The Employment Diaries

G20less



Saturday morning, I woke up pretty hungover. My friend, lets call him Rob, was also probably hungover, but his agenda was a little different than mine.

Though we slept under the same roof, when he left the house that morning it was to fuel up before the G20 protest. When I left the house it was for a two hour brunch that would fuel my watching of the Last Days of Disco. For the record, there is some protesting in that movie as well.

Before said brunch I was called apathetic by my friend (who for the record also went to said brunch and then skipped town for a pig roast instead of partaking in G20 protests).  I said I didn’t think protesting was such a relevant way to get a point across and he scolded me for not believing in mass mobilization (his reaction made me think of my reaction to people saying print will die. “Noooooo. But nothing can replace the touch of paper!”). We tried to figure out why protesting was so effective in the sixties. I suggested novelty, he suggested people were more impassioned.

We batted back and fourth about whether our generation was apathetic, or whether we just have different modes of getting our points across (he told me facebook was not an apt comparison of effecting change. Has he heard of “Enough with the Poking, Lets Just Have Sex” which has been helping people get laid since 2007)?. Seriously though, I’ll defend twitter as a kind of modern protesting stage, where people argue, share, and develop ideas and opinions. Twitter in itself is a daily protest against a couple of voices controlling our messages, as are blogs, but there weren’t any picket signs involved.

Mass mobilization is easier than ever.  You can get your voice heard online. You can record a video that goes viral. Lots of change happens online. In the theatre, in movies, in all different modes of expression.

Just because I’m apathetic about protesting, doesn’t meant I’m apathetic. I just don’t feel  connected with the form. I’m not really a yeller (What’s that joke about adding “In the bedroom..”). I’m a writer. Even worse, I do journalism. I like to shrink and to let people get big.

This all to say, I don’t want to feel guilty about not going to the G20 protests, okay? I watched videos from my friend’s computer and I know what went down. I know it meant my friend couldn’t get into her Queen and Spadina apartment, that more than 600 people were arrested and that a bunch of store windows are boarded up, and that someone will dress like the black bloc for Halloween. Then there’s this awful movie that makes Toronto look like a scene from Children of Men.

I even planned to go on Sunday, but when I got on my bike and started feeling drizzles, the dread of being caught in a thunderstorm and the pile of work I had waiting at home loured me back to my apartment.

So instead, I spent the next three hours finishing my assignment for Canadian Business Magazine (where I work) about retirement. That’s right. Just serving it up for the man while y’all punch out Starbucks Windows. Power to ya.

Do I think it’s dumb people protest? No. I’m glad people do. A world for of Angie’s would be a boring place…

I guess the great and terrifying thing about growing up is you get to know yourself. My name is Angelina Chapin. I do not like protesting. But I do like reading newspapers and don’t want to hear about their irrelevance. We’re all holding onto something…

Here’s some audio from my controversial friend Emily Conner on why protesting is irrelevant:

A New Game 31.05.10

So here I am. Back again. Same deprecating humour, different story.

I’ve got a job, as you may have gathered from the removal of prefix -un from the blog title.

For those of you new readers, welcome. This is a safe space.

A space where I make fun of myself and hopefully make you laugh and feel better. You know, the old, at-least-we’re-not-fish-in-the-Mexican-gulf pick-me-up. Or, something like that…

I’ve waited a couple weeks to resume this blog because, well, I didn’t know what to do with it.

Being employed is inherently successful, and this blog is all about laughing at my own expense. I didn’t want to alienate my unemployed audience by turning around the finger and mocking their economic status (or lack thereof) with every post.

Turns out, there’s just as much, if not more, self-mockery to be had at the employment front lines.

This blog will document mine and others anecdotal struggles to get through the 9-5pm, 10-4am, or whatever other hours you put it to get paid. For you loyal readers of the unemployment diaries, you will notice a small change. This blog will be brought to you Monday morning instead of Sunday evening. The idea being that just as Sundays are the hardest day for unemployees because, unlike the rest of the world, they are not gearing up for work, Monday is the hardest day for the employed, a steep hill that seems impossible to climb. Together, we can do it (my apologies to those not on a 9-5. Insert your first work day of the week to feel the full effect of the hill metaphor).

Let the Employment diaries be the cream in your coffee, the thank-you note in your mailbox, that little touch that makes climbing hills easier…

This week, I bring you stories of shame. To those of you with jobs: please revel in and relate to my quest of  navigating office politics. To all the unemployees: revel in the fact that you can wear ketchup stains on your shirt and that feeling ashamed in front of your family is much less forgiving then feeling shamed in front of your coworkers.

Read it and weep:

THE ACCUSATION

“What did you just call me?” I say outraged to a co-worker I met five days ago.

“Um, I asked you what you’re doing this weekend,” he says cautiously, as if trying to talk someone off a ledge.

I’m standing in a Starbucks line with a group of my new co-workers. We’re taking a 3:30 coffee break, and since it’s half-price frappucino hour, the line is long.

I just started a new job at a business magazine, and am completely intimidated by all of my colleagues. The young girls I should relate to seem hyper-ambitious and uptight. The men come from newspaper background’s and have that potty humour and gruffness I want to engage with but don’t know how to.

It’s the first week. It’s supposed to be like this. But sitting at my cubicle, without an assignment, I just feel like I’m constantly trying to say the right thing to the right person without knowing anything about anyone.

Everyone is staring at me, waiting for the justification for my unwarranted accusation.

The natural, normal thing to do would have been to shrug off my outburst and say, “I heard something different.”

But no, I’m nervous and have no self-control so I just ramble off some unnecessary explanation for the whole event.

“I thought you called me ’sweet cum’,” I say, and watch in horror as my new colleagues try and process what I just said.

What I meant to say was ’sweetums’ or ’sweet thang’ or any other normal sounding creepy term of endearment an older man uses to prove his masculinity on a younger woman. I thought he had looked me up and down, and referred to me by whatever term involving sweet,  and that by calling him out I was setting a standard for working women being harassed in offices everywhere.

Turns out, he was just trying to include the awkward new employee and ask about her weekend. Whoops.

“No,” said my co-worker, slightly horrified. “I’m not looking to be charged with harassment this early in the game.

“Sweet cum? What is that?” laughed one of the guys. I think one of the uptight looking girls was about to puke.

“I don’t know, it’s just what I heard,” I said, desperately trying to backpedal. “Not that you would ever use such a vulgarity,” I said, trying to reassure my now traumatized colleague.

After an attempt to make awkward small talk, the colleague I accused said the line was too long and he’d meet us back at the office.

As he left we all looked at each other and agreed that no one really wanted to wait in line for coffee. Or, maybe it was just that coffee didn’t seem so appetizing with a side of “sweet cum.”

Rookies 9.03.10

Happy day-before-I-go-to work-day readers!

That’s right. I am one of you now. Well, some of you.

For those of you still unemployed, I want to invite you to keep the unemployment diary pages filled.  Just because I now

I'm ready are you?

have a job, doesn’t mean there aren’t others to make you feel better about hating/not having work.

That’s why for this last entry, I’m passing the torch. Well, not so much the torch as the hours of picking my bum and looking at job boards.

Enough about me. More about you.

This Sunday, I bring you two stories of fellow unemployees and their unemployment narratives.

Then, a little advice from an expert. Lets end this blog with a spark of hope. Unemployment isn’t that bad anyway, as I’m sure I’ll realize once I start punching in Monday through Friday. I feel another blog coming on.

Enjoy these tales from the unemployment front lines.

Thanks for reading. It’s been a slice. Time to buy some pie.

Marcus “Cous” Kaulback and I went to high school together and only really chatted drunk at parties. He’s three years older than me, and was therefore cool and unattainable. When our life paths converged once again last summer, this time at a party in a small town in the Netherlands, there were no high school politics to navigate.

We were both in a weird Dutch town, completely surprised to see each other, and had a buttload of catching up to do. We did some that night, and then some more when I joined Cous and his girlfriend Lauren for a trip in the van they were driving in Europe (they had come to the Netherlands to pick it up. Me, to visit a friend).

As we drove around the Italian countryside (here is a blog entry Cous wrote about the experience) to a quaint parking lot in Cinque Terre where we spent the night drinking wine and eating pasta, we did not talk about unemployment at all. Instead, we told traveler’s stories (Cous and Lauren had just come off two years teaching in Korea and I had just come back from a crazy French farm) and acted like vagabons, peeing in the parking lot bushes and begging restaurants for ice to keep our food and beer cold. Those were the days.

Now, back in Canada, our dialogue has changed. Cous and Lauren are currently trying to make a go of it in Vancouver, and last I heard, they’ve decided to avoid finding a job by going to school again.

Cous sent me a little diddy from across the sea I’d like to share with you all. Cous, I wish we were still listening to Roald Dahl on tape. In the meantime, someone hire this bloke! He’s good for it.

Now over to you buddy:

Ambition is a funny thing though, and in some instances, it reveals itself in spades.  In my particular case, when it comes to getting concert tickets or flats of beer, I might just be the biggest go-getter in the county.  But when it comes time to “job-hunt”, my determination heads South, and not just for the winter.  Don’t get me wrong though, I have dreams…and you won’t get anywhere unless you have dreams.  My biggest worry, however, is that I possess initiative enough only to try and realize them in sleep.

That moustache was probably styled with cheese. It's true. I've seen him do it.

I’ve been unemployed now for 11 months, nearly to the day.  For the first nine and a half, I wasn’t too bothered with my situation; only recently have I begun to feel a bit aimless.  I think I’ve followed the two classic steps of the jobless – extreme happiness at the prospect of total freedom followed by a state of dejection at the prospect of having no prospects – to a tee, albeit at a much slower pace.  What has taken me almost a year to realize, I should think most unemployed persons figure out in the space of about three weeks.  Perhaps my laziness has affected not only my chances of finding work, but also my ability to feel badly when work eludes me.  Which brings me to my next point: laziness is an affliction, one which, at its extreme, can and will kill you.

Like say if the Germans are coming, and all your able-bodied and busy-bodied loved ones are pissing off, heading for the high ground, said affliction might force you to flatback it for a while, sneak in a well-deserved nap.  (You might do this under the pretense of…no, forget it, people who have been struck down with the Lazy Disease rarely, if ever, feel the need to justify their inactions.)  Then your tombstone wouldn’t read that it was the Nazis who got you, but laziness.  And guess what…it would be right.

I’m Marcus Kaulback, and I need a job.”

Here’s a tale of my friend Simon Love’s long struggle with unemployment. Enjoy.

Unemployment wasn't always a party for Simon.

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And now, for the advice:

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HOME RUN! (2.05.10)

That’s right. HOME RUN. I did not forget the baseball analogy, which I started so that when I finally got a job, I could type HOME RUN. I’m sure it feels almost as good as doing the real thing.

Enough with the small talk. The rumours are true! As of May 10^th I am gainfully employed in the journalism world.

It’s not at a newspaper, and I don’t care (for those of you who haven’t been following, this was the original premise I started the blog under). It’s not really a job either, it’s an internship. Still don’t care.

I will go somewhere to work five days a week, and I’m getting paid to write. Mission accomplished.

Thanks to everyone for reading, sharing, and indulging my deprecation. You’ve made being unemployed truly a blast. Next week, I will put together a grand finale entry that will make your computers explode in to fireworks. This week, a simple narrative.

Like all good things in life, they are followed and preceded by bad things. Here’s the story of the roughly 24 hours leading up to finding out I got a job. Also, you have to read it to find out what my job is. I think this is called creating “tension.” Feel it?

Here we go…

MY skirt is soaking wet with beer. The guy beside me spilled a pint and because we’re packed like sardines in this basement bar, it went all over me.

“Sorry,” he says, getting up to grab some paper towels. “I guess I should’ve absorbed some myself.” He laughs. The dudes clothes are bone dry.

He doesn’t even offer me a beer, or a quarter of his club sandwich that arrives shortly after. I awkwardly ring one side of my skirt out, tie it in a knot, and turn my back on beer boy.

Tonight is not my night. I just came back from the Ottawa Writers Festival and am experiencing some serious self-doubt. I’m trying to be a writer and I only make it out to one event because my friend had a free ticket? Why haven’t I read any of these books? Why have I never heard of this quintessential Canadian writer? Lame-o. Hypocrite. You’ll never succeed in life.

I’m doing the whole self-hate thing in my head, expounded by the fact I just heard a presentation by Canadian writer and anthropologist Wade Davis, who makes public speaking seem as natural as those Olympic divers who barely make a splash. Now there’s a smart man. When you speak it’s like more like a belly flop. He can rattle off names of places you’ll ever be able to pronounce, much less remember. Did someone say these things are supposed to be inspiring?

I guess they can be, but not when you’ve been waiting a week to find out if you got a job. It’s been like waiting to hear for someone to determine my self-worth. Am I smart or stupid? A success or failure? I know “the job isn’t everything” but after four months of unemployment, it kind of is.

The only thing that could make me more depressed and anxious right now would be meeting a bunch of smart, ambitious journalism grads talking about something like how to “change the media landscape.”

The people I’m sitting with at aforementioned basement bar have gone for a smoke break. I tune into beer boy’s conversation and realize he and his two friends are discussing different CBC shows they’ve worked for.

Our proximity is such that I’m sitting in between my table and theirs and staring directly at one of the guys. At this point, it’s creepier if I don’t say anything.

“You guys work for the CBC?” I ask, casually. They laugh at this.

“No no,” says the girl with thick glasses and brown hair. “We’re journalism students.” The scariest kind!!!

Turns out these three Carelton University students are sitting together to discussing the creation of a website that somehow maintains press privileges they had as students once they’ve graduated. In other words, like all journalism students, these kids are trying to take over the world.

There’s nothing scarier when you’re feeling self-conscious about your unemployment than running into a group of driven journalism students with their summer internships lined up.

Naturally, we start talking shop. Beer boy and the girl had done internships at the CBC and the other guy had worked at a small-town newspaper.

When unemployment gets you down, fight back!!!

The girl just got a summer internship at the Ottawa Citizen (an internship I applied for and thought I was still waiting to hear back about) and beer boy was off to some developing country to practice do-gooder journalism.

I tried talking about my passion for narrative non-fiction, but these hard-nosed journalists weren’t having it. Beer boy told me he didn’t think good storytelling really had a place in newspapers. He also thought I’d never make a living writing this way, and would have to find a job that supported my passion on the side.

I furiously scanned the bar for a self-esteem IV, and realized another beer would do the trick.

The next morning, I wake up with the inability to get out of bed. I force myself up and to an exercise class, which leaves me exhausted. I think about how I’ll never be as sharp-minded as Wade Davis. I think about how I’m not like the ambitious J-school students with their hard news sensibilities.

I go over last week’s interview in my head, and pick out every faulty answer that may have resulted in me not getting this job. I call my friend to tell him I’m stupid and never succeed. He entertains me for a bit, and tells me some people are naturally talented as others have to work hard at it. This makes me feel worse.

I put on a dress for an interview I have at the restaurant down the street and practice saying “Want some cheese with that?”

I see I missed a call and check my messages. “Hi Angelina, It’s Steve Maich from Canadian Business. Can you give me a call back when you have a chance?”

Here it is. The conversation that determines my self-worth. I had been so confident I would get this job. I’ve worked at a business magazine before. My clippings are good, my references solid. I even mimed hitting a home-run after walking out the building.

A week later, I wasn’t so sure. I took a couple breaths and braced myself for a conversation with Steve-O.

“Hi Angelina,” he said cheerily. And, well, you know the rest.

I started jumping. Up and down. Up and down. Mouthing screaming sounds and waving my arms. Next week, I’m starting a year-long writing internship at Canadian Business.

I called my friend back to tell him I got the job. “I knew it,” he said. “See? No need to cry like a baby.”

Maybe that’s the moral of the story for all of us struggling with unemployment. Patience. Don’t panic. As my dad always reminds me: “I had a kid at your age.” Things could be worse. I think he also ate cat-food.

I called the restaurant to tell them I couldn’t make the interview.

“I’m moving to Toronto in a week,” I said excitedly to the guy who responded with an unenthusiastic grunt and click of the receiver.

Next Sunday, the Unemployment Diaries will reach you from my friend’s Toronto apartment where I’ll be spending the night before going to work in the morning. For real, this time.

(Hill)arious 30.04.10

Well hello dawgs.

Hope everything is going swell on this lovely Friday.

Because nothing so (Hill)arious happened in yesterday’s committee meetings, I’m making it short and sweet.  Content-wise, these meetings are starting to drag. Yesterday we had NFB, and some dudes from interactive companies who said the same shit about funding high-risk innovative companies, understanding free isn’t always bad (because of video streaming NFB audience has grown 1000%) and giving Canada faster bandwidth. I’m not knocking the witnesses, whose presentations are only boring because I’ve heard the messages before. It’s the Government’s fault: stop holding the freakin’ meetings and draft a GD policy.

Even committee members seemed to be getting restless and were either walking in and out of the room or staring intently at their blackberries.

Two (hill)arious awards go out today: one to a person, one to a thing. The person is the oldest MP, a French-speaking Conservative who wore his Habs jersey to the meeting, and raised the roof when this was pointed out. Awesome. And funny.

The thing is time. The time restrictions on committee meetings are a constant battle for the Chair to navigate and lead to some funny moments. Officially, witnesses are supposed to speak for ten minutes each, followed by five minute question rounds from MPs. Some witnesses blab on for 15 minutes. Some MPs never even get to their questions before the five minutes is up. It’s a constant juggling act in the Chair’s mind on who to shut up and who to let speak. I’d say yesterday, he dropped the ball.

On Tuesday’s meeting, the committee Business, whereby MP’s pass motions to change stuff, was postponed because the Chair opted to let witnesses blab on. That meant yesterday, the last half hour had to be left for Committee Biz.  Even still, the Chair let the NFB witness dude wax poetic for a good 12 minutes. By the time the second round of witnesses did their presentations, there was no time for questions, this being the entire point of bringing the witnesses in.

“I’m very sorry,” the Chair said. “But we really have some committee business to get to.”

“Well that was a waste of time,” said the guy from a company called MoboVivo Inc. as he grabbed his jacket to leave after presenting.

Well done Chair. And congratulations “time restrictions.” You are funny.

(Hill)arious 28.04.10

Yesterday in Parliament, the claws came out. I’m not referring to Guergis/Jaffer snorting blow or Harper trying to flush Afghan detainee papers down the toilet. No my friends, things got heated over the Heritage Committee’s favourite topic du jour: The World Wide Web.

The  guest speakers were two university professors working with new media, two reps from Alliance of Canadian Cinema, Television and Radio Artists (ACTRA), and the founder of openmedia.ca, a website dedicated to online innovation. He basically just looked pissed and hung-over the whole time.

The university professors pled for government funded digital literacy programs, ACTRA reps said the Gov can’t allow Canadians to sell our communications companies to US big wigs and argued for an extended collective license agreement so creators are better compensated (opposite of expanding fair dealing so that more copyright material is available for free). Openmedia.ca said the Gov needs to fund high-risk innovative companies and the bit torrent must live on!

Nothing revolutionary was said, but there was a committee meeting first (for me, anyway), where a history professor from Brock University used powerpoint to show a 3-D program he invented  to re-create historical buildings. He showed the committee Ottawa’s Sparks Street in 1878, but not before he was given grief by a Bloc Quebecois MP because the powerpoint slides weren’t in French (even though hard copy versions of the slides had been provided in both official languages).

I spoke with the professor before the meeting got under way, and he told me it was a challenge getting the committee, that remember, is developing their digital media strategy, to accept a powerpoint presentation. Was Bloc Quebecois really mad about the language, or is this some Parliament ploy to make sure nobody becomes too technologically advanced before they put out the strategy? Michael Moore? Do you smell a documentary?

Now for the juicy part: all hell broke loose when NDP member Charles Angus (who apparently is a two-time Juno nominee and been a member of the bands L’Etranger and Grievous Angel) asked the ACTRA rep if he thought it was logical the Heritage Minister, James Moore, did not support artist levies, whereby musicians receive money every time their music is copied (i.e. those blank CDs you buy (well, used to buy) include a tax that goes to the artist).

Angus has proposed bill C-499 that would extend the levy beyond blank CDs to digital audio devices such as ipods and MP3’s. The proposed tax has become affectionately known as the “itax.”  The issue has been chewed over in the media, and Angus even used his appearance at last week’s Juno awards as a platform to talk about the bill.  Apparently last month Minister Moore “tweeted” he did not support this amendment (oh, look at me! Government speak!) but on the bright side, showed he was capable of using new media.

ACTRA-man, a good-humoured silver fox answered “no”, he didn’t see any logic in the Minister’s thinking to not support the levy and gave Angus a knowing smile.

“I totally reject the statement that the Minister of Heritage is attacking artists,” said our Conservative Trekkie (hill)arious winner from last meeting when given the next turn to speak. “The Minister of Canadian Heritage has fought for the most significant budgets of any Federal Government for all forms of arts in the country in this nation’s history.”

He went on to explain the reason the Minister opposes extending the levy is not because he doesn’t support artists, but because digital audio devices are more complex than blank CDs. Since something like an ipod doesn’t just play music, creating an additional tax means artists could be compensated for someone uploading photos or using a calendar.

“What do you use your Ipod for Deaner?” taunted Angus to the Trekkie MP, whose actual name is Dean Del Mastro.

“We’re not proposing a levy on your Calendar,” said ACTRA-man, dryly. “The primary use of these devices is for music.”

“Deaner” ranted about how the levy is becoming murkier as technology advances and that the consumer is bearing the brunt of this until he was red in the face.

When it was ACTRA’s turn to respond, he said, cooly: “I’m just checking to make sure the sky wasn’t falling.”

This comment was not appreciated by one of the older Conservative MP’s who locked eyes on ACTRA and said evenly: “Cheaps shots will get you a

The award

lot of friends.”

This is the moment where everyone stands up and yells, FIGHT!!!!!!

A Liberal MP metaphorically shoved his way through the onlookers to break up the punches. He reminded everyone around the table to berespectful and sent the boys to their respective corners for a time-out.

The (Hill)arious award goes to silver-fox ACTRA man with the sharp-tongue. Trekkie may have you beat on size, but on the Parliament playground it’s all about launching verbal grenades.

Uniforms (25.04.10)

Happy I-have-nothing-more-clever-to-say-than-Sunday readers!!

Hope the weekend has treated you well and you’re charged for work tomorrow. Me and the Sens will be lying on the couch eating chips.

Here’s an anecdote I wrote about my job interview last week. It’s in the form of a recorded monologue, which I’ve never tried before.  Couldn’t be that hard, could it? It is. Ira Glass just makes things seem easy.

Anyway, enjoy my trial and error and excuse me for not being able to find anything more original than Sexy Thang for one of the stings (that’s radio speak for music clips, thanks jschool!). Also, it’s in two parts because garageband can’t handle my shit.

Enjoy, and feel free to rip off or pass on to people of power.

The outfit in question

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(Hill)arious 20.04.10

It’s always great when the Committee injects a little pop culture reference into an otherwise dull meeting.

“To steal a phrase from Star Trek,” said one Conservative MP in his question period, admitting it was his favourite show growing up as a kid. “How do we boldly go into a new universe and leverage all the opportunities there?”

He’s talking about the internet.

Today’s meeting was a continuation of the Committee on Canadian Heritage’s (CHPC) never-ending saga to develop a study on new media. This is supposed to help them create laws that foster and protect online Canadian content but problem is, most of the Committee members start their sentences with: “I’m a little new to this internet thing, but…”

Today’s witnesses ranged from publishing company representatives, a freelance photographer, a rep from a Quebec theatre society and a woman from Access Copyright. Access Copyright hogged the mic most of the time, but it didn’t matter who was talking because all were in agreeance: Expanding the fair dealing clause in Canadian copyright law so more people can use more stuff for free= bad (see previous entry for more in depth explanation of fair dealing).

The main arguments tossed around being that creators will lose more money, too many exceptions will make an already complex law more confusing, and suspect cases will be left for the Court rather than Parliament to decide (the argument being Canadian courts aren’t equipped to deal with the complexity of Copyright law cases, though they have the capacity to figure out if someone is guilty of murder. Hmmmmm. This one went over my head).

This is the exact opposite of what last week’s witness, documentary-filmmaker Brett Gaylor most famous for his film RiP! on mash-up artist Girl Talk, argued. I wish they had mixed up the place cards a little and had Gaylor sitting beside Access Canada. Instead, this was like being at a debate where everyone agreed.

The debate is interesting after all. I’m for the new media. I do the blog thing and love the platform it gives me to say whatever and someone feel connected to you people. However, I have the luxury of being able to spend three hours a week writing unpaid content. I’d rather be getting paid, and the dream is that one way I will be and make a living from it.

New media has undoubtedly opened doors to incredible innovation, but at what cost to those trying to survive off profits from their creations? Now that could potentially have all the drama of a Star Trek episode if witnesses on opposed sides could duke it out. Instead, it was like an entire episode of Captain Kirk looking in the mirror and telling his reflection how good it looks (Anchorman, anyone?).

As our Conservative Trek buff continued his vocal voyage of asking for the hundredth time how the Committee can make their bill more adaptive to changing technology (um, stop talking, take out a Macbook, and learn how youtube works), the feisty Bloc Quebecois MP interrupted to say the French translation wasn’t coming through her earpiece.

“It’s just as illogical in French,” said Conservative Trekkie, self-deprecatingly.

The embarrassed translator behind the glass window pushed a button and order was restored.

“Start over Deaner,” called out an NDP MP, affectionately using the Conservative’s schoolyard name.

“Beam me up Scotty,” chimed in a Liberal MP, and everyone laughed.

Today’s (Hill)arious award goes to Conservative Trekkie, for bringing his passion for Sci-Fi to the room, and showing how quickly an official meeting can dissolve into playground banter at the mention of Captain Kirk.

Free Ball part 2 (18.04.10)

Happy Sunday frenemies (you’re both my friend and enemy if you have a job. I need your help, but I hate you)!

To continue last week’s conversation about internships: to pay or not to pay, I’ve enlisted the help of Emily Conner, a good friend who dropped out of school after getting a job from her summer internship.

Her story is a contrast to last week’s tale of Sara Thaw, who almost died from exhaustion trying to pay the bills and juggle a free internship. Both stories take place in New York City, the city where you make it or get broken.

Thanks for sharing Em, and remember this little piece of promotion (I mean, fairly-balanced journalism) when you’re hanging out with the rich and the famous (read on: she actually does this!).

“I’ve actually never done an unpaid internship,” admits Emily, when I call her to talk about the subject. “I’ve always been paid at least $100 a week or something.”

One hundred bucks, which turns out was really $250 a week, still isn’t much to survive on in New York City, where typical rent is $1,000/month.

Money?

Emily loves a good internship. By the time she was 20, she’d done three. Now, at 23, Emily has worked at a publishing house, for a literary agent and an off-Broadway theatre company; all jobs she credits to one word: INTERNSHIP.

Emily and I met at King’s College, and at that time were equals: consuming the same amount of wine and philosophy. The summer after our third year of University, things started to become less even. I was waiting tables in Ottawa and Emily had traded in her sweatpants for high heels which she wore to her internship at Samuel French Publishing house in New York City.

It must be noted that Emily’s American, and therefore has the mentality that New York is just the place young people go to “make it” rather than as a place that’s really expensive, really cool, but virtually impossible to legally get work. It’s Canada’s Toronto, people. No B.D. for her.

When I called Emily during this period, it was like talking to someone in a fantasy land (apparently New Yorkers at the time thought Halifax was a fantasy land because of the recent popularity of Ellen Page). New York was always in the background: its wind blowing, horns beeping and people yelling. Everything is louder there, and I pictured Em constantly darting through traffic to a martini bar to meet sexy strangers. I don’t think I was that far off…

Though Em’s internship didn’t pay exceptionally well, she was given a lot of responsibility. She was always seeing off-Broadway plays, writing reviews, and

Ain't a thang.

deciding which scripts should be included in the company’s catalogue. I was grating parmesan onto tortellini. She never felt gyped throughout her experience, in fact, Em sees low-paid or unpaid internships as being a completely necessary part of the job-finding process (she sent me this article last week that also makes the case).

“It’s important to pay your dues and be humbled,” says Em, in her faint Boston-accent from her Brooklyn apartment. “In a job you’re paid based on skills and as an intern you don’t have those skills yet so it makes no sense to be paid.”

She admits to being lucky. Upon being hired for her internship, Em’s boss asked her about living arrangements. When she answered with a shrug, one of the girl’s working for the company took her in for cheap rent. She also admits to having been financially dependent on her parents and because of that not having to get a second job.

Still, Em doesn’t think that for people without financial support, an unpaid internship is any more unfair than having to pay tuition.

“You can make that argument about education in general,” she says. “Where expenses are exorbitant and people who are financially incapable could have more trouble succeeding.” In other words: tough balls. Make it work. Not the company’s problem.

She does say the company has a responsibility to provide interns with structured responsibilities and ample learning opportunities. They do not, however, need to provide a guarantee of hiring you after the internship is over.

“There should always be a suggestion of the possibility of getting a job,” she says. “But you have to make yourself stand out and show you’re capable. It’s not something you’re entitled to.”

She says with unpaid internships there are “abstract benefits” to take into consideration, like making connections, going to events, and getting recommendations.

After working at French for a summer, Em was hired full-time, and she never came back to Halifax to finish her degree. The next year, she was hired at William Morris Agency, a talent and literary agent in New York that represents people like David Byrne, Whoopi Goldberg, and productions like the Bronx Tale and River Dance. One time, Leo DiCaprio came in to bitch about how Sam Mendes gave Kate too much control in Revolutionary Road. Just another day at the office.

Em says without her Samuel French internship and job, she wouldn’t have ended up at William Morris. From there, after realizing she wasn’t interested in agency work, she landed a job at the Flea, an off-Broadway theatre company where she worked until last winter producing plays. There, her home-boy Leo was replaced by her home-girl Sigourney Weaver, who was involved in one of the theatre’s productions.

Now, things have come full circle and Em’s back at school taking an MFA in playwriting at Brooklyn College. She says if she ever achieves the “grand scale dream of being a successful playwright,” she’ll use her experience developing contracts for playrights at her Samuel French internship to make sure she’s raking in on the proper royalties. That’s experience you can’t buy.

Here are some songs inspired by Emily’s attitude on money:

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Stay tuned next week for a special guest contributor’s views on finding a job…