop tent had a good pricing system. There were only two service types: minor ($5) and major ($20). I paid my five dollars and rode happily away.

My next ride was at night. The night rides are fun as long as you are properly geared. The right light makes all the difference. This second loop for me was pretty uneventful, with the exception of a small stair I didn't notice (hence neglected to counter-balance for), which caused me to flip over the handlebars when the front end dipped. I had been making good time. I was targeting a two hour finish until somewhere around the 7 K (left) checkpoint my light, that I had borrowed from Brad as a cost-saving measure, dropped into power-save mode, since the battery was running low. This meant that my light, which had been cranking out fifteen bright Watts, was now giving only a measly 5 W. Just before the 4 K point, it died entirely.

Now a word about darkness. Here in the city, it is difficult to experience true darkness. Some lights are always on. Even when the blinds are closed and the curtains drawn, little fragments of broken light sneak around and under. In the country, when you witness the full night sky, it's always impressive just how bright it really is. The moon glows, and the stars are brilliant. But remove these heavenly luminaries by means of heavy cloud cover, and darkness takes on new meaning. Block out any other ambient light with a dense forest and you will understand the silent blackness that engulfed me when my light powered off; complete, utter nothingness. I could not see the path at my feet, or my hand at arm's length.

People would come along the trail behind me, their bright and still functioning lights warning of their approach so that they seemed like some intergalactic alien vehicle arriving to take over the world, beginning with the good folks on mountain bikes. I would try to ride their battery-powered coattails but to no avail. Not being able to see as well as they with only their light leftovers, I couldn't keep pace. The more ground I lost, the harder it was to see, till eventually I would have to stop. I gave up and resigned myself to running behind people as they passed, doing my best to memorize the next couple hundred feet of trail in their wake. I could have gone back to the checkpoint, and radioed in to cancel my lap and send out another guy, but with only 4 K to go, I couldn't bear to. I thought "I'll walk in if I have to, but I'm not cancelling."

From that last checkpoint to the finish, it took just over 80 minutes. I finished the lap with an astounding time of three hours and twenty minutes.

Our other teammates, Steve, an early twenties Prima Donna of sorts, and Mike, a hearty, newly-returned-to-smoking character, were both paramedics, along with Adam. They suited our team pretty well, with each one's relaxed approach to the ride. Nobody wanted to turn this into serious competition. I was a little put out, though, with Steve's declaration, upon his return from his second ride, that he was "done" and that he would not be going out again, depsite the fact that the schedule declared otherwise. Mike wouldn't have to ride again since he had gone last and there wasn't time to work through the order another full turn. That left Adam and me. Figures.

I admit, I had a period where my steadfast determination to fulfill my commitment to the ride waffled somewhat. I thought, "If that's their attitude, if they don't care about what happens, then why should I?" If I didn't ride, we wouldn't have a proper finish and our team would be disqualified. Not that it mattered, we were ranked about 44th out of 50 teams, but if we were DQ'd we weren't even part of the official record. That couldn't be. Plus, I couldn't let myself just give up; I had to ride.

It was an easy one, comparatively. I kew the trail well by that point, and was prepared for it. My glutes complained for the first ten minutes, outraged to find themselves returned to the seat, but they soon aquiesced and quieted down. Throughtout the ride I remembered how Adam decribed the feeling of passing each milestone, and how he knew it it be the last time. "Goodbye to you log, you won't trouble me again. So long hill, I'm done with you." I was spurred on by the small measure of joy that each of these farewells gave, and finished the first half fairly quickly. To have an official finish, I had to cross the line between 11:00 and 1:00, so I had time to kill. I rested for a few minutes by the campsite before tackling the back half.

I felt surprisingly good, good enough to expend what energy I had left on climbs that I had walked previously. I really enjoyed that half, knowing that I could take all the time I wanted, but wanting to push myself too. I finished with about 20 minutes to spare, so returned to the campsite to dismantle the tent and help pack up. Just after 11, I crossed the finish line. The race was over.

The race was tough for me, there's no question. But the funny part is that it's not the trials that you remember but the successes. And while during the race I had thought to myself that I would never again commit to such a thing, less than a week later, I found myself remembering it fondly and contemplating next year. Go ahead, say it... sucker for punishment, I know.

Once again, my thanks to Adam for arranging it. I know I would never have made it there without his organizing influence.

Tune in tommorow for the story of how I bought a house.

posted by David @ 9:55 p.m. 0 comments

Purple hues

Bruises are awesome. I noticed that recently after checking out a couple really spectacular ones I earned at the 24-hour.

I'm fascinated by the life cycle of a bruise. If it's a good solid hit, it starts off with deep reds, violets and plums. Then come the blues and greens as it slowly grows larger and spreads itself out just below the surface of the skin. In its golden age, when the edges are no longer distinct, that dull yellow means it will soon be a memory, that is, if it's lucky. More likely, it will simply disappear both from view and consciousness.

Can you think of your last really great bruise?

posted by David @ 9:42 a.m. 1 comments

Read'em and weep

I think that our entire lives are all about pages.

Back in Victorian times, being a page was a whole career.

Now, everyone's always saying, "I'm turning a page", and "Are we on the same page here?" Wouldn't you like to name your company "AAAAAAAAA Plumbing" to get top ranking in the Yellow Pages? And if you haven't got a web page, you're nobody, at least in business. You're identity is on your business card, which is nothing but a little, tiny page. Before you could receive a call on your cell, all anybody could get was a page.

When you're born they announce it on the "Births" pages of the newspaper. That's a keeper, that one. Same with the page that declares your existence: the birth certificate. Go to school, graduate, get handed another page. Frame it, hang it. If you're lucky, you do something unusual and you might make the front page; another keeper. You're whole life you're signing pages: marriage certificate, real estate papers, application forms, divorce papers. Then away you go and you're in the obituary columns, the Death page; you're not keeping that one, are you? Then it's down to that all important page, the will.
That's when you attach a dollar value to everyone you ever knew and define how much they meant to you. What does everyone get? All those little pages you worked your entire life to earn.

See what I mean?

posted by David @ 10:48 p.m. 0 comments

Murder in the house

There has been a brutal slaying in an East-end Lindsay home this week. An innocent topic was cut down in its prime, another victim of over-exploration.

Evidence showed that the young topic, Julia's Grandmother's Move, struggled valiantly to remain conversable throughout Sunday evening, and most of Monday following a large family gathering. The family attacked the helpless topic with vigor, probing and poking it callously until finally, exhausted, it expired. The family cruelly continued to beat the dead topic until this reporter could bear to watch no longer.

A sobering sight it was, and one that I hope never to witness again.

posted by David @ 10:21 p.m. 0 comments

Rolling

More on Jaimeson...

Clapping A new skill, learned from the classic Patty-cake.

Talking Her first true word, not the babbling and noisemaking, came the other day. It was "Jordan". It was the funniest thing, kind of like "Dan-dan", but obvious none-the-less who she meant, affirming once again who has first place in her adoring eyes.



With many miles under my feet now, I'm feeling more confident about the upcoming ride. I have been faithfully hauling myself out of bed at 6 AM every day to run an exhausting 6 mile loop. I keep pushing myself to continue even when I'm tired since that's how it will have to be on race day.

While running today, I was enjoying the simple brilliance of the name that Adam chose for our team: Substance P. Substance P is a chemical in the brain that facilitates the reception of pain. Adam's private humour, I love it.



I saw Goldmember last night with Julia's cousin Andrew. He's the one who was in a coma for several months after his mountain biking accident. He's doing much better, though the damage he suffered is still evident in his lack of social graces. He laughed hysterically at the movie and clapped so that his hee-haw sound echoed and people kept turning to look. He talked loudly too throughout the film. But other than that he was fine, and caused no problems.

It seemed ironic that my days of mountain biking are just beginning, while his are pretty much over.

In other movie news, the film Amélie is a fabulous rental. I had wanted to see it since it was in the theatre, and it was as good as I had hoped. If you don't mind subtitles it's a must see. Brilliant cinematography, with a quirky, charming story, and an endearing performance by an extremely cute French actress. Sweet.

posted by David @ 9:18 a.m. 0 comments

The fam

Yesterday was the Barrick/McBride family reunion, a gathering of both sides of Julia's parents' family. There was a host of people through spanning the ages of 8 months to 90 years. One highlight was Julia's grandmother meeting her sister for the first time in 59 years. I got a chance to meet the families on both sides. It explains so, so much.

Stories and memories abounded. Some stories are so unusual or ironic that they have to be remembered, like this one:

Julia's grandfather, Poppa Ronald, was blind in his left eye. Despite the fact, he continued to drive, and do all the things a fully-sighted person would. He was a careful driver, who took care of his vehicle. Actually, when we took his car after he finally quit due to his age, the car, a '87 'K' car, it was in impeccable shape. It was sad to see him finally resign himself to agedness.

He had been proud of his self-sufficiency, and his good driving record. In fact, he had only ever had one accident. He had been turning left, and hit another car that had been turning left in the opposite direction. The funniest part was the fact that the other driver... was blind in his left eye.

posted by David @ 12:04 p.m. 1 comments

She's got bite

These are the interesting developments with Jaimeson right now:

Teeth Two of them are poking through the gums now, which means that her gumming will soon leave a mark.

Chewing Her only and constant thought is: "Hey, can I eat that?"

Sharing It's funny that when she's chewing away on something, she'll offer it to you for a couple of sucks.

Screaming Jordan would yell, I called it "proclaiming his existence", but it was nothing like this. Jaimeson lets it wail like I've never heard: loud, long and defiant.

Adoration The boy can do no wrong. It doesn't matter what he does, it's the greatest thing ever.



I am in terrible shape. In the words of my friend Adam "Changing diapers is bad for your cardio." I've been trying to force myself to run every day in the two-week span before this year's 24 hour in a desperate attempt to regain some of my former ability. I'm not hopeful that I'll get it.

I went with Adam this week to Hardwood to get a bit of practise in. It was a painful reminder of what pitiful shape I'm in, as well as how little experience I have mountain biking.

It's not all bad though. Thanks to Brad from Yield, I have a new bike on the way. He hooked me up with a great deal from his friend who is a rep for Rocky Mountain. The bike I'm getting is a 2002 fanatik, a decent entry/mid-level full suspension bike. I'm going to have a chance to ride the bike next week, as well as cover the race trail, which is two steps ahead of last year.

I will suffer, though. I think of the pain as payment for the year of laziness I indulged in. But with luck, and some suffering in advance, it won't be unbearable, just tough.

posted by David @ 7:16 p.m. 0 comments

Three Rs

This entry could also be named: "Why I don't recycle."

Like it or not, I don't, at least not devotedly. I do subscribe to the philosophy of taking care of our earth; it's the only one we've got. And despite Capt. Kirk's assurance that there are a plenitude of Class 'M' planets out there, I don't think we would find one before we wrecked this one if we were not careful about it.

However, back to the point at hand, I haven't recycled much since I've lived on Cherokee. The problem is that even though the recycling containers are clearly marked to indicate what goes where (cardboard, glass, plastic), no one seems to grasp the concept of sorting. In addition, half the time the bins are filled with garbage too. I figure my trying to recycle is pretty useless unless the city has some way to separate the garbage from the recyclable goods.

And if they can sort the garbage and the goods, why do they need me to recycle?

posted by David @ 9:58 a.m. 1 comments

Clueless need not apply

Okay, after reviewing the résumés of several hundred people applying for a job as a graphic designer, I have a couple of points of advice, as follows:

1. Your résumé is not a web page. I can read. I don't need cute little icons to navigate it.

2. Proofread.

3. Don't use gears. Gears are not an imaginative or creative way to depict imagination and creativity.

4. Design your résumé. You've got a page, use it.

5. You are not a brand. You don't need a logo. Along the lines of point 4, don't spend more time creating some logotype of your initials than you spend setting the rest of the page(s).

6. Mom will always love your stuff. Even if it stinks like Chinatown on Sunday morning. Positive affirmation of your artistic ability from your parents will not make me want to hire you. It will just let me know that you still live at home, even though you're 33, you've never had a real job, and if you worked here, Pampers would become an office supply.

7. Know your audience. And your competition. Me: hiring manager too busy to read résumés. You: nameless applicant, one in a pile of 300. What does this mean for you? It means you've got about a 6 second window in which to differentiate yourself. Be intelligent, be concise, be interesting. Do not be the guy who sends an 11 page résumé with the naive assumption that I will devote a half an hour to it. Incidentally, résumé means a "summary"; so, like, summarize.

8. Put the accents into "résumé". If you are going to convince me of your finely honed typographic sensibility, at least punctuate the word.

posted by David @ 11:54 a.m. 0 comments