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.
Posted by Ben at 11:44 PM
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.
Posted by Ben at 11:54 PM
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.
Posted by Ben at 11:57 PM
Tuesday, March 16, 2010 :::
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, March 23.
Posted by Ben at 1:01 AM
Thursday, March 11, 2010 :::
Somewhere, somehow, an inventor is putting the last few flourishes on a special stove designed primarily for fools like me. The stove is normal in appearance, mundane in functionality, but it is unique because it only burns the first time you touch it. Every subsequent touch actually rewards you, indeed verbally praises you, for your persistence. Such an appliance doesn't exist, obviously, but it's metaphorically valuable for our discussion tonight. We're going to talk about cars! Specifically my car.
You may recall the series of unfortunate events that befell me earlier this year, when disaster struck repeatedly and I was left none the wiser. Like a moth to the flame, I returned to the dealership three, four times, progressively setting more and more cash on the altar of Saab in burnt offerings for the health of my automobile. They finally fixed the issue, and we're going on two months of uninterrupted service.
I started looking at new cars when I was in the thick of these repairs. Nothing concrete, mind you. It was purely exploratory: parsed out the trade-in value of my current ride, read some reviews, skimmed Consumer Reports, and had it in mind that I'd go Japanese again. Altimas, Maximas, Corollas, Civics, and Accords seemed like good choices, until a few of these brands decided to go red-light, green-light, all around the same time. Suddenly my own problems didn't seem so extraordinary. Saab then found a buyer at the last minute, saved itself from the chopping block, and in short order the fear of hard-to-find parts also evaporated. Relieved, I surfed over to their website for the press release.
And then I clicked on this son of a bitch. I knew--still know--in the back of my mind that the sensible course of action would be to swap my money trap for something reliable, like a Civic or really anything besides another Saab. But as soon as I saw those glossy photos of the new 9-5 and pored over the features, dopamine levels were off the charts. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice--can I take it for a test drive? I like the aesthetic. The car is shaped in such a way that it soothes me. I've already rationalized that Spyker will right the wrongs of the past, reclaiming the fine Swedish construction of legend. Most of all, though, it's the HUD that's compelling. A heads-up display. Like in a fighter jet! Because, goddammit, I can't be bothered with looking down at the dashboard while piloting a depreciating asset.
Posted by Ben at 11:16 PM
Tuesday, March 09, 2010 :::
There was a time, not long ago, when the proper upkeep of clothes confounded me, forcing me to employ desperate measures like bankrolling a steady influx of new shirts. Indeed, the very idea of marshaling steam technology to make oneself look sharper was pure science fiction, and you may as well have claimed that telephony had gone cordless and I would've believed you. Well, things have changed since then. I've made progress. I can now dewrinkletize a button-down, not to mention invent new verbs, in mere minutes.
The question has come full circle, in fact, and I am again preoccupied with acquiring new threads, though what drives me now isn't necessity, so much as vanity. Certainly I'll pick up a new article of clothing here or there, but I haven't made a truly concerted effort to understand the world of apparel since aught-five, when structurally compromised jeans were all the rage. Those were pre-recession days, I suppose, and it was fashionable to look like you were destitute or possibly AWOL from a local casting of Cats.
Here, too, things have changed, with the denim of today sporting an altogether different style. Gone are the carefully positioned tears, and the only way to achieve the destroyed look these days is through your own industry and a pair of scissors. Now, if trendy is what you want, it's going to be slim, low-ride jeans for you. I unwittingly brought a pair to the fitting room over the weekend, and it just didn't take. It was horrifically uncomfortable.
I guess I'm just not shaped like a hipster, you know? I simply don't want to chat about the latest grungecore hits while sipping alternative brews, ever, and my protest begins with comfortable pants. Is darker, regular-fit denim the answer for me? Perhaps, though if we continue along the current trajectory, carpenter jeans will likely see a revival soon, and maybe this time we'll figure out what exactly goes in the hammer loop.
Posted by Ben at 11:46 PM
Thursday, March 04, 2010 :::
As I was driving home from work tonight, drained after hours of basking in the sickly white glow of spreadsheets, I asked myself a question. It's been a long week, and when you combine that with an empty road, bleary eyes, and a darkened sky, you get contemplative. I thought about the past few days, the coming weekend, last year and the next, and then I steeled myself for those three words: Is this it?
It's a painful, yet wholly necessary query that should be asked regularly, I believe. It suggests discontentment, possibly unwarranted, and it's a question that can inconvenience you, uproot the familiar, if you go the distance with it. But it can also save you from being stuck on loop. There are better words, I'm sure. Were I more entrepreneurial, I'd probably be uttering three different ones--Here's my plan--but that's a mindset I simply don't possess.
By and large I'm content on most days. Job, house, car, savings, creature comforts--I'm fortunate, certainly. But at the same time, I've always wondered what it means to be truly "passionate" about something, be it a hobby or work. I've never really understood the word. It tends to evoke images of rescuing whales or some such shit, all for great personal satisfaction and little reward.
Invariably I imagine donning sackcloth and renouncing worldly riches to pursue my life's calling, and that's just not me. I like nice things. I like food. I like money, and were I to stumble upon a way to parlay something I enjoy into a revenue stream, well, fuck yes I'd sell out in a heartbeat. That's every person's dream, I suppose--to stop asking the question, my question, and instead declare, "This is it."
Posted by Ben at 11:54 PM
Tuesday, March 02, 2010 :::
For the past few months, my golf clubs have sat neglected in the coat closet, gathering cobwebs and darkness in what was to be their final resting place. I had entombed them there after a particularly confounding summer, where the few instances of improvement were crushed by a preponderance of frustration and poor form. This was in no way helped by my continued refusal to seek professional instruction, of course, and it's likely matters aren't going to change much on this front.
I've been thinking about the game recently. It started with a couple mental pictures that seemingly came from nowhere: a brief flash here of an early morning drive, a brief flash there of carts lining up for tee-off, a quick panorama of rolling hills covered in dew and chill. It's the kind of shit you'd find in a Werther's commercial, you know?
These images eventually piled up, culminating in a morbid curiosity that resolved in two small words. What if? What if I hit all the right notes this year and managed to become proficient? What if I possessed this skill in my business toolkit? What if I were able to resist a chili dog with the conviction of a thousand vegetarians?
I acted on this curiosity over the weekend, exhuming my clubs for a trip to the range. The violent backswing--the very fruit of my efforts from last year--was fully intact and had to be toned down substantially. The need to focus on the ball quickly became apparent. It was a productive hour. But the real test of what I've retained comes this Saturday, when I will wander the greens, or what I refer to as the Field of Woe, for four to five hours of my life. It doesn't stop there, though. Last Friday, fortune also presented a chance to attend the Masters again, and I am compelled to go. I fear there may be no escape.
Posted by Ben at 11:58 PM
