The Unemployable One

Two years ago this week, I started journalism graduate school in Chicago. I remember the first day like it was yesterday and it strangely mirrored my first day of high school. I had new threads, notebooks and awesome pens--thanks to my sister Liza and our shared obsession for fine writing utensils.

I had so much hope for this program, for this degree. I had wallowed in confusion and mild depression since leaving Hollywood filmdom and finally decided on journalism when a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist from the Chicago Tribune told me I could make a good journalist. I believed him but it took a few starts, stops and lots of research before I settled on a program. Actually, this was the only program that accepted me. The "right" Columbia said "Thanks but no thanks."

Those rat bastards didn't know what they were missing.

Instead, the "wrong" Columbia took me in like the runt of the litter nobody wanted after lots of arm-twisting, whining and doctored transcripts (kidding of course). Much coinage was exchanged and I joined some 20 other wide-eyed would-be journalists--most under the age of 25--searching for stories in Chicago.

I felt both old and oddly at home. I was older than a couple of my profs which brought my deeply-seeded insecurities to the surface like a big-ass, hairy zit. You know, like the kind of zit you get after a facial. One strategically placed squeeze would send all the pus and dirt onto the mirror like canned RediWhip onto an ice-cream sundae. Yum! One mention of my age, even in a joking manner, sent me into a tizzy. When this happened, 'why the fuck am I doing this?' emails were sent out to my friends in LA which were then answered with reassuring phone calls. After all, I was seen as some sort of champion to my long-time friends. I was living proof that there is life after the movie biz. For the longest time, I did not see myself the way they did and to this day, I still don't see it sometimes.

For the next year and a half, I worked my ass off. I worked overtime on my insomnia--a problem I still deal with to this very day with serious pharmaceuticals. I interviewed such folks as Sen. Olympia Snowe (R-ME), Tony Peraica (who offered me a job on his campaign) and Judge Mike Salvagni--to name a few. I wrote about Liberian refugees in Chicago, endless immigration issues, foster care and Montana's meth problems and innovative solutions.

I stood in the freezing cold on a brilliantly sunny day in Springfield and watched Sen. Barack Obama announce his candidacy for President of the United States. Months later, I stood in the bowels of Soldier Field on a brutally hot August night and spoke broken-Swahili to candidate Obama while a few of my fellow-ass kissing and extremely obnoxious NBC interns looked on in envy and wonder. I overheard one say, "How does SHE know THAT language? Like, for reals!"

I loved every minute of it.

Fast-forward to today. I've been searching for a job since mid-November 2007 and have had a few interesting interviews but no offers. The constant rejection has left me deeply depressed and frustrated. It's gotten to the point that whenever I read an article or column written by someone whom I believe to be sub-mental, I send an email tirade to fellow journalists and friends--both old and new--ranting about the bullshit job market. I know they're fed up these emails, but shit howdy, I am fucking sick of sending them out. It would be nice to send out a "HOLY FUCK! I GOT A JOB! A REAL JOB! NOT A PRETEND JOB! A REAL ONE!"

In the interim, I keep my couch down, watch endless hours of election year drivel and miscellaneous shows and think of topics to write about for a local website that I greatly admire. I've also written for TheStreet.com and am currently working on story ideas for a few trade magazines and associations.

I also think of innovative ways to get my money back for this degree that has made more unemployable than before. I've started to work out daily--I'm up to about an hour/day. Most of my sweat is result of beating the crap out of a heavy bag at my gym. I've been approached by a boxing coach who said I coulda been a contendaah if I were younger. Now, boxing is an area where ageism doesn't bother me all that much. I really don't feel like living out my remaining days in a rehab facility, begging my guilt-ridden trainer to put me out of my misery...


So, as a result of this current unpleasantness, I've decided to revive this blog. My goal is to post something daily. Some posts will be dull, some hopefully insightful but all will be wacky in some manner--that much I can promise. I hope y'all enjoy it and feel free to let me know either way. I'll probably ignore what you have to say, but that shouldn't stop you from sending your thoughts along.

-Jules