An Honest Application

Dear Sir and/or Madam (I'm not here to judge),

I am very interested in the opportunity you have available at your company, namely the opportunity to work there five days a week and receive money for doing so. I'm sure you've read a thousand applications by now, so I won't bore you with trite verbiage and cliche lines about how I'd be an excellent fit for this role or how I could maximize synergy through cross-pollinating business units. No, I'll just be up front and completely honest - I am your average, run-of-the-mill goober.

I'm the twelfth row, third from the center

Sure, I have a degree in marketing. But you and I both know you could throw a rock out your office window and it would ricochet off no less than a dozen marketing majors. Charmin might as well print "Bachelors of Science in Marketing" across their comfortably absorbent two-ply double rolls. My marketing degree qualifies me for this job the same way a belly button qualifies me to be President of the United States - it's technically necessary but offers no competitive advantage. What I'm trying to say is that my marketing degree is worthless, unless you have a marketing degree that you're proud of, in which case I am willing to forget I ever wrote this paragraph. Somebody's got to be the bigger man here.

And yes, I do have 8 years of progressive marketing experience in leadership roles. But coming out of the worst economic downturn in modern memory, there are still people out there with 50 years of marketing experience who would mow your grass for a cheese stick. And they would take that cheese stick, eat it like a rabid squirrel, and then viciously attack me with a tire iron for being younger and more likely to be hired. It's cutthroat out there.

"I was marketing cigarettes to children when your daddy was still in diapers, you Twitter-loving hippie!"

I possess the same schooling, knowledge, software skills, and hairstyle as just about every other applicant whose email is in your Outlook folder labeled "Crap, do I have to pick one?" But I'm not writing to get those goobers hired, I'm writing to get me hired. So let me appeal to your sense of reason - statistically speaking, I am one of the applicants. Why not hire me?

If that line of reasoning didn't work, and really it shouldn't have, let me tell you what I do offer that others won't promise:

• I will share my perspective without reservation, and I will passionately stick up for ideas I think best serve the company. Conversely, I will shut my face when I am proven wrong and accept when one of my ideas is bad. It's like my grandfather always told me when I was little, "Henry, even the golden goose still laid turds". Though looking back he always got my name wrong, so maybe that idiom never made any sense...
• I am a bastion of workplace etiquette. I will not force pictures of my ugly kids on you while you are trying to work on reports. I will not clip my toenails at my desk. My laugh is an appropriate volume and cadence, and it is devoid of snorts.

"...and this is Susan. She's starting 3rd grade next year..."

• If some workplace violence breaks out, I will be your biggest asset. Not because of my bravado or karate skills, but because I'm told my shrill, panicked wail is louder than any alarm. This might also happen if there's a spider in the office.
• I will never write you an email this long or this stupid again. You have to admit though, you're still reading it.
• Have I mentioned that new tie and/or dress looks great on you? (Again, not here to judge.)

Normally this is where I'd say that I'm eagerly awaiting a response and reiterate that my goal in life is to work for you until I die and then have my ashes spread on my cubicle. However, in keeping with this cover letter's theme of unabashed honesty I feel compelled to tell you that I do genuinely want to work for your company, but I've also applied to dozens of other companies and will forget all about you until I either receive a rejection letter or a job offer.

Thank you for your time and consideration. I'm going to finish eating this sandwich now.

-Nathan Lee

Resumé attached

Rejection

You couldn't tell it from the frequency of my updates, but I do enjoy writing these blogs. But, I occasionally try my hand at writing for other websites who have an editorial process much more rigorous than Where it Gets Awkward (I am, after all, sharing a bed with the editor). These websites have readerships in the millions, have launched careers, and have editors who all agree that I should convert to the Amish.

Which is fine, because I'd look great with a beard, and they are looking for a very specific and pre-established style which I have yet to master. But what to do with all these rejected submissions?

Behold, my failures!

**********

excerpt from Bizarre Festivals (for the Pain Enthusiast)

Skewer Yourself at the Phuket Vegetarian Festival

What could possibly be dangerous at a festival with celery-eaters and pacifists, you ask? Plenty, if you're from the Thai city of Phuket (disappointingly pronounced “poo-ket”). Mainly celebrated by the resident Chinese community, participants eat a vegetarian diet during the ten days of festivities to honor the Nine Emperor Gods who saved a group of traveling opera performers from an epidemic of malaria, thus unleashing a new but slightly less painful epidemic upon Phuket of opera. Modern day worshippers aren't content to just do some praying, grill some cucumber kabobs, and call it a festival, however. They make face kabobs. Out of their own faces.

“I momentarily mistook myself for a zucchini”

It is said the mutilation is done in a trance-like state to invoke the gods, who will protect them from pain or severe scarring. It is also said, “AAAAHHHH THAT MAN HAS BEEN IMPALED BY A SWORD! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY CALL AN AMBULANCE!”, but that is usually just by foreigners. The festival goers like to get creative with what they put through their face, and we'd like to think prizes are given out at the end like at a Halloween costume contest. Some of the more interesting facial ornaments include an AK47, a wine glass, hedge clippers, and an umbrella. 

“Does this dress make me look like I have a pirate ship sticking out of my face?”

For the faint of heart who are too cowardly to have their heads turned into giant pin cushions, there are other festival activities to engage in, like walking over burning hot coals and climbing 25-foot ladders made out of blades. If the festival organizers were really sadists they'd make you swan dive off the top of that ladder into a vat of alcohol, so there's at least some proof the Phuketians (Phuketites? Phuketonians?) have sympathy. Oh, and speaking of alcohol, in addition to avoiding meat during the festival participants commit to abstaining from drinking or having sex.

“I wish there was a pool of alcohol at the bottom of this thing”

***********

A Memo to All Explosion Burger® Employees

To:  All Explosion Burger® employees
From:  Corporate Headquarters
Re: Employee Happiness

EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY

The corporate office has re-evaluated the longstanding policy that all Explosion Burger® employees smile while within the blast radius (defined as all Explosion Burger® property, up to and including the parking lot, dining area, and bathrooms - see Section 117c of your Employee Lawbook). Although no formal or informal customer complaints were ever filed, the policy was enacted to mitigate possible issues with customers encountering less-than-perky attitudes while being provided timely service and delicious hamburgers. However, our marketing research reveals that coerced smiles can be detected by consumers 97% of the time, and of the 97% who will correctly identify your fraudulence, only 93% will Atomicize™ their Missile Meals™ when offered. In light of this recent data, we have no choice but to change this policy.

Therefore, effective immediately, all mandatory smiles and other expressions of happiness are required to be genuine. This includes laughing, fist pumps, heel clicks, squealing, and hugging (reminder: no employee is allowed to hug another employee, customer, or bystander within the blast radius unless the huggee is an immediate family member over the age of 18 – see Section 321g of your Employee Lawbook). In order to determine the genuineness of your smiles a retired FBI body language expert will be added to each franchise location. The agents will analyze facial expressions, gait, blinking frequency, and stool samples to assess your level of happiness. They may also serve as backup fry cook.

Anyone caught faking a smile will be punished. The first infraction earns a verbal warning to be administered via megaphone. Anyone caught the second time will be issued a written warning and sent home to write an essay titled “Ten Reasons Why Working at Explosion Burger® Makes Me Happy”.  Anyone caught the third time will be expelled from employment immediately and will not be eligible to receive their deposit back.

Explosion Burger, Inc. has always striven to provide a relaxing and inoffensive dining experience for families by offering explosive themed hamburgers and t-shirts at blowout prices by exuberant employees. We WILL continue to do so.

Thank you for your deference.

Sincerely,

Harold Q. Oppenheimer
Vice President of Human Resources

**********

A Time Traveler from the Present in Love in the Past

Dear Clara Beth,

These past few days without you have been agonizing. I often stare at my iPhone, as dead as your neighbor with tuberculosis, and wish I could see your beautiful face on my lock screen. “Slide to unlock” it would say if electrical sockets had been invented yet. “Slide to unlock our hearts.” Oh, sweet, sweet Clara Beth, how I miss your piercing blue eyes! They would have looked so good in HDR or sepia scrolling through my Instagram feed. I would have liked every photo, and I don’t mean in the passive way with feelings. You deserve better than that.

At night when I rest my weary head and close my eyes I have dreams of all the great times we’ve had together. They are random and disjointed memories that last about 6 seconds each and loop endlessly. Oh, how those wonderful, tangled Vines blossomed into our love!

Clara Beth, I want to make us Facebook official. I want to shout our love from the top of Old Man Sanders’ mill and then see if your ex-boyfriend Clyde comments with a frownie emoticon. I will private message him if he does. I will private message him fisticuffs in the pasture behind your barn.

But alas, all I have is this slender black screen in my hand. There is no color, no animation, no life. Just a dark reflection of my lonely face while I wait for your return, darling Clara Beth. When that train finally brings you back from the big city and we embrace, I will turn on my location services and tag you in my heart.

I mean that figuratively, of course, because my iPhone is still regrettably and irreversibly dead. I probably should have thought of this before installing that time traveling app.

Yours forever,

@BarryTheBarista78

**********

Escape from Nashville

The moral of this story is that I am a goober. I’m stating the moral upfront so those with attention spans too short for a 1,000 word blog can still get the full effect. “I’m not going to finish reading this, but I know it confirmed some long-held suspicions that Nathan Lee is, in fact, a raging goober” you just read in your mind’s voice before closing this window.

And now for the long version. I saddled up Blues Traveler, my trusty steed of a car, and galloped across I-75 to the country music capital of the world – Nashville, ‘Murica. Normally I would spend this time resting in the cupboards of Taylor Swift’s mansion, but as I previously wrote, I broke up with her and she has since sought solace in relationships with men who look exactly like me.

We even have the same butterfly tattoo on our stomachs! Creepy…

No, this time I was in town for a YSA conference, where twenty-something Mormons go to socialize, attend religious classes, and pretend we're not twenty-something. The conference was fine, and I did the typical things – danced the Cha-Cha Slide with such intensity that the aurora borealis shone brighter that night, Cupid Shuffle’d with enough grace that somewhere a terrorist reconsidered his stance on America, and tried out some new Mormon pickup lines.

Yo girl. My name’s Thummim. I’ve been looking for my eternal companion and I think your-him.

Get it? Urim?...Uh, let me try again.
Yo, girl. Is your name King Lamoni? Because I’d cut that guy’s arms off for you. 

Wait, that came out wrong…Baby come back, I’ve got more!

That is, everything was fine until Saturday evening. The activities were shifting to a different church 10 miles down the road. I made it about 2 miles before Blues Traveler started billowing the blackest, thickest smoke I’d ever seen emitted from an exhaust pipe. It was like a dark genie being released from its lamp to grant me three wishes, as long as those wishes were all “I’d like to pay several hundred dollars in auto repairs.” My car slowed to a crawl, and I pulled over into the nearest yard, which happened to be a sprawling, palatial estate. I called my friend Janna, and she picked me up and took me back to the conference while my car was towed to a mechanic. 

It was Easter weekend, so I knew my car would not be fixed until at least Monday. I resigned to make the most of my extended stay, because what could I do? Sometimes crappy things happen, and it’s nobody’s fault. I texted my boss that I was stranded in Nashville, and one of the conference organizers was nice enough to let me crash on his couch Sunday night. Janna gave me a ride to the airport so that I could get a rental car.  Everything was set for a day of fun in Nashville while my car was being serviced.

The first thing I wanted to do Monday morning was visit Nashville’s replica of the Parthenon and Athena statue, because the South can have nice things too! Unfortunately these Greek knockoffs are closed on Mondays, and the park it is located in was all but abandoned. It is clear that the City of Nashville doesn’t understand why tourists come to their city. Hint: it ain’t for classic culture. If any government officials stumble upon this blog, let me help you out.

Behold, the Garthenon!

Afterwards I drove downtown so that I could wander the city. When pulling in to a parking deck I sideswiped a cement pillar. I started panicking, thinking of all the money it would cost to make amends to the rental company, not to mention what I would surely owe the mechanic for my own car. I purchased a bottle of water and used my brand new shirt as a rag, because I accidentally tore a gaping hole in it the night before anyway. I scrubbed the scrapes and dent vigorously, and made about as much difference as a rational person would assume.

“Hand me a bottle of water and a button-up shirt. I can fix this.”

My vacation was quickly unraveling. I drowned my sorrows in Nashville barbecue, took a nap in a Goodwill parking lot, and then called the mechanic. They had not even looked at my car yet, so I was stuck for another night. I Pricelined the cheapest motel I could find, ignoring all of the Yelp reviews, and checked into the Please Don’t Stab Me Inn (“Free Continental Bandages!”). After dropping my bags off I drove to the nearest fast food joint, a ghetto Jack in the Box. I was the only one in the restaurant until a man and woman walked in. They were middle-aged, disheveled, strung out, and hungry. They politely asked for some food, and I purchased a couple of burgers. The man was grateful and hugged me for an uncomfortable amount of time. Twice. I retired to my motel room and slept, hoping that the next day would be better. “Roll with the punches," I told myself.

The mechanic called me in the early afternoon. He had found the problem. It turns out that some goober had poured an entire gallon too much oil into my engine, flooding and ruining several parts. If you have good reading retention and remember the moral of this story, you have guessed by now that I am that goober.  Every time the engine light had come on the past couple of weeks I had poured a quart of oil into my car, because Blues Traveler has a slight oil leak, and that is usually what the engine light means. I never touched the dipstick, despite my father telling me that I should. I just blindly tipped up the oil can and hit the road. All of my ‘tough luck’ – the expensive car repairs, missing work, denting my rental car, etcetera – was my fault. It was a sobering realization - there was no invisible, malicious hand plaguing me. There never had been. The punches I roll with in life are thrown by me.

“This oil needs more oil.”

But if there is room in this blog post for two morals, it’s that my problems are small in the scheme of things, and I can strive to correct and prevent them. I’ve blindly tipped up the oil can and hit the road many times, but I am blessed with a support system that makes it difficult to fall too far. I thought about the couple back at Jack in the Box, and then I thought of my friends who are more than willing to help bail me out. I thought about my parents who worry about me and are there in a second if I need them. And then I thought, “Stop making life needlessly hard for yourself. Stop being a goober.”

I dropped my rental car off at the airport and hopped in a cab to take me to the mechanic. In keeping with the theme, the cab broke down several times on the way there. This was not because of my negligence or poor decision making, so I laughed it off and assumed this was the cab driver’s lesson to learn. On Tuesday night, 54 hours after I was meant to leave Nashville, I finally picked up my car and started the long drive back home. The engine light has yet to come back on, but when it does I will be better prepared.

And now, I wait...

The Call of the Void

I set sail in Blues Traveler on a Friday afternoon for the distant shores of Lake Michigan. Many people asked me what caused my sudden departure, confused by the fact that I was being associated with words like “sudden” and “departure”. As many of my close friends know, I am about as well traveled as a sequoia and only half as spontaneous. But as many of my close friends don’t know, once every 28 years I have the urge for adventure - a biological mystery manifest by compulsory travel north like the noble salmon - and Chicago seemed as good of a place as any to drop my eggs and die.

Frankly, this doesn't look as appealing as everybody makes it out to be...

But seriously, I was sick of Atlanta and sick of the grind and just wanted something new for a weekend. And if the FBI is reading this, my trip was in no way related to your investigation of an underground kitten fight club in the vicinity of my garage. Those kittens chose a life of violence, and the last time I checked cheering was not a crime.

Mis – ter Socks! Mis – ter Socks!

The drive was long, tedious, and infinitely more enjoyable than any stupid webinar I would have been on back at the office. A solid, thin sheet of snow covered the ground from mid-Kentucky up. It was a dull blur in the dark, but almost glowed in the interstate overpass lights to welcome me into new climes. I finally arrived in Chicago around 2am, dropped off my bags in my hotel room, and then wandered the streets for a bit, where I quickly discovered through my superior powers of observation that it was 10 degrees outside and that I was dressed for Miami. I basked in the city for as long as I could and then took refuge in my hotel until morning.

The next day I met my friend Sarah for lunch at Lou Malnati’s, one of Chicago’s most acclaimed pizza joints and not-so-subtle front for the Illuminati. Sarah helped me work out a game plan for the weekend, as I pretty much just showed up as a reverse carpetbagger with nothing but a bindle and the dream of eating deep dish pizza. As we dined it started snowing heavily, and I watched through the pane glass walls as Chicagoans couldn’t be bothered to care. It’s like they didn’t even notice. It was all I could do to keep the snow-panicked Southerner in me from grabbing a megaphone, jumping on a nearby bench, and exclaiming “DEAR OBLIVIOUS YANKEES, IT IS SNOWING! I REPEAT: IT IS SNOWING! PLEASE RUN FRANTICALLY HOME, SHUTTER YOUR WINDOWS, AND IF ANYONE KNOCKS ON YOUR DOOR DON’T ANSWER. IT’S A YETI, AND IT’S THERE TO CONSUME YOUR CHILDREN!”

 "Just a reminder, yetis will not attack those in possession of a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk..."

Afterwards the plan was for Sarah to drop me off at Millenium Park where I was to wander around and take dozens of pictures like some big out-of-town goon before using my iPhone’s map to find a bus to take me back to my hotel. Instead what happened was Sarah dropped me off at Millenium Park, I took three photos, my phone instantly shut down due to the bitter cold, and I walked around Chicago lost like some big out-of-town goon. This was a constant issue while I was there. Any time my phone was out of my pocket for longer than 30 seconds I swear Siri would shout, “Nope, I’m outta here! Hope you die in the cold, sucka!” and maliciously switch herself off. I genuinely have no idea how Northerners communicate 50% of the year.

I developed a plan for my long, frigid treks while I was there – find a Starbucks, order a coffee, pour it down my pants, walk until hypothermia starts to set in, repeat. I may have substituted hot chocolate for coffee and my face for my pants, but the concept is the same.

I finally made it back to my hotel and loaded my bags. I had reserved a room at a hostel in Wicker Park for the following two nights. I wasn’t really sure what staying at a hostel would be like, but it felt like having a slumber party at a community college frat house. That night I took the L train back into the city to explore Navy Pier and look out over Lake Michigan. The surface was frozen for as far out as I could see, a serene white expanse that bade me walk. Luckily my common sense took over and bade me live. The following morning I went to the YSA ward before checking out the prestigious Field Museum. I was relieved to find out it was not a collection of dirt samples from various meadows and grasslands, but was instead a sprawling complex with thousands of ancient artifacts from all over the world. Perhaps their most famous exhibit is the world’s largest T-rex skeleton, Sue. Although certainly big and capable of eating me like a Snickers bar, Sue did not live up to the preconceived notions that television and movies had given me about the size of dinosaurs. It’s almost like movies have skewed my expectations and sense of reality.

Sue and I, moments before she disappointingly did not reanimate and run amok through the city.

After the Field Museum I went to the Shedd Aquarium. As with any animal exhibit, I spent most of my time wondering what the displays would taste like and concluded that most of the animals would fall on a spectrum of “delicious” to “very delicious”. I left before I could end up in the headline Hillbilly Goes Noodling for Rare Amazonian Catfish, Calls it ‘Almost as Tasty as Captain D’s’.

My final morning in Chicagoland was spent at Willis Tower, the second tallest building in the United States and the first tallest building formerly called Sears Tower. They took me up to the 103^rd floor to a fantastic view, and they have a few glass-floor alcoves where you can live your nightmares by stepping out and visualizing your death 1,300 feet below. It’s hard not to think ‘what if I jumped?’ when up that high – not from a dark perspective, but from a purely inquisitive daydream. I don’t think I’m the only one who has these compulsions, because the French have a term for it - l’appel du vide, or ‘the call of the void’. I spent quite a while up on the 103^rd floor just soaking up the city and thinking. I was happy to be there, happy to be experiencing something new and to be taking steps outside myself.  Maybe the void isn’t the pavement on Wacker Drive in downtown Chicago, but maybe it is Chicago. Or Taiwan. Or Abu Dhabi. Maybe it’s just the compulsion for the unknown, and maybe I had already answered the call when I drove 12 hours north for the weekend by myself. 

Or maybe, as most people told me when I got back, I’m an idiot who drove straight into the coldest Northern winter in recent memory instead of driving to Miami and getting a tan.

Little bit of Column 'A', little bit of number 2.