My Corona Diary (Take XLV): Didja Hear The One About...The Job That Didn't Exist?

 

<"The Big Lie," Take I:
The Reckoner>

<i.>

Rain or shine, employers never stop crying about how much the sky is falling. Show me one who claims contentment with their lot, and I'll show you someone whose lips move faster than the speed of light. Still, now that the pandemic seems firmly in our rearview mirror, you'd think the kvetching would finally slow down, right?

Life finally seems to have returned to normal (whatever that means, however you define it). Aside from the odd elderly person, hardly anyone wears masks in public anymore. That' includes the Squawker and myself, having ditched ours only a few weeks ago, unless we're in a large crowd. (We keep one in our pocket, for just that reason.)

Signs of normality abound, for those who keep score. The plastic shields that sprang up at most businesses, once the COVID-19 bomb dropped, have largely disappeared. The body temperature reader at my community health clinic has been removed. Most businesses have resumed their previous hours. Life's good, right?

Not so, according to the vampires we're counting on to get our economy humming again. Their plaintive pleas ring out, loud and clear, in newspaper op-eds, local TV news interviews, and social media pages: 

<"Nobody...

...Wants... 

To Work!

Where...Are...

The...Workers?

We...

Really...

Need...Them!!!">

I've got news for them. Plenty of us would like a more regular gig than the so-called Gigger Nation allows. But my recent experiences leave me asking a more basic, more pointed question:

<"Where... 

...Are...

...The...

...F#ck#n'...Jobs?">

<"The Big Lie," Take II:

"Elevator (Speech) To Nowhere":

The Reckoner>

<ii.>

My latest experience is a case in point. I responded to an Indeed.com ad for a reporter/correspondent. The tagline for the ad sounded promising: "Fast-growing media company, Concerto Media, seeks reporters for hyperlocal news sites."

Hmm, I thought. Sounds somewhat dry, yeah, but it doesn't make me wanna vomit. Yet. My eyes skimmed the river of promises: $46,000 a year, full health and vacation benefits, paid time off, even training on the corporate dime -- all the goodies you'd need to lure someone from the educated professional class, right?

Since the job was fully remote, "you don't need to live in the communities that you cover," the ad helpfully suggested. I waggled my eyebrows, held my breath, and did what most unfortunates in my position do. I swallowed hard, crossed my fingers, and filled out an application through Indeed.

Like the aspiring actor working the McJob McDrive-Through, the waiter doing demos, the garbageman pounding out his unreadable opus during National Novel Writing Month, I thought, Due diligence? Screw it. I'm not making enough, anyway. Screw intergrity. Just put the cash upfront, OK?

I duly filled out an application through Indeed, including links to three recent camps, and waited to see what would happen. The next day, I got a response, but not the kind I'd been expecting. Apparently, the good folks at Concerto required four clips. 

With all due respect, I pointed out in my response, the ad didn't specify any particular number. I submitted links to three clips, which most career experts consider the industry standard. Here's the screenshot to prove it! Oh, and here's your fourth link. Thanks for your time.

Or maybe I should have told myself, "Thanks for the warning," once I read the brushoff that flew into my inbox, only a day later: 

"Hello. Thanks for your interest in the News Reporter position at Concerto Media, LLC. At this time, we will not be pursuing your application. Best of luck to you in your job search...The Every Day View."

Huh? I stared at the screen, confused. What happened to Concerto Media? I thought I applied there, not this Every-Day-Whoever-The-F#ck-This-Is. "Okay," I sighed aloud. "Time to find out who these people are."

Guess what? Concerto Media came first, yet another flash in the pan startup -- that's shorthand for the Founder's Prayer, "Dear God: I hope enough suckers fall for my inane pitch, so I can cash out, and lay on the beach" -- built around the concept of a McDonald's-type model for local news. All of it hyperlocal, all geared toward a goldfish-type attention span, all of the time.

Or something like that. I got a queasy feeling, so I did the sensible thing, and stopped reading. In any case, Concerto's hopes of luring enough looky-loo eyeballs to ogle its content, and click on some pop-up ad or other, proved to be forlorn ones.

Enter The Everyday View, based in the East Coast area, like the smaller fish it ended up swallowing. It bought Concerto, closed about two dozen sites deemed insufficiently profitable, and started from scratch. 

<"The Big Lie, Take III:

Pyramid Scheme"/

The Reckoner>

<iii.>

I gleaned a handful reviews, via the usual suspects, Glassdoor and Indeed.com, and they spoke loud and clear. Concerto's rating averages three on a five-point scale, which is hardly terrible, but hardly great, either. 

One commenter said that they'd only hung onto the job, so they wouldn't have to commute. The savings that you could achieve, not sharing from sharing some hideous open plan office arrangement, with your fellow unfortunates -- can't beat that, right? D'oh!

A couple others said they really hated the work, which mainly seemed to involve plagiarizing national and/or regional stories to produce the so-called "hyperlocal" copy. This requirement alone, I suspect, will prompt most applicants to "head for the hills," as it's been put. The handful who stick it out won't last long, I'm sure.

Sadly, I'm not alone. Other people I've polled have run into Zoom sessions that were actually fronts for pyramid schemes, or "job interviews" aimed at tricking you into revealing personal information for the identity theft rings running them. In other cases, the site is legit, but your efforts slide down some virtual rabbit hole, and you never hear from anybody again.

Yet none of these issues, as grimy and greasy as they are, will stop the flood of employer complaints: "Those lazy hamsters. Why don't they  get back on the wheel when we demand it? Nobody wants to run 24-7, just to pay for their little concrete box, and God knows what else they're paying too much money to keep. Nobody wants to work!"

I've got news for them. Maybe if we had jobs that paid decently, nobody would have to run on any hamster wheel. Maybe the actor at the McJob McDrive-Through, the waiter doing demos, or the garbageman grinding out his Great Gatsby-styled masterpiece, would have more time to focus on those efforts, instead of patching two, three or even four jobs together, just to fund those goddamned, grimy, greasy, ever-escalating grocery, rent and utility bills.

Now comes the sting in this tale. I know what you're going to say. Silly old me, right? "The business of America is business," and all that crap. How dare I question the premise, in a society that's always hellbent on defining us by what we produce for a living.

I can hear your words clattering around my brain: "You stupid little bunny huggers! You godless, tree-humping liberals! You little incorrigibly idealistic hippies! You want to eat six impossible things for breakfast, and get pie in the sky delivered to your doorstep, three times a day. This is America, Jack. That doesn't happen!"

Well, guess what? Sooner or later, something's got to give around here. And I'm sick and tired of it always being me. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (The Sky Is Falling?
Don't You Believe A Word)

Deconstructing Narcisissm (YouTube):
Don't Be Surprised That Nobody
Wants To Work Anymore:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8XZ1dEjlawQ

My Corona Diary (Take XLIV): I Got Ambushed At The Banana Aisle, And Then...

 

<"Close Encounter
(Of The Unwelcome Kind)/Take I"
The Reckoner>

<i.>

I often get recognized around my little town, though it's not because of any red carpet magic that I've worked. It goes with the journalistic territory, where you deal with people from all walks of life. More often than not, your face -- or the work you've done -- sticks in their brain, which results in close encounters with your readers, or subjects.

Most are positive and rewarding, such as the Black veteran's daughter I met at a medical clinic for people who lacked  adequate coverage -- or cash -- for specialized services, like dental care. She credited my article, and her quotes, with prodding the VA into helping her father get services that had been languishing in red tape.

Some are stressful and disturbing. Call it a cliche, but you always stumble across the aggrieved CEO or county politico at the grocery store, right after your paper runs a story that really pisses them off, triggering the inevitable, "You'll-never-work-in-this-town again" speech. 

Others fall into the head-scratching category, which is how I'd describe what happened a couple Saturdays ago, at Murrow's Frugal Acres.  I was toddling around on my cart, when a woman with frizzy blonde hair rushed into my line of sight. "Danny?" she said.

"Sorry, my name isn't Danny," I responded.

"Well, you remind me of him. You look like a musician..."

Oh, Lord, here we go, I tell myself. Outwardly, I smile. "Lots of people tell me that. Anyway, I do know Danny, and he is a friend of mine. We met at one of The Stables' open mike nights."

"The Stables? I haven't been there in a long time. Are they still around?" the woman asks.

"They just celebrated their eighteenth anniversary, so yes, they're still around."

"Oh, that's cool." We blah-blah-blah a little bit more, until  she jabs her finger in the air, and asks, "You're still wearing the mask? You know it's not effective."

I smile indulgently, though she can't see it behind the mask. "If it was good enough for folks in 1918, it's good enough for me," I respond.

"Well, this might help you..." She whips out a folded piece of paper from her purse, and pushes it into my hand. "You know what Zooms are, right?" I nod. "Well, I'm hosting one for this particular product, which might change your life."

I take the paper, and stick it in my pants pocket. "Sure, I'll check into it, and see if I can make it. Thanks so much."

With that, I say goodbye, and head from the banana aisle, to the bread counter, where the Squawker's waiting for me to continue today's shopping trip. Just as we're about to launch ourselves to the frozen foods cases, I hear a man's voice call out behind me: "Don't listen to her!"

<"Close Encounter
(Of The Unwelcome Kind)"/Take II: The Reckoner>

<ii.>

I turn around, and see the sixtysomething gent who'd been rearranging the bananas, moments before the woman ambushed me. "Say what? Excuse me?"

"You know the masks work. They are safe, and they do make a difference, right?" he asks.

"Oh, don't worry about it," I reassure him. "I wasn't going to take it off, and I'm not going to this Zoom session, or whatever it is she's pushing. I was just being polite."

The man flashes me a knowing smile. "Good."

"Yeah, it's like when the neighborhood cat lady follows you around the parking lot, demanding that you sign her latest petition against something-or-other," I continue. "It's not worth the headache to argue about it. I just listen, and go on my way."

"OK, great. You have a good day now!"

I unfold the paper, and steal a quick glance at  it, as I rejoin the Squawker. The Zoom session is pushing a skincare product or supplement of some sort, plus a "workshop experience."

I've seen this come-on many times. You bait the hook by dangling some type of freebie out to the fish (the skincare cream), as a lead-in to your real purpose -- the seminar or workshop or whatever alleged life-altering experience it is, that costs a fair bit of loot to attend. 

But if they do show up, and/or pay, it presumably opens the door to bigger, badder and costlier come-ons, all designed to lighten the wallet. The trick is to seem low-key and neighborly enough, so you won't see any of this coming, until you've stuck around a little bit.

<Do Not Pass Go 

(Hit 'Em Up For $200..."/The Reckoner>

<iii.>

As our trip continues, I notice the woman stopping to hit up other customers. Some listen closely, or so it seems, while others give her pitch short shrift, as I hear one irritated woman declare: "Sorry, I really don't have much time. I gotta go."

That's when the penny drops. The Murrow's trip is really just an excuse for this woman to hit people up with her well-oiled pitches, all tailored to the appearance and demeanor of whoever she's decided to bushwack.

For me, it must have been my hair, which cued up her opening line ("You look like a musician"). Those who don't share my apparent rock star looks get a different pitch, I'm sure.

It's also a pretty brazen act, since most businesses don't want people hitting up their customers -- hence, the "NO SOLICITING" sticker you'll invariably see plastered on the entrance doors. If anyone caught the woman working her pitch, they'd shoo her out on the spot, and probably slap a permanent ban on her presence.

Then again, there are probably aren't a lot of managers actually running a store this large. If my apartment complex thinks one maintenance man can handle four massive buildings, I shudder to think of what kind of logic Murrow's might be using to justify a similar maneuver.

At any rate, I doubt the Pitch Lady -- make that, Virtual Cat Lady (Zoom Session Style) -- notices, nor cares. Whether it's some type of questionable side hustle, or she thinks it's the dream gig of a lifetime, I can't really tell, but her body language and insistent tone suggest that she's digging in for a long stay.

She's not resting until she's hustled everyone pausing to recheck their grocery list, it seems. At any rate, the Squawker and I pass her by, staring silently ahead. I avoid making eye contact (successfully), and leave her to get on with it.

Like I told the older gent, I don't want to get sucked into an endless, circular argument that goes nowhere, and resolves nothing.

There's a Joe Walsh album title that sums up these unwelcome random encounters better than I ever could, and it goes like this: You Can't Argue With A Sick Mind. So there you go, then. May you dodge your cat ladies more successfully than I seem to manage these days . --The Reckoner

My Corona Diary (Take XLIII): Earth To God/Satan, Your Latest Poll Numbers Look Wobbly

<"The Road To Hell (Blah, Blah, Blah...)":
The Reckoner>

<i.>

We've all been hearing a lot about poll numbers lately, which isn't a surprise, with the another Presidential donnybrook looming only five months from now. Amid the usual chatter about the usual suspects, and the usual subjects (Trump's numbers rising, despite indictments; DeSantis's standing continues to shrink; voters feeling dour about a Biden-Trump rematch), it seems that God and Satan might want to check their latest numbers, too.

At least, that's the conclusion of a Gallup poll of May 1,011 adults, conducted May 1-24, Yahoo reports. Seventy-four and 69 percent of adults believe in God and Heaven, respectively. However, belief in Hell and the Devil clocked in lower, at 59 and 58 percent, respectively.

Across the board, Gallup continues to record decreasing belief in God and Heaven (16 points), Hell (12 points), and the Devil, and angels (10 percent), since the venerable pollster began tracking the issue in 1944. Lower income and less educated Americans are more likely to believe in a higher power; so are older people, Republicans, women, and those who already attend church. Belief runs lower among Democrats and independents, making all those Republican jibes against "godless liberals" seem less stereotypical than you'd think.

Overall, about 17 percent of us pooh-pooh any connection to the Almighty, the lowest such percentage recorded. That's a big change from the 98 percent who declared belief in God, which held until 2011, when it dipped below 90 percent of the time -- and this year, when it fell to 81 percent.

What accounts for these changes? You could chalk it up some of it to weariness over the constant barrage of historic events we're being forced to witness, over and over and over, like some horrible "Saturday Night Live" sketch from the show's direst season. The COVID-19 bomb, I suspect, prompted similar outcries to those caught on the wrong end of events like World War II.

"If God can intervene, 

why doesn't he do it? 

Where is he? 

What's taking so long?"

<"God's Not In Right Now, So..."/The Reckoner>

<ii.>

Somehow, though, I don't think that's the whole story, honestly. Personal trauma, or failure to navigate it, does play a role in loss of belief, or a switch to one that seemingly squares better with the arbitrary logic of whatever current events we're experiencing.

But I've also come to believe that how people experience their faith has some bearing on when and where they part company with it. We've all seen this movie before, at churches that we've previously attended. You know the scenes by heart, like the cheeky, chirpy young woman who rushed to welcome you, hot coffee in hand, at that first worship service.

There's also the low-key, graying, fifty- or sixtysomething longtimer who serves on all the committees that matter, and those that don't, amid dropping subtle hints about "opportunities for service" (because you haven't realized yet, with so many comings and goings, few stick around to serve for long).

Let's not forget the endless stream of soccer moms, with herds of children to supervise, and well-heeled Boomer men, who tell you more about their investment and landscaping priorities than you could ever imagine, or want to hear again.

But you smile and shrug roll your eyes on your own time, because you want to make connections, right? You go along to get along, and all that.

As the weeks and months of services, committee meetings, movie nights, and other assorted events unfolds, you get used to seeing these new faces, till they're practically part of the furniture, until...one day...they're gone... and you don't see them anymore. They disappear into some twilight area, and are usually not mentioned again.

"What happened?" you ask yourself. "Where they did go, exactly?" Sometimes, you hear the whole story -- so-and-so got divorced, followed a new job, or just moved away -- but more often not, you're left to fill in the blanks yourself

I remember three women in our congregation, who decided to celebrate Women's Month by filming a video, singing some popular song whose name escapes me now. By the time we actually got to see it, they were all long gone. 

<"Satan's Not In Right Now, So..."/The Reckoner>

<iii.>

Such news amounts to a humorous footnote, but it makes for a slightly concerning one, too. When I sorted out what had happened, I found myself thinking, "What brought on that development? Did we scare them off, somehow?"

I'm seeing these divides in my own household, as The Squawker finds our congregation's progressive posture increasingly at odds with more traditional Christian beliefs that have lain dormant for five or six years. On the other hand, I may end up staying, simply because I like most of the people. They've treated us well.

The interactive aspects of our church remain a major draw for me, too. Our services are lay led, meaning the congregation plays a role in planning them, and members can give brief talks (myself included). Our minister shortens his own sermon, one that seldom breaks the 10- or 15-minute mark, or even skips it, if we're running short on time, since we still do hybrid services (in-person and Zoom).

That's a sea change from more traditional (read: stodgier) churches I've experienced, where the minister drones for 45 minutes at a stretch, and rarely allows anyone to get a word in edgewise during other activities, like Bible studies. 

I don't want to endure that situation again, and The Squawker has promised not to take me back there, if I end up leaving later.

On the flipside, we owe some $600 in pledges from last year. Between the usual bills, and all the greedflation that we're seeing -- those $4.50 cartons of milk here, $7 mayo jars there -- I have no idea how we're going to make it up, since I have a contract job that ends Friday. 

Did we bite off more than we could chew, pledging X amount of dollars a week? Maybe. Possibly. I guess. But like so many others, I never saw those $7 mayo jars coming. 

At the same time, it's a strangely familiar experience. It reminds me of a telling conversation that I had with a previous minister, the kind who often intoned, "If you don't work, you don't eat," even as he promoted a 10 percent tithe that I couldn't afford, and the sort of Republican politics that I couldn't stand. 

Whenever those awkward subjects came up, I typically responded, "The sad fact is, you can work your damnedest, and hardest, and still starve, through no fault of your own."

Or, as I told other gung ho evangelicals I'd encounter in my travels: "I have no doubt that God will provide. Whether I can work on his budget, or his schedule, is an altogether different matter entirely." Apparently, Gallup has drawn similar conclusions, judging by their summary paragraph:

"And while belief in God has declined in recent years, Gallup has documented steeper drops in church attendance, church membership and confidence in organized religion, suggesting that the practice of religious faith may be changing more than basic faith in God."

In short, the same advice still goes whether it's giving an old favorite's latest, greatest recorded masterpiece one more chance, or sticking with a church that you somehow still love, or have merely come to tolerate -- let your heart be your guide, and sometimes, your gut. That's all you can do these days. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (And Now, For Some Suitable
Soundtrack Music For You Swinging Non-Believers):

Gallup: Belief In God Dips
To 81% In US, A New Low:
https://news.gallup.com/poll/393737/belief-god-dips-new-low.aspx

Ian Hunter: God (Take I) (with lyrics!):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yBRMFKfWK_E

The Livingroom Busker: isgodaman (Cover Version!):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TIJfWkRJBSY

The Snivelling Shits: isgodaman:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ndd3xV-zJdQ

The Snivelling Shits: Lyrics: isgodaman:
https://able2know.org/topic/48778-1

My Corona Diary (Take XLII): Who Was That Masked Man? (It's Not The Lone Ranger...)

<Self-Portrait In Mirror W/Mask: 3:00 AM/The Reckoner>

<i.>

Just over 10 days from now, the national COVID-19 health emergency will officially expire, and allow the Biden administration to formally close the books on it. Then again, I didn't need the President to draw a rhetorical exclamation point with his index finger whenever he takes the podium again, because the signs have been in the air, so to speak, for awhile. My community's no exception.

The major sign, from my standpoint, is that most people have largely given up wearing face masks. Those who still do, besides Your Humble Narrator, are mainly older people. As in, the advanced elderly, and those closer to my demographic (fifty and sixtysomethings). 

These days, masking is now optional for most public spaces, though if you're still feeling uneasy, the authorities suggest keeping yours on, and ask those around you for tolerance. But if it's optional, why should anybody have to worry? Doesn't that seem a little contradictory?

As you might imagine, this leads to odd situations. Our visiting doctor recently popped in to see the Squawker and I, so we dropped the question: "Do you think it's time to ditch the masks altogether, in light of the current situation? Have things eased up enough to allow that?"

She immediately fired back with a question of her own: "What, do you go around wearing your mask indoors?"

"Er, no," I suggested. "Not exactly. No need to do that, if it's just us."

"I have a lot of immuno-issues," Squawker responded. "So that's why we're still wearing ours."

Then again, getting a simple subject-verb-object sentence out of any medical professional is rather difficult. Whether it's fear of lawsuits, or a natural skittishness to give out too many compromising details, I've no idea, but doctors are often like Treasury Secretaries.

No sooner do they tout a pin drop in the interest rate, before they say: "But I can't promise you, that they won't go back up." You get the idea.

<"Me & My KN-95"/The Reckoner>

<ii.>

It makes sense, then, that I heard a totally different take on the issue, during an early evening run to Matthew's, for a few last minute food items. Right off the bat, the cashier asked me, pointing at my black mask: "Why are you wearing one? Are you still afraid of getting sick?"

"Er, something like that," I ventured. "It's not a John Wayne thing for me -- it just makes sense, doesn't it? Maybe there's another variant in the air, waiting for its chance to slip under the radar.'

I wasn't prepared for her response. "Well, good for you!" the cashier said.  Her voice rose a notch or two. "The shots don't work, anyway."

"Well, I can't say that I'm perfect," I said. "I haven't gotten around to it. Mainly, because I work at home, and it's not that I'm around people constantly, so..."

The bagger paused momentarily, from his work. "Are you afraid of needles? Does that something to do with it?"

"Well, yeah, there is that." I slid my debit card out of the holder. "I mean, it's not the whole reason, but you're talking to a guy who winces and squirms whenever they do blood draws. My forearm doesn't like those, either."

"I get what you mean," the bagger said. "Whenever I do anything like that, I have to think about something else."

I thank the crew, scoop up my bananas, two liters and assorted items -- a nine-grain bread loaf here, a package of Oscar Meyer lunchmeat there -- and head back to my virtual cave, the living room that's functioned as the nerve center of my existence for years and years, long before the COVID-19 bomb dropped, and rattled our bones like no virus had no ever done before.

One thought crosses my mind, as I head home. Drawing red lines and exclamation marks under anything isn't always so simple. Yes, May 11 may well be the day du jour, but events don't always bend to official declarations.

Maybe in a few more months, I can let go of the protocols -- stay six feet apart, wash your hands a little bit more often, wear those masks when you're out and about -- that have defined so much of my last three years.

But something tells me to keep my powder dry, for now, for just a little bit longer. "Who was that masked man," you say? Well, it's me. For now, at least. --The Reckoner

My Corona Diary (Take XLI): Hold The Access, Pass The Inconvenience

 

<"Thanks For Your Business..."

Take I/The Reckoner>

<i.>

A funny thing happened to the Squawker and I the other week. We were preparing to deposit a check, to bolster the account, and pay our taxes. It's the kind of boring, mindless daily task that makes you roll your eyes, but also one that inspires a knowing nod, and the inevitable sigh: "OK. It's got to be done."

We headed out at 5:30 p.m. After all, we live only about five minutes away or so, from our friendly neighborhood bank branch. The drive-through closes at 6:00, so that's plenty of time, isn't it?

Not so fast. Just as we began pulling into the drive-through, a disconcerting sight greeted us. The shades had already been pulled down over the double windows.

"Pull around to the front," the Squawker suggested. "Maybe the lobby's still open. We might make it yet."

"I hope so, because it's nearly a quarter to six now." I duly swung around to the front, where somebody or other's Jeep still stood, parked out front. 

For a moment, my heart skipped beat in hope. As any dedicated last minute straggler knows, once you're past those glazed double doors...They have to deal with you, even if it's one minute to closing, your brain suggests, if only to get you out of there. And get home faster.

Once again, not so fast. One hopeless tug at the double doors quickly confirmed that we were well and truly out of luck. 

A renewed wave of irritation flooded my brain, once I sulked back to the car. "What the hell's going on here?" I asked Squawker. "They've moved the goalposts on us. Again!"

"What do you mean?"

"The hours they've posted now say the lobby closes at 5:00, which has always been true. But the drive-through now shuts down at 5:30."

"Really? What does anybody do during working hours? That explains one thing, though." The Squawker had been doing some quick 'n' dirty online research, via the phone, and held it up to show me.

Now, it was my turn to ask, "What do you mean?"

"The downturn branch closes at 3:00. And, as you know, there's a branch in the Matthew's store, about 15 minutes from here..."

"Not anymore," I said. "They took that one out of there, completely. It's been gone for a couple years now. I don't remember them shouting that news from the rooftops, either."

What else could we do, except slink home, and concede defeat? I checked our bank's Facebook page, to see if they'd revealed those new hours, but no such luck. Nowhere did I find any announcement of those reduced hours. All their promotions, though, were present and correct.

As aggravating as this example sounds, I can recall worse ones, such as the surprise call we got a couple years ago, from our local independent pharmacy.

The owner had just sold out to a mega-chain, and guess what? They were closing for good, in two hours, so better pick your drugs while you can. And oh, yeah, thanks for the memories. I'm not going to recount the Squawker's response, which isn't printable in a family newspaper, as they say. At least we were home, when the call came in. I shudder to think of the alternative.

<"Thanks For Your Business..."

Take II/The Reckoner>

<ii.>

We've since made the deposit, and sent off the tax paperwork, along with our check -- render unto Caesar, and all that stuff, yada, yada, yada -- but that episode marks a major change, all right. When the Squawker and I moved here, the drive-through stayed open at the bank until 7 p.m.!

That particular closing time stuck through most of the pandemic. It's only recently that I've seen their hours creeping down, down, down, steadily and surely. First, to 6:30 p.m. Then, to six o'clock, and now this, 5:30 p.m., with nary a peep from our friendly neighborhood bank branch. So much for any notions of community.

In one way, it's not a big deal, since I'm still working from home, as I always did, long before the pandemic. Whether I'm cashing a check, or dropping a deposit, I just have to make time for the task.

But, in another way, it is a big deal. All their bright, shiny rhetoric aside ("Blah blah blah, where the customer is always number one, blah blah blah, your community bank's keeping you in mind, blah blah blah, service is our middle name, blah blah blah, your convenience is our command, blah blah blah, doing business with us has never been easier'), these incidents serve as a reminder, as if we ever needed one, that it's all about themselves, first and foremost.

If they could run the bank with only one teller, they would. If they could run it remotely, with Cheeky Charlie the Chatbot keeping you company, they would. (No need to pay overtime, nor those pesky personal breaks, right?) And if they could get by with shorter hours (4:30 p.m. closing time, anyone?), they'd run that game, too. 

Remember when banks competed on who could offer the most appealing interest rate? I just eyeballed my quarterly notice. I've earned four cents on my nest egg, it seems. That little factoid alone sums up the whole discussion for me.

In the end, you're just stuck dealing with the inconvenience, because they're passing the problem onto you. After all, you don't usually have anywhere else to go. And it's not like the token competitor or two would do a better job.

You're the customer, so it's on you to find a workaround, right? Their motto may as well be, "Hold the access, pass the inconvenience." Just another unpleasant fact of life that we're struggling to deal with, I'm afraid. I only hope that they don't start closing on Fridays. --The Reckoner

<"Thanks For Your Business"/
Take III: The Reckoner>

My Corona Diary (Take XL): "We Need You Back (In The Office, That Is)..."

 

<"We Need You Back..."
Take I/The Reckoner>

<i.>

It had to happen, I suppose. Like millions of other workers out there, I too am now feeling the nudge-nudge-nudge -- gently-gently, at first, but lately, it feels more like a rude poke in the ribs -- to come back into the office, "if only for once or twice a week."

Given that I've largely made my living from my living room for 16-odd years, this directive strikes me as odd, especially after recalling how The Powers That Be (TPTB) sold my current job: "You'll keep doing what you're doing now, from home, but you'll get a regular paycheck." Sounded good to me, so I signed up, and that's how I've been spending my last year.

Apparently, that's not good enough anymore, though why hasn't been made clear to me, since my work -- primarily editorial, as I've chronicled -- can be done anywhere. It's not a new argument, as I realized in 2004, when I pitched a big city paper about working from home for them as a correspondent. I got a swift response, but not the one I'd imagined: "Oh, no, we can't do that. (Pause.) We're not going to pay to maintain an office." 

"But soon, nobody will need to go into an office anymore," I protested, trying to paper over my exasperation. "Soon, you'll able to work from anywhere -- desert island, middle of rural nowhere, the confines of your own home. Take your pick."

What the editor told me, I no longer recall. But her response sounded worthy of Homer Simpson's punchline: "The Internet? Is that thing still around?" 

Needless to say, the person who sparred with me over this issue is retired, like so many others in the news business who failed to appreciate the dawning of the new digital era. It reminds me of Metallica's fumbled response to the advent of Napster, with one major difference. Unlike Metallica, most ex-journalists won't have a rich back catalog to see them through their golden years. Such is life in today's technocracy, I suppose.

<"We Need You Back..."

Take II/The Reckoner>

<ii.>

As the above exchange suggests, The Office has always exerted a powerful, yet puzzling, gravitational pull on the American psyche. Otherwise, we'd hardly have a hit TV show named after it, would we? In many ways, "The Office" is simply the latest version of The Man In The Gray Flannel Suit (1956), or Mike Judge's comedy, Office Space (1999). 

But one message comes through loud and clear, in all of these Hollywood concoctions: The Office isn't a place you'd ever hang out willingly, if a different option presented itself. It's a whirlpool of bitterness and bitchiness, where it never takes long for hidden animosities to surface. Cue that shopworn punchline, "How boring is an office? You won't know till you try working in one."

That's why I piss myself laughing whenever some talking head waxes poetic about the camaraderie and collaboration that people are missing, by continuing to resist the Iron Nudge to return. If you read our Jobs To Nowhere series, you already know how hard I struggled to remember the good times at work. There were a few notable instances, but honestly, I struggled to recall most of them.

The Vox story (see below) makes some interesting points about the whole business. The general consensus suggests the whiff of a classic overdog power move: All right, you bastards. We know how much you've enjoyed working at home, but guess what? The party's over. Time to drag your asses back, so we can abuse you in person, all over again.

I've asked other people for some perspective about my predicament: "We've gotten by a whole year without having to rub shoulders. Why the rush?" The suggested motives I've heard range from control freak maneuvers ("Soon, you'll be coming in every day"), to financial ("They paid for all that office space, they want to get something out of it"), to resentment from above ("The heads figure, if they have to be there every day, so should you").

Still, what's the point of all that technology, if we can't capitalize on the flexibility ir promises? That's certainly true of cities like Los Angeles, where drivers spend roughly three hours a day schlepping back and forth to work. Who wants to endure that kind of insanity all over again?

And that's before we get to the other issue -- whether that green-eyed COVID monster's gearing up for another winter go-round. Time will tell soon enough there, obviously.

<"Be Seeing You..."/The Reckoner>

<iii.>

I just remember how I felt in Chicago, commuting forty-five minutes back and forth from the north suburbs, all to make my overdog bosses richer, as I scratched and scraped on $9.75 an hour. Without my freelance writing income, The Squawker and I would have struggled even more.

Words can't do justice to how much that commute curdled my stomach. For three years, Monday through Friday, I'd walk six blocks to a cattle call bus stop, where cigarette smoke and stale exhaust mingled with the gray and white snowflakes of pigeon shit that coated the roofs of the so-called bus shelters.

I don't recall feeling any camaraderie there, either. For the most part, my fellow travelers buried their noses in books and magazines, or stared blankly ahead, resigned to their fates.

I can't fake any warm and fuzzy feelings for those gauzy gray late '90s day, just as the Internet began rearranging the rhythm 'n' blues of our lives. Compare and contrast with today, when I began looking for remote jobs, and got 100 or so to come up, with little effort.

Guess what? Some outfits are so hot to get their hands on a warm body, they're offering $1,000 signing bonuses. In some cases, you can work remotely, even if your job happens to be in another state. Who wouldn't scoop up an option like that? 

Of course, the real reason behind this sudden snap of the leash is straightforward, as a media company vice president tells Vox. She too commutes three hours to work every day, while trying to raise a child as a single parent. Of course, these facts cut little ice with her bosses, who continue to work remotely, even as they demand everyone else return to the office:

“It’s unfair, but then management was always privileged,” she said, referring to the people above her. “This is just a new way of showing that privilege.”

Indeed, some animals are always more equal than others. What else is new? But with a current ratio of 1.7 per open jobs per worker, I'm not sure how many people feel inclined to listen. My current issue remains unresolved, but if I need any motivation, I only have to recall the general flow of events in Titanic -- the James Cameron version, that is.

Those who scrapped for a seat on the lifeboats, more often than not, secured a shot at survival. Those tophatted and tailcoated gentlemen who paused to knock back another cocktail, as they tut-tutted that unseemly rush to the exits, punched themselves a first-class ticket, straight to the bottom of the Atlantic.

Moral of the story? Not everything good comes to those who wait. As long as that 1:1.7 ratio hangs in our favor, make whatever moves you can. Because the way I feel, and the way things are going, it couldn't have happened to a "better" bunch of guys. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Don't Hurry, Hurry,

'N' Worry Yourself Back To Work...)

Forbes: Bosses Are Winning 

The Battle To Get Workers Back...*:
https://www.forbes.com/sites/jackkelly/2022/09/20/bosses-are-winning-the-battle-to-get-workers-back-to-the-office/?sh=7cdef66b783e

The Guardian: "It's Just Not Worth It":
https://www.theguardian.com/business/2022/oct/01/back-to-office-say-bosses-staff-prefer-working-from-home

Vox: You're Going Back To The Office...:
https://www.vox.com/recode/2022/10/12/23400496/remote-work-from-home-office-boss-manager-hypocrisy

(*We'll see, guys, we'll see. I wouldn't get out the confetti just yet.)

My Corona Diary (Take XXXIX): Pandemic, Endemic, Or What? A Few Housekeeping Notes

 <"Waiting For 

That Other Shoe To Drop..."
The Reckoner>

Alert readers of this blog will have noticed that I haven't posted a "Corona Diary" entry since May 1, or a good five months ago. There are several reasons, starting with the mundane. The demands of a public service job force me to juggle other priorities, including my creative side, more judiciously than before.

I have roughly the same amount of time for creative ventures as before, but I have to measure out more energy for them, depending on how long my day runs, or how many tasks pile up in a typical week. So that's one thing.

I also don't want to wear out a particular idea, or series of them. The Squawker and I don't believe in creating at an industrial pace, just to outrun an algorithm (even if I'm carrying most of the art and writing load lately). When we have something to say, we'll say it. if not, then not. Simple as that.

We're not worried about making money, or keeping up with the virtual Joneses. and we also don't want to repeat ourselves. The essential themes of the pandemic -- the crippling isolation, extreme inequities, and social upheavals -- are long established, so there's no point in rehashing them constantly.

Even so, I'm keeping the "Corona Diary" concept and title. Maybe I'll change it, once Entry #50 rolls around ("Post-Corona Diary," anyone?), but I'm not rushing any decision. I'm sure that whatever happens outside my remote work bubble will influence what's written next, which is how "My Corona Diary" emerged.

Having something to write about also helps. It's been awhile -- maybe a year, in fact -- since I've written anything COVID-19 related, looked at any of those color-coded maps, to keep track of the spread, nor spot-checked what other media outlets were saying about any of it.

Most folk that I see, on those occasions when Squawker and I venture out to the store, or some medical appointment or other, aren't wearing their masks anymore. Most stores still require them, though, while a sign at the County Courthouse states, "Face coverings optional. We respect your choice." Such is the Alice in Wonderland world that COVID-19 has brought us.

The pundits call it "pandemic fatigue," which makes sense, on some levels. Two years of ever-changing information and recommendations will wear out the hardiest of souls, despite President Biden's recent attempts at FDR-style fireside reassurance ("We still have a problem with COVID. We're still doing a lot of work on it. But the pandemic is over").

Then why are we hearing about the prospect of powerful new variants, like BA.5, looming over this winter? And why is my sister telling me about sharp spikes at her agency in so-called "long COVID" claims, of people so debilitated by the disease, they can't work anymore, let alone function? 

What's more, people are still dying from COVID, though not at the fearsome rates we witnessed 2020, and much of last year, as well. But the 300-400 COVID deaths per day that we're currently logging still strikes me as a big deal. That's almost 3,000 people per week. Any way you slice it, that's an eye-popping number.

Maybe that's why the Squawker and I are still wearing our masks, and limiting our current outings and social contacts to the "strictly necessary" variety. Last night, for instance, the local art center hosted the screening of a dozen or so silent movies outside -- on the side of the building, with an appropriate soundtrack.

Children had opportunities to paint jack-o'-lanterns, and of course, the center promised plenty of refreshments. It sounded like a fun event, a way to break our isolation, if only for 90 minutes, or so. I duly pitched the idea to Squawker, who lobbed back a question: "Sure, it might be outside. But will we really able to see it all from the car?"

"Well, we could drive by and check it out," I offered. "We could park across the street, or the center's parking lot. If not, we can always go back home. It's not a big deal."

"Hmm, yeah, maybe..." I could see Squawker's reserve start to melt. "But chances are, they'll have everybody sitting on the lawn. Which means, we'll still be exposed to all their germs."

"Sure, I guess. We don't know where they've been, or who they've done it with. But still, I wouldn't mind..."

The discussion continued, for another 10 minutes or so, till we figured out that we weren't showing up. At one point, I cracked, "You know, we could probably look up those movies online, and watch them right here."

"That's just it," Squawker agreed. "I can't really sit that long, anyway. Not the way my body works, these days. I'd rather see a movie at home."

"That's a fair point, all right. Can't argue with that."

And there, we let the matter drop. That's our current dilemma, isn't it? As much as fun as that whole event sounded, something held us back. You can call it anxiety, or continued paranoia, or standard issue Midwestern reserve, or simply, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But if decades of journalistic experience have taught me nothing me else, it's this. When you hear that other shoe, as it's whistling past your head, it means, you'd better pay attention. Or ignore it, at your peril. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (No All Clear Sign,

So No Hurries This Time):

CNBC: Dr. Fauci Says A New,

More Dangerous COIVD Variant Could Emerge...:

https://www.cnbc.com/2022/10/07/dr-fauci-new-more-dangerous-covid-variant-could-emerge-this-winter.html

Fortune: Autumn COVID Variants

Look Shockingly Similar And Powerful...:
https://fortune.com/well/2022/10/08/autumn-covid-variants-similar-omicron-convergent-evolution-recombination-deltacron-frankenvirus-fall-winter-wave-coronavirus-pandemic-epidemic/

NPR: Joe Biden Says 

The COVID-19 Pandemic Is Over...:

https://www.npr.org/2022/09/19/1123767437/joe-biden-covid-19-pandemic-over