Tuesday, March 30, 2010
I’m no closer today than I was back in September to formulating the ultimate interview question, and I can’t say I’m particularly devastated. The well there is simply dry, and I shall plumb it no further. What I devised today, instead, were four questions, assembled in such a way to resemble a written test, the likes of which I would’ve loathed as an interviewee. Now, not one of the questions approaches “ultimate” status, merely passable, but taken in tandem they achieve their secret purpose: to offer a glimpse into the mind of an applicant.
The initial draft took about an hour to construct, and I was pleased with the outcome. It’s self-contained, first and foremost, and all the factual answers you need are right on the page, provided you make the effort to locate them. I also saved the test to the latest version of Excel, which means that opening the file itself may constitute a brain teaser for candidates with older versions of Office. But here, too, 30 seconds of Googling would yield a ready solution. The difficulty curve is also tougher to track, with a simple first query, followed by a steeper drop, then a softer finish. The questions are more open-ended as well–no multiple choice here–and the spaces allotted for answers are of uniform size to avoid telegraphing complexity. All aboard the Mindfuck Express!
Even as I was typing the test, however, I was mindful of the larger context. These days interviews themselves, never mind open positions, can be a rare commodity, and I wanted to respect this. It’s nerve-wracking to sit in the hot seat, frankly, and there’s something profoundly discordant about being expected to package your past experience, your baggage–indeed, your very life up to this moment–into a cogent hours-long presentation.
But that’s the rub. It’s an interview, not a feel-good session of self-affirmation. I need to gather as much data within that period of time, brief as it is, to determine whether I can count on you in the long haul. A rotten state of affairs, I know. I know. I sat on the other side of the table a few years ago, and the following question was posed to me: if I were to be consumed by an animal, which fell beast would I choose to carry out the deed? A chupacabra, I proposed, because if I am to be ingested, I may as well witness a mythical creature in the process. Better answer, in retrospect? An interviewer.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
I’d like to regale you with a tale of two sandwiches tonight. “Tale” may be overstating it, actually, because there’s nothing so involved as a story here. It’s more a recollection, some memories that illustrate my current relationship with organic foods. It’s traditionally been touch-and-go. On one hand, I understand why the industry exists. I’ve seen Food, Inc. I get it. The health benefits, the sustainability, the humane treatment of livestock. But on the other hand, I balk at the expense, and in the back of my mind I’ve always wondered whether the whole movement was an agri-industrial complex conceived by people who don’t believe in showers and name all their firstborn “Star Child.”
The first sandwich in question was the new Bacon & Blue burger from Wendy’s, and the road to this burger began, as it always does, with an advertisement. An online ad, no less. Normally I’m immune to the stuff, since I’m immersed in it during office hours, but I found myself clicking on a banner a few Saturdays ago. Maybe it was the sizzling beef, or the lettuce that bounced just so, sending water droplets flying every which where, or the blue cheese crumbles that seemingly rained from the heavens. I was mesmerized. The ad spoke to me, and in short order I found myself in my car, hurtling toward the nearest location.
What I discovered was a supersized helping of disappointment. No springy lettuce. Gray, rubbery beef. Blue cheese that appeared to be aged, by the gnarled hands of ancient Cheez Whiz artisans, in a tin can. Worst of all, the Bacon & Blue tasted terrible. You figure if the patty were indeed assembled from a thousand cows, then probability dictates at least some of it would be palatable. Well, you’d be wrong. Biggie wrong, in fact.
A few days later, I pulled up to an Earth Fare for lunch. I didn’t have much in the way of expectations. But when I took that first bite into a tuna melt from the deli, it was like I had found something. The thick bread, the melted cheese, the generous helping of tuna that didn’t have any fish taste at all–it was a bounty of textures. What’s more, the sandwich was grilled. It was a delicious revelation that fundamentally reversed my distrust of panini. And unlike my experience with the Bacon & Blue, I didn’t feel as if I had been marinating in preservatives and hydrogenated oils, post-consumption. Could this be the organic difference? What’s next? If I ate enough tuna melts, would I wake up one day in a commune? More research is clearly needed, starting tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
The gears of preparation began churning in earnest recently, with the return visit mere days away, and my goal will be singular this time. I don’t mean to conjure an image of wandering the grounds with clipboard in hand, crossing off action items on a checklist in an OCD-fueled frenzy. The greens will be stunning, I’m sure, and there will be ample sunshine guaranteed, whether by nature’s due course or whatever witchcraft emanates from the clubhouse, and I’ll soak in all of it under the auspices of a business outing.
But I’d like to get something more out of the trip. Last time was a sensory overload, honestly, and much attention was spent marveling at the privilege of attending an exclusive event. It’s still a privilege, obviously, but there’s a little less novelty this go-around. I recall downing multiple pimento cheese sandwiches a year ago because I was certain I would only attend the Masters once, and the same mentality guided the temporary madness that seized me in the gift shop. And believe me, the overlords who run the event know to take full advantage of this insanity, engineering the whole checkout process to be utterly seamless as you part with your cash for snacks and sundries.
This year, however, will be about regulating said consumption. Restraint will be the order of the day. I’m wise now to the cunning money traps they’ve devised, and I will not succumb to the mystique of the event. We’re talking two pimento sandwiches instead of four. Three promotional cups, rather than five. And when I set foot inside the house of baubles, gaze upon the overpriced trinkets, I will resist. Stroll by the Masters apparel, and remember I can buy three normal shirts for the same price. Pick up some branded golf balls, and then realize I will likely lose them under a pile of unbranded leaves. Glance at the limited-edition putter with a Tiger-approved shaft, and chuckle.