We had two viewings on our place last night, the same day it went on the market. I was present for the second viewing, while chopping garlic for a Cinco de Mayo dinner. The smell of fresh garlic must have been inviting to the young couple having a browse, since they only lingered about three minutes before ejecting themselves out the door.

I don’t know whether it was my garlic or my flat but I felt slightly offended. If you are going to come into my home then you damn well better sit down and enjoy it!

One line that is used in the advert is “early internal viewing is highly recommended”. For some reason it made me think of a doctor standing outside, holding a speculum.

Until I can get out another dispatch, here is last night’s lovely sunset, as seen from the beaches of Hove.

One thing that may be instantly apparent is that everything on the table is American. Like, imported, from America. That Jif- came over on a Transatlantic flight. The Correll coffee mug- nicked from my parents. The Mrs Butterworth’s and Krusteaz pancakes were direct imports that arrived, via mail, to Brighton this week. Processed corn syrup with a maple flavour atop instant pancake mix (just add water!) never tasted so good.

And that is one thing that is very different here in the UK- everything is so fresh, as if processing plants were places that existed in other countries. The frozen section is tiny in the supermarkets when compared to the behemoth labyrinths in stores such as Meijer. Of course, the iceboxes are much smaller here as well.

This food, wonderful food, was brought to us by the good graces of John’s sisters. The cost of shipping exceeded the cost of the contents within. Straight economics would seem to indicate that this is somehow foolish. But when it comes to Krusteaz and Mrs Butterworth’s, making sure that two boys far from home are well fed really cannot be priced.

I can only the picture the string of motherfuckers! that littered the post office as John’s sister watched the price go up, up, up as the scale digested the full shipping weight of this morning’s breakfast. But price can’t hang with love/sentiment and, even though a diamond ring can be shipped far cheaper, it doesn’t mean it is worth more.

John and I were thinking of picking up junk store music instruments, for fun. John has considered the synthesizer while I have opted for the banjo. This coincidence of receiving a machine named banjo just seems to validate that the world is ready for a synth-banjo band.

(Pictured above is one of banjo’s neighbours)

OK, the cities are really different, but they are both post-industrial and Manchester does share the same crazy urban fabric and textures that Detroit does. The architecture is stunning- shiny glass next to old brick, abandoned rubbing shoulders with renovated, posh restaurants and hotels whose views are that of street art (graffiti). It has been a long time since I have been to a place where these contrasts hugged each other so tightly.

The city was littered with the same open spaces and misplaced car parks as Detroit. At one corner was hope and, in another, reminders of a funky fresh prosperous past. There was a brand new civic fountain just blocks away where the DVD street above was located. The high street- full of modern buildings and a shopping mall- was packed and I had no need to wait for people to move out of my way to snap photos- there just weren’t any people walking about.

However, one thing that was sprinkled across the city was just people doing it for themselves- small businesses, art, and an awareness that the city was yours to have if you embraced it. That was one nice thing about Detroit- you felt like a pioneer there in the sense that the city was weak enough to nudge and not too strong to suck the life out of you or hold you down on the city’s terms. You could mould it to suit you with a little elbow grease and bravery.

I was only there for an afternoon and an evening and, during that time, I was more fascinated and in love with the city than I ever was with The City. Manchester made me feel at home in a way London never has and, while I like them both, I doubt there is a doorway in London with cartoon characters saying hello to everybody.

Goldfrapp on MUZU

There is something inherently delicious about revenge tales- especially when they involve voodoo dolls, push pins, electrical tape, semi trucks, and phallic rockets.

Looking for a job is more awkward than a first kiss and (I imagine) just a tad less stressful than planning a large wedding. It is impossible not to have some mortifying moments during the search and, if someone doesn’t then I think they are too busy playing it safe.


There are so many things this post is missing: embarrassing technical issues with my phone; flubbing the name of the company that I was interviewing with; writing a cover letter that invoked the coordination of selling possessions and moving overseas as a major asset for managing clients (I guarantee that this cover letter is hanging in the HR rep’s office like a Dilbert cartoon). And on, and on, and on…

But here are five moments that I cannot figure out whether they are better remembered or forgotten.

Mister

Early on in my job search, I saw a very promising position advertised- a good company and a good job. I spent the next day polishing my CV and writing a custom cover letter about why I was the best person for the job. I submitted all of this to the HR representative, who was named Theo, and decided to call the next day.

One piece of advice that is always given is to do your homework about who you are phoning. This was my very first cold call to an HR representative and I paced around the room, talking to myself, and warmed up my voice like a musician might.

Asking for Mr So-And-So seems like a safe bet when the contact name is Theo, right?

I dialled and a woman answered. I asked for Mr So-And-So and, instead of being put on hold, the woman answered “this is he.”

I wanted to crawl away and die. I recomposed myself and we talked politely. She said I had a good CV and that she would keep it on file and, at that moment, I knew it was being fed into the shredder.

Late Trains, Hitting the Ground Running, and Can-Do Attitudes

There was one company with which I had an extended dance, an e-marketing firm in London. I was introduced to the company by a recruiter. Jimbo felt really good about my fit- I had all of the right database knowledge and the company loved the fact I had the people skills needed for the role. Jimbo was the first recruiter that I felt that I really connected with. We laughed, we talked about the snowy weather. Finally, someone out there working with me and for me.

He scheduled a morning interview in central London. En route, my train got delayed at Clapham Junction. For an entire hour, I sat biting my fingernails knowing that I must have already been crossed off their list. Being late violates the very first lesson of Interviewing 101. But I phoned everyone and they seemed to reluctantly understand, since there was already concern that someone from Brighton would actually want to commute to London every day.

The interview went well but I did not get the job. After talking to Jimbo, I found out that there were four more positions available and that he had scheduled a phone interview with a fellow named Nigel. The problem was that Nigel was so absolutely busy that it might be very difficult for him to talk to candidates in order to address these four jobs that desperately needed filling.

This did not sound promising. Using the cliched can-do attitude, I pressed on with the phone interview. It went well- Nigel was frazzled but agreeable and I made sure not to go over the 25 minutes allocated. Because this role was much more technical than the other one, I stressed that I was whipsmart when it came to the duties of the job but that I needed an opportunity to be creative and social to help facilitate those people skills that they had originally liked.

After the interview, I waited. And waited. And waited. When I phoned Jimbo, he said that Nigel did not like to be pushed and that I should wait for a call later in the week. Not promising. More can-do attitude as I waited and thought about the phrase does not like to be pushed.

Finally the decision landed: Nigel felt that I was too much of a project manager and not enough of a technical specialist. I laughed, waited an hour, and sent Jimbo a professional yet snarky email.

I won’t reprint what I wrote but the recruiter with which I had connected so well never did respond to my email. Nor did he discuss any of those other roles that were stacked on his desk. I wondered whether I had flubbed an opportunity but then, with a can-do attitude, I smiled good riddance and forgot all about Jimbo the Recruiter and that e-marketing firm in London.

“I Need Someone That is Like Family”

During my International Business class I learned: outsourcing is a good thing because it allows low-wage jobs to be passed down to developing countries. All of the workers that lose their jobs get absorbed into the new economy since people can buy more junk at a lower cost which creates demand for better-paying jobs. The standard of living is raised and, therefore, outsourcing is inherently good.

But that was school, I was looking for work, and the last thing I wanted was the spectre of being outsourced looming over my head. So, I had an interview with a guy who developed websites:

Offshore software development is a cost effective alternative to developing software in-house which allows business to cut cost on the software development.

His website copy sounded like it had been outsourced as well. All the management was done in Brighton and the work was done in India. When I met the owner, he offered me a coffee and started grilling me on whether I had the ability to turn around a quick quote for a website build and how well I could multi-task. He also asked about Skype, Microsoft Office, and web development. Check, Check, Check.

One thing that his website had lurking in the lower corner was a smiling face next to the phrase CALL US FOR A QUOTE. It started to dawn on me that I would be that person.

As my interest started to sink, I maintained my enthusiasm in his company and his offshoring tactics, which made me increasingly ill. But I smiled. Can-do.

While we were getting ready to part, I (white) lied and told him that I thought the interview had went well. He agreed and said he was looking for someone that is like family that he could count on when he was away to India on business and that is willing to go that extra mile on nights and weekends if you what I mean.

No, I did not know what he meant, especially on a salary that was more befitting a migrant housekeeper than a member of the family. He told me to send me an email by Monday on why I wanted the job. I sent him a regrets letter instead and lamented the fact that I left our only umbrella behind when I had interviewed.

“Tell Us About a Post And How You Optimised It”

I had an interview with a search engine optimisation (SEO) agency. I was really, really excited about the interview. This was the one.

For those not familiar with SEO, it is all about tuning up web pages to get them on top of Google results. For instance, if you type smoking beagle into Google (go on, try it) then an old post of mine should be near the top. It is the post of mine that gets the most traffic. And it is the most depressing thing I have ever written. Dead beagles.

I had done a lot of research before the interview and was ready to chat about what I knew and what I had practiced using my blog. I was ready to tell them my bounce rate, hot landing pages, and my Google PageRank. I had even become Google Analytics Certified the week before our meeting.

After some banter, I was invited to “tell us about a post that you wrote and what you did to optimise it.”

This was trouble- my other most popular post was about Nutella and wine glasses. So I mentioned The Smoking Beagle post and, for the next five minutes, answered all sorts of questions about the most morbid thing I have ever written. Awful.

Despite my clear command of cliff-note style SEO knowledge, I was not offered the position. I still admire the agency a lot and, in retrospect, I think this was a good decision on their part.

Sandal Boy

I will save my last shot for Sandal Boy, a young brassy kid that works for an Internet start up in London. A recruiter phoned me up, saying that I was a good fit for the role, and insisted that I be there the very next day for an interview. I ponied up the £30 for the round-trip ticket from Brighton to London-Victoria. “Dress casual,” he had told me, “sometimes being buttoned up is frowned upon.”

So I wore my power outfit- vintage wool pressed pants, a casual grey collared shirt with a v-neck jumper thrown over it. I looked like I meant business but that it was merely a byproduct of my natural panache.

Well, apparently a whole heat of other recruits showed up at the same time- all wearing formal suits. Hmmm. We were corralled into the reception area and upon inspection, we were selected by one of three interviewers. I talked to the data integration manager, explained what I knew, how it applied to the threadbare job description I was given, and had a genial chat.

Next the sandal boy was sent in. He ran the business side and had all of the enthusiasm of an entrepreneur with the annoying sass of a salesman. While discussing quality control. he handed me a report with about a million numbers on it. “What do you know about quality?” I told him that the information I used to produce for GM had to hold water in court proceedings. He seemed unimpressed.

“What is wrong with this report?” he asked. I told him it had too many numbers on it. This was not the answer he was looking for.

I was able to point out some strange anomalies but, buried deep in that heap of useless numbers was a slight uptick in the number of sales without a resulting increase in traffic to his website. At the end of the 2 or so minutes he allowed, he pointed this out to me gleefully and I expected him to send me in the corner to wear a dunce cap.

As he escorted me to the door I saw toes, hairy toes, that were visible through a pair of sandals. In the wintertime. “So you live in Brighton?” I confirmed that I did. “That is like the San Francisco of the UK, y’know. See you later.”

He was either calling me swish or alluding to Brighton’s reputation of Silicon Beach. But all I could think about were those ugly toes and that smug face and knowing that I had never seen a set of toes that complemented a face so well.

But, Wait, There’s More!

I have already reflected on bad cover letters and the horrors of a surprise telephone interview so I will stop the self-flagellation here.

My job search was often humbling, at times embarrassing, but always enlightening. It had to be- how else could I present myself as absolutely the best person in town for the job even though I had never experienced anything like what was written in the job description?

The journey to get to this point has been fantastic, full of jubilant peaks and and mopey lows.

I am going to dedicate a series of posts over the coming weeks to document my journey. Extended unemployment is unique- it is a time to measure your self-worth and create it at the same time. I could have fit four American maternity leaves during my time away from paid employment and, while I don’t have four babies to show for it, I do have a renewed perspective on what constitutes the good life. Besides, I have some unfiltered rants I need to write and some advice I need to give.

This mix was inspired by a renewed interest in Beck and, especially, the song “The New Pollution” from Odelay. The idea was to encompass some of Beck’s quirky and funky beauty while sprinkling the mix with some throwbacks and relics.

There are a couple of tracks that are particularly noteworthy.

Of course, there is the Beck song which has a fabulous video to go along with it. Go-go dancers, American Bandstand, a rather faithful Motley Crue impersonation, and a man pouring milk down his shirt- what is not to like?

Beck – The New Pollution

Here is a touching clip between Jeff Tweedy and his young son from the Wilco documentary I Am Trying to Break Your Heart. Here, they are rocketing on the tour bus and having some fun banter about Wilco songs while playing drums on their knees. Lovely.

Wilco – Heavy Metal Drummer (clip)

The Cure, locked into a wardrobe, trying to get out, the wardrobe topples over a white chalk cliff, landing on the rocks below, and then starts filling with water. All the while they try to find space to play instruments as the water floods the wardrobe. Addictingly odd.

the Cure – Close to Me (Official Music Video)

Finally, a look at Camera Obscura rocking Teenager on the tour bus. It has all of the innocent charm of the original, and even has one of the gentlemen croon some oooh-ooohs as a replacement for the stunning operatic diva outbursts that punctuates the original.

Camera Obscura – Teenager (Acoustic)

And here is the cover art for this mix No. 1:

Other links:

The 8tracks player is used to stream this tape; you can see the 8tracks profile for this mix here.

The Spotify (Share My Playlists) version of this mixtape is here. Note: The Camera Obscura song is unavailable in Spotify.

Here in Brighton, the truly devoted stay in the kitchen for hours and make them at home. John made some pancakes last year but I insisted on bringing a little piece of Hamtramck to Brighton for 2010.

So I made the dough on my own during the afternoon and John was home for the Herculean task of deep-frying and filling these fat bombs.

The Recipe

John spotted a recipe that on the web that sounded good. I was smitten from the opening line of the recipe:

This is a recipe I found handwritten in my Polish grandmother’s cookbook.

The idea of making some obscure paczki recipe from some woman’s grandmother that I have never met was just too alluring. Besides, this recipe seems meticulous enough to be the real deal. Many people insist that for a paczki to be authentic it must be fried in lard. While this may be true, the idea of melting a brick of lard made my stomach queasy so we opted to use vegetable oil instead.

The Dough

Donut dough is the wettiest, stickiest substance known to man.

I followed this recipe by the syllable and I still don’t think I did it right. The first night that we made the paczki we decided to add an extra cup of flour because it was so clingy. Result: dense little bread-like balls. The second night we left the dough as dictated and it worked better. The raw dough immediately inflated upon hitting the oil. It was a gorgeous display, like the surprise of watching a water balloon fill rapidly after accidentally opening the water valve full throttle.

The Fry

While I was making these the thought anything deep-fried tastes good repeated in my head. It was a confidence booster that held my hand  through a rather shaky process.

If the oil is too cool, then the paczki will end up tough, if it is too hot then they will be gooey inside. Is there anything more stressful? We did not have a temperature guage so we channelled our inner Polish Grandmother and let our intuition guide us through. We got it half right, with most of them erring on the site of being a bit over cooked.

The Fill

Here is where a lot of tough decisions must be made. The first question is that of authenticity- do you really want to fill them with prune? That is the most Polish of the choices and we opted for four different fillings: lemon curd, loganberry, instant custard, and hand-whipped rose cream.

During filling, John’s natural kitchen intuition was at its most necessary. I freaked out when it came time to fill these fat bombs yet, I was the guy that worked in the bakery for five years. I already had the ingredients spread out before us but we quickly spotted a problem: how do we get that in there without a pastry bag? John had a fun idea that involved plastic wrap and a recently discarded tube of toothpaste but this ingenious idea ended up being not so genius after all.

In the end, we used wax paper wrapped into tight cones with the filling packed in. This is the same way that the ladies I used to bake with did it when writing Happy Birthday with frosting on customers’ cakes. Wrapping these cones is not the easiest thing to do and putting a thick jam inside requires yet a greater skill level.

There were some other logistical concerns as well. Putting the filling in too early might stifle the developing structure of the paczki but putting it in too late might make it too difficult for the cake to sufficiently give way to allow the filling in. Furthermore, my homemade rose cream filling would melt if injected into the hot ones.

The Results

Better than I expected and not as bad as they should have been given our primitive methods. It is going to take awhile for our inner Polish Grandmothers to gain the wisdom and confidence to trot these out in large batches to hoards of hungry pre-Lenters but they were good enough for John to take with him to lab in the morning.

They were also good enough to serve, warm, to some English and Canadian guests that could not pronounce paczki. The clean-up took a good hour and the whole process, from the mixing of the dough to the last paczki being filled spanned about five hours in duration. A mental note for you: next Fat Tuesday, I would recommend going to the jelly donut aisle of your local bakery (unless you have access to a Polish bakery) and pick up some jelly donuts. I would reckon that if you presented them as paczki as opposed to donuts that your guests are not going to call your bluff.

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. No more remodelling for 2010!

When I was a boy, I used to abhor sitting on the store floor while my parents pored over different wallpapers and paint palettes. It seemed like they were always refreshing and remodelling. But I am an adult now, and this is the sort of things that adults like to do. Colour Lovers is like the wallpaper/paint stores of my youth- only for the web.

As you can see, I used skyscraper as the background of this site. I had originally lined up a greyscale version of One Fine Day until I learned that the pattern was inspired by a Natalie Merchant song.

Below are the colour palettes I am considering for the text and graphical elements of the site. I particularly like Death Of A Salesman, least not for its name. But these seem a bit safe, almost like they are begging khaki to be added to the palette.

My other option is to go for something a little more clean and punchy, using orange (or maybe blue?) as a power colour.

Regardless, subtle changes will be seen around here and yet another trip to Colour Lovers will be needed, which will lend yet more support for the old adage that, eventually, we all turn into our parents.

However, once that first sliver was transferred to a plate and they started to get passed around the room, shouts of delicious! filled the air and I was relieved. It was moist.

Baking the cake was good fun- there was no flour, no sugar, no baking powder. What it did contain was a whole jar of Nutella, loads of chocolate, and hazelnut powder. It also called for six eggs, separated. One thing about our kitchen- nothing is done the easy way. We don’t have a microwave, blender, or an electric mixer.

The structure of the cake comes from egg whites whipped just shy of the consistency of meringue. I had popeye forearms when I was done and John gracefully did some frantic whisks as he passed through the kitchen on his way to the lab. The hazelnuts had to be put in a blender. It was fun to watch them fly around and I am sure the neighbours thought so as well- since the appliance was roaring somewhere during the eight o’clock hour.

One thing I love about these photos is how wonderfully awful they look. I have always thought it would be neat to have Dave’s Ghetto Cooking Hour. I think it is funny to see foodies’ websites where not even a single droplet of batter touches the counter or clings to the side of a bowl. My baking process is the real deal- shit everywhere, chaos, disorder, but the results tend to be pretty good, even if they tend to look like an ugly bride.

Later in the evening, we had a party. Everyone was supposed to show between 8 and 9 with a jaunt to the pub planned shortly after 10ish. The first guest arrived at 9:30, leaving me and Petey plenty of time to watch the cake, stress out about whether it was going to be moist, and play with his green squeaky ball.

However, once everyone showed it was grand. Every single wine glass and tumbler in our cupboard was in use. I didn’t intend for my World Nutella Day gathering to turn into a raging drunk fest but that is what happens when one of the special ingredients used for the cake is visible on the counter. (Rum)