Life After Panic

There are legends of ordinary human beings who have responded to their circumstances in superhuman ways. There’s the mother who lifts the entire front end of an automobile off her trapped child. We will soon have tales from our current generation, the woman that kept her family fed while trapped in a negative cash flow.

Something strange is going on. It’s been a tough year. Things are always looking up, but never quite getting there. And, because I have so much time on my hands, I see the devastation across all lines of economic classes. The one thing I notice is those who are living in a special state, available only to the downsized. It is something I’ve come to call, “Life after Panic.”


Understandably, the first response to impending tragedy is panic. You lose your job it’s a natural response, when they foreclose on the house, a proper Freak Out is about the only things owed to you. But most choose the tiniest whiff of impending doom as their cue; I prefer to panic when it finally arrives. In the meantime, surrender seems a good option.

How am I handling unemployment? Here is how it breaks down: I’m through resisting how it IS. I’m absolutely certain of how I’d like things to BE, but I’ll follow the wisdom of the ages and most of the popular spiritualities and surrender to how things really ARE. And it takes work.

Nobody goes looking for a lesson in reality. Some have it thrust upon them, a life-threatening health issue or former clients of Bernie Madoff, but when the screaming subsides, ALL are left with the same option. When things get really bad, your best choice for a starting point is the age old “going with the flow”... but this time, for real. Practicing acceptance is rewarding, unemployment proof, and, damn it—okay, I’ll say it—a lot easier than your other options.

Acceptance has only one rule: No matter what comes or how it comes at you, you accept it as it is. You don’t have to like it, but you have to accept it. Try it, we’ll discuss later.

My experience was that the more dire the circumstances, the better for the “experiment”, as in “Well, if I can get through this...” Soon a dividend of the search for Really Juicy Trouble began paying off. I found less and less trouble to work with and soon, if I wanted anxiety, I had to manufacture some. As a by-product of the experiment I found myself more often in the here and now, more present to the moment. Life became slower and anxiety dissolved.

Make no mistake, I’m talking about a period of two and a half years, not some “fast food” life lesson. As I watch others begin their journey down the road of difficult times, I can only remember what lay ahead for me at the start of this epic journey, back in 2002. The only blessing was that I DIDN’T know what lay ahead, that I was headed into seven more years of the worst economy in the last one hundred years.

And yet, here I am. Here and living comfortably, yet downsized considerably.

Why did I write this? I’m not sure that anyone heading into foreclosure is sitting around checking out the blogs, but maybe you know someone who is. Point them my way, please.

If the circumstances are tough for someone you know, remind them they are not alone. There are those of us who are ahead of they on this same road. They need to know they WILL make it, they’ll get through it. They will find Life After Panic. Remind them what any good alcoholic already knows, the only way to be separated from your lifestyle is one day at a time. There are many of us out here who have lived many of those days, one at at time. And we’ve learned something really great about ourselves, and others.

If you’d like to know what that is, come find us. All you have to do is accept an invitation to a holiday party—ANY holiday party. We will be the ones eating heartily at the buffet.

Hands Of Fire

This morning my fingers are on fire. At first I thought the onset of the final curtain—first the fingers go. Then I remembered the stucco bucket from yesterday’s D-I-Y job (Do-It-Yourself). This time I was repairing the stucco around the patio sliding door that we had successfully installed two weeks ago. Having begun the job with a bucket of pre-mixed stucco, I quickly realized—as in one bucket later—that this was a job for Mix-It-Myself variety.

When I was 10 or 11, my father let me smooth finish some concrete he was pouring and he said I had my grandfather’s touch. I had forsaken the trowel for my own soft palm in getting the surface smooth as glass. My hands stung for a week. Why didn’t I remember that yesterday?

Did you ever try to fill a hole with stucco that was just too wet? And why is it in the last “aw f**k it” attempt that you will dump the whole rest of the bag into the bucket and get the mix just perfect? After a dozen tries, why is that? Anyone who has ever mixed concrete will feel my pain.

I know that some have already pegged me the “Woo-woo” nut, and though I have come dangerously close to going about with bees swarming my beard and mad ravings drooling from my mouth, I am not crazy when I say that my dad “talks” to me while I renovate. He was an architect, a contractor, a brick-layer, a concrete-pouring, wood framing, shingle replacing all around handyman and it amazes me how much I learned while working at his side, I feared less the wrath of God than my father’s.
“Let the tool do the work”
“Measure it twice, cut it once”
“Put it back where you got it”
“Don’t tell your Mother” Those are all things I learned from Dad. He took his time with every job; oh BOY did he take his time. The job had to be done right and it had to be perfect. I’ve inherited a little bit of Dad’s annoying speed, as well. My father did not work fast. He worked precisely.

As I spread the glopping stucco into the wall by hand, pushing it in and hoping not to draw back too much when I pulled my hand away, I thought of all the projects that led me to this one and how good this one was looking. Clean, precise and perfect. My father’s D-I-Y signature. Except for that one spot that got on the carpet inside because I forgot to close the slider. But we won’t tell Mom....

Small Miracles

In light of my last posting, which was fraught with self-pity, I offer the lessons from later that same day: There still ARE people who do what they do REALLY, REALLY well, and there are still a lot of tiny miracles.

Dave, the heater guy, is an example of the first. He showed up on time, a husky guy in his mid-40’s, with an easy-going manner that spoke of his prowess with the one utility I have ultimate respect for, gas. I'll mess with electricity, and I have the scorch marks to prove it, but I take my hat off to gas.

Dave and his buddy showed up right out of a TV series. His pal, a taller lanky guy with as slow a manner as Dave’s was quick, wore thick lenses which obscured his eyes, giving him the look of someone even dimmer. Dave assessed the situation in 30 seconds and gave his prognosis. Replace or rebuild. Although rebuilding was a hefty option, it was cheaper than replacing and so it would be up to Dave to convert our ancient heater to the current code. He removed the patient’s heart and tossed it into the back of his van. He’d be back tomorrow.

The next day Dave called, the patient required more surgery and would be in recovery all night. He would bring her back in one more day.

He and his assistant were again on time, happy to have not been screamed at since his plan included us not having a dryer for the span of the repair. He set to complete the transplant and his assistant set about admiring the gold records and TV show posters that line the room.

“Is that you?” He asked, pointing to my name on the poster. I wondered if his “short bus” appearance might be more organic.
“Yep. That’s me.” I pointed to a picture of me in costume as Chuy From La Puente, the live version of a character I played on the radio during the Rick Dees-dominated 1980’s. The character was a lark that became a landslide. He was extremely popular and on his fictional girlfriend’s birthday the station would receive volumes of birthday cards for “Chata," Chuy's “old lady”.

“YOU were Chuy From La Puente?” Dave popped up, banging his head on the heater. “NO F**king Way!, I named my DOG after you!”

Having named my own dog after MY favorite d.j. when I was 25, I could only blush in appreciation at just how big a deal Chuy was to this guy. I only wondered if Raechel Donahue would have felt the same way.
“Wait till I tell my ex-wife!” he added.

His work was beautiful, a word I don’t often use when describing the guts of a wall heater. Beautifully executed, worked perfectly, the room began to thaw. We had a moment.

I remembered that somewhere I still had some old KIIS-FM issued black-and-white glossies and—small miracle alert—I was able to find them at the pull of a drawer. I signed on for his dog. “From One Chuy To Another”. Dave was beside himself.

Andy Warhol was wrong. Everybody gets more than 15 minutes of fame. They get 15 minutes and 1 second.


N.B. Look at THAT cellphone!

Go Figure!

It’s one of those days. Another morning of looking for work while I take any job I can, both in and out of my career field, to pay the rent. Taking personal inventory, I know there is nothing to be afraid of except the loss of my pride while the landlord waits while I catch up with the rent. Top of my gratitude list are the friends who rent me a place below market rate because, well Richard and his partner, Curt, are just those kind of good people. They’ve seen me in fat times and watched while the pendulum swung the other way for me. They know I’m responsible and talented enough in more than one field to pull my income together from many sources, but the Unemployment Extension that has recently been in the headlines was closer to this home than I’d like. While Republican Senators dawdled, my life took a header.

For those who might sniff and be quick with judgments, change places with me for the day. Not only to I have to be available for job interviews, job search, job submissions, I have to put the bread on my counter, ten, twenty dollars at a time. Savings? That was decimated while I kept my financial commitments through 22 months of unemployment. I kept my credit card payments on time while WAMU, then CHASE raised my interest rates as my savings dwindled on accounts with spotless histories. Two cards at 23 percent. Guess what I think of the bank bailout? Guess which word precedes CHASE in my home? (hint: It’s not “F”un.)

I closed my small business because I couldn’t afford to keep providing product to radio stations as advertisers who provided underwriting evaporated. Today I am applying to be a grocery store stocker and I can’t pretend I’m happy about it. After 138 applications over 23 months to 122 different employers in my chosen industry (yes, I went back hat-in-hand to SOME more than once) I’ve given up that I will ever work in broadcasting again. I am over-qualified and over-experienced, most say. If I were living in an Indian tribe, I would be an Elder, where I would be respected and consulted. Instead I am given the courtesy of a phone interview and subsequently ignored. I guess you could say I’ve been “severed from my career” by the circumstances of my life. Nowadays it’s all about the rent.

Yesterday while walking the dog, I came across a guy, about my age, fastidiously groomed and looking a bit out of his element as he pulled a mower and rakes from his battered old Jeep 4x4.

“Ah, the joy of ownership!” I joked.
“This isn’t my house,” he said, glad of the company, I thought. “I just do the yard work.”
“No offense, but you’re the first manicured, white gardener I’ve ever seen.”
“A little over two years ago I was the Operations Manager for an Advertising Agency, go figure.”
“Radio manager,” I countered.
“Then I don’t have to explain. How long have you been out of work?”
“Since April 2007,” I said.
“My son hired me to work for him. Used to think he was just spinning his wheels, wastin’ his time so he could surf. Now, he’s out surfing and I’m working for HIM. He sold me the Jeep when they came for the Infiniti.”
“I guess that was the smartest night of sex in your life!”
“Right! And my wife used to call him ‘the mistake’.”



We both were laughing while the dog pooped on the lawn he was about to cut.
“Some kinda world, man, some kinda world,” he shook his head, “I’m workin’ for my son and you’re workin’ for your dog.”

As I did my dog owner’s duty, I realized he was right. Now if I could just get it to pay.

Last Month Madness

October was a strange month, did you notice? Friends have reported losing the entire contents of their computer, both my printers won’t print, my cell phone has this cool new function where it disconnects the most important calls at random, but generally at the most crucial moment in the conversation. While it plays an old school three note tone. “Doo-doo-DOO!” “The number you are dialing...” AND I’M NOT DIALING. My horoscope said to “take the high road today”, so I won’t go into it.

The cat got into the mood with some odd behavior, as well. I watched him for 5 minutes before I grabbed my cellphone and documented his project.



That was October 21st. He had never done that before nor has he done it since. He is either “over it”, or it was October’s weird vibe. I mean, the month started with Kanye West freaking out because he wasn’t served chicken at a charity gig, but he’s not really a good indicator of being on the level, at least not lately. October was the month President Obama almost silently announced he was keeping the Bush Administration’s plans for nuclear armament escalation in place. It was the month that kid got suspended from school for trying to eat his lunch with a Swiss Army knife. In the last week of October they found that serial killer with all the bodies in his house. I’d say that was enough weirdness for one month.

The Happy

I have been applying for jobs in and out of my industry now for almost 3 years now. My last employer was a company set up by California State University Long Beach to manage their public radio station. When new management was chosen, they stepped back and watched as a company with no experience running public radio fired just about everybody in one day. Thirty-three of us were “separated from our employment” at the very start of all the current nonsense. In an instant I became a future statistic.

The radio industry deregulated 13 years ago and the idiots crowed “Happy Days Are Here Again”. Today they stand next to me in the unemployment line, only, the line has moved online, and we sit miles apart at our computers, most likely in our sweats and flip-flops. What went around has come back around to Corporate Radio. Sadly, there is a tiny few left to watch it happen. We’re all watching C-Span hoping that the Senate will shut up and pass the Unemployment Extension.

Today, as I stood in line at the Post Office to mail off the daily round of resumes and cover letters that follow the electronic submissions I make—I truly believe they go into a black hole in cyberspace somewhere—a portly fellow on his medical scooter whizzed into line behind me. No invitation was necessary for this man to launch into a sigh-filled rant about the current state of his personal economy. Instead of yeah-yeah’ing him away, I dove right in. I could feel his pain. His income had dwindled though he worked harder than ever, the assistance he received was miniscule and wrought with bureaucracy, deductions happened for this and that from his check without explanation. After half a century of good credit, it was shattered by a skyrocketing interest rate on his credit card. By them time a window was available to me, we had a mini-revival meeting going on.

The postal lady doesn’t ask me anymore if I’d prefer “Delivery Confirmation” or “Priority Mail”. We both know that for 44 cents my envelope rides the same truck, plane or rail as the one paying 10 times as much, and she doesn’t want to hear it. But I got a wink from her today. We both knew it was because Scooter Guy had lost the wind in his sails and he was next.

“See you tomorrow?” It was a half question to which she already knew the answer. I turned towards Scooter Guy to close our “Come-To-Jesus”. “See you, later ... and good luck.” I meant it.
“You too, brother!” he tossed back, “you don’t need shit. You got the happy.”

It made my day.

PHOTO CREDIT: Carole Spadersmitten

Washing My Hands, Singing to Myself...

I am spending my birthday lazing around the house with the lab and the kitty. The cat is in the patio ready for anything, spending his first rainy season outdoors and not gazing at it through a foggy window. Cocoa is snoring after a hearty breakfast, and I am sifting through a box of pictures and other memorabilia that Dad had hung onto after David passed. I have the box now and I am wisihing I had an audience here to go through it with me but you’d wake the dog. The cat could care less. Instead I’ll get out the tripod and the lights and my easel and see what I can do with the video camera.

In the meantime... here is a little followup to the podcast about the Long Beach Mid City Studio Art Tour. We had a blast!