Showing posts with label Southern California. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Southern California. Show all posts

Saturday, December 9, 2017

Where's the Fire?

Last week, I wrote about watching "The Wizard of Oz" during a windstorm (life imitating art, right?). This week, I'm writing about traveling to a job interview during a Southern California firestorm. There was a wildfire in So Cal back in the summer, but it broke out after I left, and I was glad to escape it. I'm sure everyone was hoping the wildfire danger was passing this late in the year, but obviously it wasn't.

Most of these fires broke out either the day before or the day of my scheduled interview in L.A., and there was at least one burning as my plane was approaching the airport. I saw what looked like smoke from my window and wondered if there was indeed a fire; I couldn't smell anything downtown, though, and didn't realize how bad things were until later. Even in Santa Monica, I couldn't smell smoke that evening, and I didn't make the connection between fires and the couple of people I saw wearing masks; one was a child near a hospital and the other a woman inside a business who had one around her neck. I wondered if the flu was going around.

In fact, my interview was cancelled because of the Skirball Fire, which broke out, as I understand it, early in the morning on the day of my interview. Since I had only flown in for the interview and had only two days in town, I was unable to reschedule for the next day. That fire, in Bel Air, was the closest to where I was, but I still couldn't smell any smoke and kept looking at the sky near my hotel, which remained clear, adding to the surreal nature of the entire episode. I started to worry about smoke coming in through the heating/air conditioning unit, but it never did.

People at the hotel were almost preternaturally calm, so it was little like being in a bubble, especially when I looked at what was happening elsewhere on television. When the mayor of Los Angeles told people to be prepared to move quickly, I wondered if it was possible Santa Monica would be affected and I'd have to leave my hotel. It seemed unlikely that a wildfire would make it that far, but I don't have much experience with them.

With all the suffering and harm these fires have caused, it doesn't seem right for me to focus on how seriously inconvenienced I was, financially and time-wise, by what happened, but the truth is that I was. Once it was clear that I couldn't reschedule the interview, I was told by the person who had scheduled me that she was surprised I'd been willing to fly in from out of town for an opening that only entailed a few hours a week. That was the first I'd heard of that; I couldn't believe what I was hearing, as the email I'd gotten initially suggested that multiple shifts were available, including one that was 30 hours a week.

I went back and read the email again and wondered how I could have misunderstood so badly. I blamed myself for not asking more questions, but the truth is that the email I got said nothing about offering only three to six hours (rather, it gave the opposite impression). In my experience, part-time position announcements usually make a low number of hours clear at the outset. There are many people, even if they lived in the same town, who wouldn't bother to interview for a three-hour job. I had flown two-thirds of the way across the country for one.

Although the institution I was supposed to interview with allegedly has a good reputation, I have to wonder about the quality of library service a student gets if the librarians helping them only work a few hours a week. It takes a lot of on-the-job time to become familiar with the resources a particular institution has, and this is especially true in a generalized collection such as an academic library. When I worked as a graduate assistant in my university's library, I often wondered how effective I was at helping people because the number of resources was so vast. A patron could come in at any time and need help with a database I had zero familiarity with, and this actually happened a lot.

Fifteen hours a week of on-the-job training allowed me to scratch the surface, but that was all. If you're dealing with someone who only works three hours a week, you might as well be working with a trained monkey. Literally, if they took you in off the street and asked you to be a librarian, you would probably be nearly as effective as someone working so few hours; he would have no time to become familiar with the collection and the patrons by experiencing a lot of varied requests and repetitive database searches.

So not only was I out of pocket for expenses I couldn't really afford, I was left to feel I was silly for having bothered to come out in the first place. It seemed to me, though, that the institution was remiss for not having stated the requirements more clearly (and also for being willing to hire multiple trained monkeys to attempt to serve their patrons). None of it made any sense; I almost had the impression they were being dishonest with me in some way. As I told them, it seemed bad form to complain too much in the face of the fire situation, but having been inconvenienced in a pretty major way, I felt I should point out the desirability of their being clearer in their job descriptions in the future.

So that was how I spent two days in L.A. I can tell you it's possible to get from the airport to Santa Monica via the Metro, though it's a wearying journey, and I can tell you this isn't the first time I've felt jerked around in my job search process--far from it. If I derived any other benefit from this experience, I have no idea what it is, but I do know that I deserve far better and would likely not have enjoyed the experience of working for this college even if I had gotten the job. Initial impressions can be quite revealing.

Monday, July 24, 2017

Cultivating the Sarcastic in You

How are ya'll doing out there? I'm still settling into life here in SoCal, where the weather is (for a change) a bit gray today. I was thinking about the line in the Billy Joel song "My Life" where he talks about the old friend who sold his house and moved to the West Coast, where "He gives them a stand-up routine in L.A." There are several reasons why, though in L.A., I don't think this would work for me, and the main one is that people don't seem to get my jokes. I had a few examples of this just this week at my temp job and one that happened not long before I left Kentucky, and that's enough to make me think that comedy is not my line, no matter how funny I might think I am. Strange, people used to laugh at my jokes, and I still think they're funny--but of course there's no accounting for taste.

I was in a Louisville coffeehouse in April looking at baked goods when the sight of scones triggered a memory of a vegan item I purchased one night in a Portland, Oregon, coffeehouse. I was recounting the story, which I thought was pretty humorous, to the barista, and he looked at me so blankly that I was waiting for the prop cane to come from stage left and pull me away from the counter. When I protested to the counterman that I thought it was funny, he told me he thought I was talking about the Portland area of Louisville. Oh, okay. I didn't realize there was a Portland in Louisville, but that explains the lack of response. Let's be generous and put that one down to a failure of specificity, but still.

I was looking at a list the other day that had what was apparently a typo, making it appear that the person's first name was "Brain." I found that hilarious even without anything else happening, but then I thought how much funnier it would be if the person's last name were "Trust." I said this to someone else and got almost an identical lack of response. Gosh, what are you waiting for, the punch line? Gracious, that was the punch line. Granted, it's not funny "ha-ha," but I would have thought it rated at least a smile. I didn't even get a smidgen of one. Cultural barrier? Too sarcastic?

It's true, my sense of sarcasm has sharpened over the last few years. A lot of people who knew me before that may have suspected me of an occasional incipient tendency toward sarcasm but probably didn't consider it a prominent feature of my repertoire, and it's true that I'm normally mild-mannered. But you have to change with the times if you're not going to become irrelevant, and dang it, if you don't feel sarcasm stealing upon you now and then, I don't know what's wrong with you. Some people are born sarcastic, some people achieve sarcasm, and some have sarcasm thrust upon 'em and find they have a little talent for it after all. It could happen to you.

The third example I'm going to tell you about didn't really start out as a joke but was just me telling a story. I'd been talking to someone on the phone and could hear someone in the background, rather inexpertly, playing "Für Elise" on the piano. It was kind of pleasant to hear music in the background, that was all, so when I got off the phone, I mentioned it to people sitting nearby. I said, "Someone was playing "Für Elise" on the piano in the background of that call, and it sounded like a child practicing his lesson." It was just sort of a nice thing that happened, a pleasant interlude that I thought I'd share, but once again--dead silence. Granted, it wasn't even a joke, but still--what is this, a funeral? Couldn't someone at least smile at the thought of a child on a Sunday afternoon in the summertime struggling through his piano practice? Now here's where I did get a little sarcastic, though it was more because I felt the need to explain myself than anything else. I leaned over to the person sitting next to me and said, a little louder than I needed to, "That's Beethoven." (No response.)

It's just a good thing I have no ambitions in that direction, is all I'm saying. Now if you were to say, "Well, Mary, why don't you tell us a funny story about how your cell phone charger disappeared from a zipped bag in your room sometime in between July 4 and July 7," I would probably look at you blankly, but see, there's a good reason for that: it's not funny. You might counter that a good comedian can find humor in almost anything, and I would tell you that I consider that an unsettled existential question, whether or not there's humor to be found in everything that happens. What I do find funny is that a cell phone charger that was obviously not mine showed up in a very odd place in my room later on, as if someone were trying to convince me that, oh, silly you with your police report, you just misplaced the goofy thing. Now I could make something out of that material, but once again, we're verging into the realm of sarcasm, and it seems that almost no one(?) appreciates a talent for it these days--so no Comedy Store for me. That's OK, I can always fall back on my Myth Studies degree. Plenty of others have.

Thursday, November 12, 2015

L.A. Sees a Shooting Star

A news item showed up this week about a strange light in the skies over Southern California last Saturday night. I almost didn't read the article (because when isn't something odd happening in Southern California), but the story came with an amusing video shot by some excitable kids as well as descriptions of a host of reactions from residents. There were anxious calls to authorities and theories about UFOs and meteors, but the reality turned out to be somewhat more, well, if not mundane, at least more terrestrial in nature.

A ballistic missile submarine conducting a test fired the unarmed missile from off the coast, creating a spectacular display that was apparently visible even across state lines. The submarine was the USS Kentucky, conducting a test that was routine but unannounced--hence all the nervous speculation from the public. Yes, the USS Kentucky, but don't go thinking I had anything to do with it. Do I look like I know how to drive a submarine? Besides, I was thousands of miles away, in actual Kentucky, exiting Starbucks to avoid some excessive and unconscionable oversharing at the next table, though this may have happened a little in advance of the missile test.

But I don't have to have been there to imagine it. Over on Melrose, conversations over organic salads and vegan sandwiches would have ground to a halt as trendy diners tried to figure out if this was part of a filming; some of the beachgoers in Santa Monica and Malibu may have wondered if California was under attack--up at the Getty Center, people may actually have ducked. Near the observatory, a shooting star might have seemed quite plausible, while in the line at Diddy Riese, the UCLA kids must have had a field day with their cell phones. I'm not sure how much time people in Beverly Hills spend on their lawns; if someone was having a party, there may have been speculation about it all being a stunt for their amusement. Up in Topanga Canyon, it might have seemed like the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. Maybe in Watts, someone had a glimmer of the truth.

If it had happened here, I'm sure there would have been, likewise, a variety of theories, but the Age of Aquarius probably wouldn't have been one of them; the Second Coming, maybe, but not the Age of Aquarius. We see the world through the lenses we're used to using, but I imagine explanations for what was happening would have run a similar gamut. Such an unexplained event is bound to turn into a Rorschach test of sorts.

The article didn't say whether the test made any noise or not, but if it didn't, I think it was a missed opportunity. A little sonic boom to shake up the cocktails on the rooftop bars and rattle the teacups at the Huntington Tea Room would have been just the thing for a full-on Night of Mystery. The video I saw featured no sound but that of a bunch of girls yelling as a radio played in the background, which was entertaining but provided little context.

When I read the article, to tell you the truth, I had a whimsical thought, which was that the whole thing reminded me of Mary Chapin Carpenter's song, "Halley Came to Jackson." It's a very sweet song about the effect of Halley's Comet on the inhabitants of a small town in 1910 Mississippi. For the people in Jackson, the coming of the comet is a visit from heaven, a time of celebration, awe, and wonder, as well as the occasion for a little well-placed wish-making. So Cal may not seem to have much in common with Mississippi, and perhaps it doesn't. (I can tell you, though, that even places as disparate as L.A. and Lexington KY are a lot more like each other than you might guess, and I know, because I've seen both of them.)

So I say that if you choose to "dream a little dream of a comet's charms," as Ms. Chapin Carpenter says, well, why not? A practical explanation may be perfectly true but doesn't rule out the phenomenology of the miraculous. Many of the people observing the mystery light experienced a sense of the marvelous, and who's to say they're wrong? Not I. My theory is that all proper wishes made on celestial objects on the supposition that they're shooting stars count. Unarmed missile, ball of gas and dust, what's the difference? I'm not being facetious--it's bound to beat anything you'll see on TV this week. I'm just glad someone else knows how to work the submarine.