I Reemerge

 This month marks 17 years since I started this blog. That might seem random, but I have a personal connection to that number. Regardless, thank you to everyone who's been reading this since the TV.com days and made the transition over to Blogspot. I know I've been very inconsistant about blogging during COVID, and I hope to rectify that over the summer. 

The school year is over, and for the time being I'm burned out. Though there are school districts that have management issues and far worse problems, having two long-term sub assignments in an understaffed school certainly augmented my struggles. Regardless, I've been a substitute for 12 years, and I still intend to fill in for teachers for a 13th. 

The last week of school was trouble compounded by more trouble. Beyond your typical end-of-year rowdiness, my Instagram was hacked on May 24th. Apparently, I replied to a friend's DM on the social media app, not realizing she was hacked. I did not disclose any personal information, all I did was reply. It took 29 days for Instagram to over any viable help; several attempts to contact tech support failed, but something went through on June 22nd. If you want to add me there, I'm @ohhimrallard. 

Then the dog died. Eight months after Duke crossed the rainbow bridge, Hank the Dachshund succumbed to an inoperable tumor in his bile duct. He was a good boy... most of the time. I had mixed feelings about my sister buying him in a pet shop, but he very gradually ingrained himself into the family. 

With that said, this has been an awful week in the news. I'll discuss that in my next dispatch. 

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Promotion Commotion, Ten Years Later

I'm taking a breather from essaying about life in quarantine to discuss something personal:

I don't normally broadcast this out of fear of jinxing myself, but I had a job interview in Schaumburg on Thursday. I thought it was going to be a phone interview, but I was asked to drive out for a socially distanced sitdown. (Yes, it's essential work, and I can't elaborate further.) It occurred to me while driving out of the city that not only was my interview one town over from my old office, it was on the 10th anniversary of when I was replaced.

Four months ago on Facebook, I wrote a lengthy post comparing and contrasting where I was in 2010 as we approached the new decade. I discussed my last radio gig, but not what led up to losing my job. To sum up another long post, I had my EOE-obligated job interview on February 8th, then spent the next 11 weeks waiting for a decision that was supposed to take 14 days. I discovered by accident that at least two rounds of interviews were held without my knowledge. During my last week in the office, I noticed people were strangely avoiding me, and Administrative Professionals Day came and went without a mention. I was the receptionist, for chrissakes.

On April 30th, I was summoned to the business manager's office. It was about 90 minutes before the office closed for the weekend. The manager informed me that after some deliberation, it had come down to me and another candidate... and they went with the other candidate. This business manager, someone who made absolutely no effort to get to know me in the time we shared an office space, watched disdainfully as I clean out my desk. The traffic/billing manager --my actual boss-- escorted me out to the parking garage while fighting back tears.

The timing was awkward, to say the least. I had my Level E (graduation) show at Second City the next day, and I had mentioned that to people in the office. None of my now-former co-workers showed up, and even though the show went okay, I felt numb. The next day, after my last training center class, some of us went out for drinks across the street. I had a train to catch, so I only stuck around for a half-hour. Before I left, I said thank you and farewell to my classmates before noticing that my voice was quivering. I noticed then and there that I was waking up the next morning to nothing. As I walked from Corcoran's Bar to Sedgwick Brown Line, it was my turn to fight back the tears.

That was what was on my mind after my job interview on Thursday. Inexplicably, one decade and another ratings quarter on the outside looking in, the management at my old station hasn't changed. A number of other people, including my old direct superior were forced out for myriad reasons. Almost everyone I've been in touch with had comtempt for the general manager, but especially that business manager. The corporate office in Camarillo, CA couldn't care less who's in charge as long as the Chicago branch is turning a profit. Maybe its more symptomatic of commercial radio in general, but the cutting of corners to stay in the black is absurd. Six different people have come and gone in my former position, no one lasting more than 2 1/2 years.

As time has marched on, I've only grown more embarrassed to have ever worked for Salem Media Group. It's just another outlet for right-wing misinformation, something I barely tolerated in the late 2000s that I can't bring myself to listen to now. The same people that are encouraging armed protests against stay-at-home orders, that insinuate Jewish elected officials are somehow Nazis, are stirring outrage over temporary inconveniences, that gloss over President Trump's failures. They are (albeit indirectly) enablers of unnecessary chaos, gaslighters of the highest order.

So, while I was in the neighborhood, I took a selfie of myself flipping the bird at my former office. I figured it was the least I could do.

Clearly, I'm not ready to forgive. I don't know if I ever will be. I'm a bit more pragmatic than I was 10 years ago. I did everything I could to not burn bridges, but things have grown too dire and too polarized. My work situation is imperfect (for now) but I've made peace with the fact that I'll probably never work in radio again. I'm too out of the loop. Someday, I hope to write a book about my time in radio, with a plot structure not unlike "Gulliver's Travels." My two years at Salem were going to be the last chapter of the book. Unlike Swift, I'm grasping to find any kind of happy ending.

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Where is Stuart? There is Stuart!

I'm overextending myself. I don't think I came to terms with that until I realized I still had to write my three posts a month in May ...and it was already the 19th. I ended up only finishing two posts, which marked the first time since 2005 that I didn't write at least three dispatches in a 30-day span. To both of my remaining readers, I apologize.

The end of May marked the second anniversary of my mother's passing. My sister and I are still holding down the fort in the west Chicago suburbs, but we don't know for how much longer. We're paying for property taxes through the teeth, and upkeep around the house has been daunting. My sister has contemplated moving out of state, and my wanderlust has never gone away. In April, we set a tentative timetable to move out and sell the property by mid-2021; its an attainable goal, but there's a lot of work to be done.

Besides subbing, I have two part-time jobs. I drive for Lyft, but one or two nights a week I do box office and tech for a small improv venue in Wicker Park. I set a financial goal for the year, and I'm just barely hitting it. I've also been battling writer's block on and off for much of the past year, though that could be due to everything else going on; my energies are often elsewhere. As for leisure and pleasure, I have a couple of mini-road trips planned, besides going to Scotland in late July.

I haven't elaborated on what *I've* been up to recently, so I just thought I'd post this to let everyone know where I am at the moment.

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The World Through a Monocle

In late July, I discovered by accident that I had complete access to the archives of The New Yorker. I was aware that the magazine, which I'd read since I was a precocious grade-schooler, had past articles on display on their web site. I assumed incorrectly that you needed to pay a fee (my mail subscription sufficed) and that the articles were available were available only by searching by topic. So rarely am I ever so glad to be dead wrong.

The New Yorker was another one of those quick reads that molded my malleable mindset as I grew up in the Chicago suburbs. I have always been a voracious reader, and even in second grade was I aware of this magazine's status as a brass ring of intellectual savvy. Of course, upon first reading The New Yorker about 90% of my interest was in the cartoons; they were never knee-slapping funny, but witty and urbane enough to draw the attention of a bookish tween. Eventually my attention veered to Shouts & Murmurs, the short humor piece that ended each issue in the '90s and early 2000s. Then I was reading the film and theater reviews, then "Talk of the Town," then pretty much reading the whole damn thing cover to cover, rather than skimming half of the articles.

When I wrote about Playboy and MAD magazine a couple of years ago, I commented on how that particular magazine had progressed over the years. What was astonishing about reading vintage issues of The New Yorker was how little it changed. The layout of the magazine, beginning with "Goings On About Town" and a tiny table of contents on page 2 or 4, was set in late 1925... and didn't change until 1988 or so, when the contents got its own page. It was black and white and rather staid, yet straight to the point. Of course, substance came before anything else; the quality of writing, from the short fiction to profiles to literary criticism, hardly wavered. How it was presented was irrelevant.

Additionally, the sophisticated aesthetic of the magazine, especially in the early years of the magazine both gave the magazine character and proved at times a hindrance. Reading the "Talk of the Town" in any issue from the 1920s well into the 1950s has the feel of an inside joke, isolated in time even though the only people that found it funny are long dead. In short, it was the anti-MAD magazine nearly 30 years before Bill Gaines and Harvey Kurtzman joined forces. As the famed "Hiroshima" issue from 1946 proved, the editors weren't afraid to be deadly serious, either.

Alas, nothing can stop the slow train of progress, and that's where Tina Brown enters. Her arrival as editor-in-chief in 1992 shook up the stodgy, aristocratic air of the magazine's Times Square offices: "Talk of The Town" was less anecdotal and more op-ed, the page-to-page layout was tweaked, color images graced the editorial content, legendary photographer Richard Avedon was brought aboard to contribute those aforementioned images. Acknowledging the graphic novel as an art form, Brown also tapped "Maus" creator Art Speigelman to draw original essays for the magazine. Even the contents page, a weird little afterthought for so long, became more detailed. The WASP bluebloods were dying or fading into irrelevance, Brown assumed correctly; the left-leaning intellectual was the anchor was now the magazine's present and future. The old lady in Dubuque will still be on the outside looking in.

Compared to the other periodicals that I read regularly, The New Yorker can be the most time-consuming, the most challenging, and sometimes the most rewarding. I had outgrown young adult literature before anyone else I knew, and even if the leap was a little too big, I don't regret it. Access to 90 years of world class writing is more than just bridging the gap; it's providing further nourishment.

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My Promotion Commotion

April 30th marked one year of unemployment (or underemployment, depending on how you look at it) for yours truly. It has been a year of perpetual struggle, of peaks and valleys, and above all pondering the direction of my life and whether I've made the right career choice. Typically when I write my blog, I try to shy away from my personal problems. I focus upon current events, sports, and music not only as a pleasant distraction, but also to keep my skills sharp. It was my intent to share my story after I had found steady employment again, but my anxiety and frustration could no longer let me suppress my viewpoint for much longer.

It all started in mid-January, 2010. I had been the traffic assistant at the station for nearly two years, and as the result of budget cuts, I had also been the receptionist for about 14 months. I was initially hired to be part-time, five hours a day, 25 hours a week. It was on this average January weekday that my boss and our business manager/HR director sat me down to explain that my position was finally being expanded to full-time. However, because the company was an equal-opportunity employer, I had to reapply for my own job. A job listing was posted on a prominent industry web site for anyone to apply.

When I was first hired by Salem in May 2008, I sighed with relief. Upon graduating from college, I had submitted my resume and audio samples (both DJ airchecks and production) to nearly forty radio clusters --few stations are by themselves nowadays, it all depends on who owns them-- and they were only my second interview. After two wonderfully informative sit-downs, I was hired. Though traffic wasn't my first choice and my prior credentials were minimal, I was glad to be back in the radio industry. My first two weeks at the office were predominately spent training; though I felt like got off to a slow start, by the first month I had found my rhythm and developed a great rapport with my direct superior, the traffic manager. Every day was a new challenge, and even though it was tricky meeting daily deadlines I always made a conscious effort. The workload was heavy, but manageable. I was convinced that I had a future with this company... or so I thought.

In my first six months there was a significant regime change in our branch. The HR director that was partially responsible for bringing me aboard retired on account of her near-crippling arthritis. Her chosen replacement was for all intents and purposes her complete opposite; where the previous director was a self-deprecating mother figure, the new one was a deadly serious, business-oriented pragmatist. On top of that, where I was on friendly terms with HR director #1, her replacement made absolutely no attempt to get acquainted with anyone besides her boss and the other station management. Worse yet, director #2 had repeatedly called me out for mistakes at the front desk that were relatively minor and easily rectified. With time, it became quite clear that she didn't particularly like me, and that I would have to make an exorbitant effort to save my job.

As requested, I e-mailed my updated resume and references to the HR director, and we arranged to have my interview on the morning of Monday, February 8th. I spent the night before mentally preparing myself for the sit-down, partially out of determination but also out of shear nerve. As the sitting traffic assistant/receptionist, I was the first of six or seven candidates to walk into the conference room. Human resources asked the questions and my boss sat silently, taking notes. The interview itself went okay; though I felt like I was stumped by a question or two, I felt confident regardless. After the interview, the HR director stated that she'd make a decision within two weeks. And two weeks later... nothing happened.

In my extended time of waiting, I wasn't sure what to assume. Was the decision taking longer than usual, or was I a dead man walking? After the 14-day "deadline" had passed, I reluctantly started glancing at radio jobs online. To my astonishment, our HR director had reposted the same job opening from the month before. I came to work pretending as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and though I put on a brave face and a focused effort on my work, on the inside I was panicking. Even though I trusted my boss, I was too nervous to ask about the re-posting or the second round of interviews. Knowing of my duress, my co-workers would walk past the front desk and ask how I was doing; their moral support was fleeting, but noble in the attempt.

By late April, my worst fears were all but confirmed. Rumors were beginning to swirl around the office, and I gave my best non-answer to their prying questions. During the third and fourth cattle calls, the HR director conducted the conferences herself, without my boss' input. One candidate that walked in had garnered a second interview, a sit-in with the general manager that I'd never had. My boss would occasionally go into the HR director's office to vent, and one day during that week she was in the business manager's office for a longer period of time than usual. Glancing past the window, I could tell my boss was tearing up and that the HR director was being her usual hardheaded self.

On April 30th, I was asked to step into the HR office. As I sat next to the traffic director, I learned my fate: the search had come down to two candidates, the aforementioned ringer and myself, and they went with the new guy. Her words were polite, but her eyes had a certain resignation, a strangely gleeful glimmer. The director even tried to smirk, but my boss' repressed tears came from a more honest emotion. There was so much I wanted to say; I had an irresistible urge to call this cipher out for being secretive, elusive, and above all dishonest. Instead I clenched my teeth, cleaned out my desk, and tried to look professional and graceful in my departure.

In my HR director's eyes I was a milquetoast, possibly borderline incompetent, and her cold smile and sudden, abrupt attempt at compassion couldn't hide the fact that she had been gunning after me. Altogether, this HR director made me sit on my hands for 3 1/2 months, Was I fired, forced out, or replaced? I'd like to think I was a combination of the three. As I drove home, I was overwhelmed by a singular emptiness. Even though this was the first time I'd ever been sacked --an experience that everyone will eventually go through-- I still felt screwed over. Part of me is still convinced that human resources overrode any feedback that my boss would've had in this whole process, and that she'd further consolidated her power in the office. In short, I had no leverage, and all my energies were for naught.

In the meantime, I've been trying to give myself a clean slate, not out of willingness but because of necessity. Attempts to reconnect with former co-workers at Salem have been ignored or rebuffed. As such, I don't think anyone in my old office is aware of the existence of this blog. I've had text conversations with my ex-boss, but they've been short and stilted. I'd also found out through the grapevine that my position was redefined in that the receptionist reported to the HR director and not the traffic director. Apparently, he also assumed a different set of responsibilities, which meant my former boss was (is?) now doing the work of two people. Concurrently, I've been intermittently temping and substitute teaching, but mostly I've been ekeing out a living on unemployment benefits.

I have written this blog entry for the sake of catharsis, and not to attack, vilify, or exact revenge. I was very tempted to call out the offending party by name, but that would be industry suicide. For the last 12 1/2 months, I've been penting up my rage and alienation to the extent that I had release my demons the only way I can. Counting high school, I had played the radio game for eleven years, and now I'm further away from my dream job than I've ever been. I've had one radio-related interview in the past year, but nothing came out of it. On one hand, I've been thinking outside the box and pooling my skills into a variety of other possibilities; on the other hand, I don't want to give up on a dream I've been building on for so long. Blind optimism is what keeps me going. Inexorably, I feel like a burden has been lifted off my back, and that I'm ready to clear whatever future hurdles come my way.