10 Questions Not To Ask During A Job Interview

So I went on a job interview last week. No matter how much one prepares for an interview, one is never quite fully prepared to just be oneself. That said, when YOU go for a job interview, be on time, be presentable, be awake, and ask questions.

However, it's advised that you DON'T ask certain questions. These top 10 questions should never be asked in an interview:

1. What's your company's policy on severance pay?

2. How long does it take your company's bureaucracy to get around to firing somebody for poor performance?

3. Could I get an office that's really close to the exit?

4. Does your company's life insurance cover suicide?

5. Who's the ugly bitch in that picture on your desk?

6. Does your company's insurance consider genital herpes a pre-existing condition?

7. How many sick days do you allow each employee before you stop paying them for not being here?

8. Does your insurance cover sex-change operations?

9. Does your LAN have a firewall that blocks triple-X websites?

10. About this drug testing thing, how often do you do that?

Of course it's quaint ... it's Maine

So here I am, in Portland, Maine. Did I have any preconceived ideas about what it would be like? Of course I did, I'm human.

But this, this is Portland. Not quite what I expected, but still beautiful. And quaint. Tree-lined streets. Old stone churches. Cobble-stone streets. Antique shops selling lots of little antique things. All very artsy.

I love it.

But it's cold. Not, "Gosh, perhaps I shall don a sweater today" kind of cold. More like, "Shit, I forgot my thick black coat back in Vegas" kind of cold. Sunny? Not so much.

And people smile here. Strangers. They walk past you and smile. And you wonder what mischievous mischief they have been up to. Or perhaps, here's a wild idea, perhaps they are genuinely happy. And so would I be if I lived here.

Old buildings. Friendly people. And Birckenstocks. Friendly people who wear Birckenstocks.

And did I mention it's cold?

If you go down to the Strip today you're in for a big surprise

People come to Vegas for many different reasons. Okay, that's a lie. They come to gamble, drink, and get laid. This is, after all, Sin City.

So it's no small wonder that on every street corner, there are illegal immigrants flicking theese cards. And not just flicking them, but shoving them in your face as you stroll past. And not just once or twice. It's ALL DAY!!

"Girls direct to your room in 45 minutes" they promise. I have no problem with this form of advertising, but what really riles me is that these guys flick these cards in the faces of men walking down the Vegas Strip with their wife and kids. At first it was comical watching ttheir reaction. Pleasure. Then shock. Then fear when they realize they have incurred the wrath of God (and the wife).

The roads are littered with these cards. Pick one up, and pick one up. You've only got to wait 45 minutes. so get comfortable and make sure the wife doesn't have your credit card down on the gambling floor.

See the world, come to Vegas

It's no small wonder 75% of Americans don't have a passport.

Why should they when the world can be seen in a weekend right here in tacky Vegas.

That's right folks. If you're after a little French culture, come to Paris (in Vegas) where you can dine in the Awful Tower, eat croissants at a French cafe.

Perhaps you're after something a little more musical. Then stop by the Ventian with its Italian-style architecture, and a real, honest-to-God canal where you and your lover can take gondola rides through the hotel.

For the more adventurous, the Luxor offers a fine example of Arabian tackiness. Shaped like a pyramid, the Luxor features a fake Sphinx (although, many people here can't tell the difference).

Yes, why leave the confines of the great United States when you can pop over to Vegas and experience the world all along one street. Indded, a modern travel miracle.

Where to next?

The great thing about not having any family living with you when you live abroad is that when you grow tired of one place, you can just pack up your shit and move on.

This is precisely what I will be doing soon.

But where to next? Do I want a large city, or a small town? Snow or sun? Beach or farm? Birckenstocks or flip flops? Yes folks, these are all question one needs to ask oneself when one is considering moving oneself to another place.

San Francisco was beautiful. But expensive. Vegas, well, I've been here a few months, and that's a few months too long.

Perhaps I should throw a dart at the map and go where it lands. Or do a nationwide resume drop from the air and go where there's interest. I have no aversion to any particular area, except for perhaps Mississippi or Alabama.

A need a place with culture, with restaurants, with museums. A need a place with soul, with life. I want to feel settled and enjoy living there. It should have outdoors, or at least have them nearby.

Any suggestions?

Will work for food

or rent, or clothes. Yes folks, it happened again. The proverbial axe went swinging around in a more potent fashion than my supervisor who walks through the agency swinging his you-know-what around.

It happened on Friday and between then and now I have sent out 85 solicitation emails. No, not THAT kind of solicitation. What kind of guy do you think I am? I mean the "Dear X, I'm looking for a job. Sweeping floors, mopping up vomit, writing copy. Do you have anything going? Please?!" kind of solicitation.

How many people replied? One. That's 84 less than I had hoped would reply. I had expected my inbox to be bursting at the seams with all the emails offering me lavish positions heading up creative departments nationwide. Did that hapen? Strangely enough, no.

So my search continues.

If it carries on at this rate, my soliciation letters will start reading, "Dear X, Please hire me to work behind your counter. I have spent ten working in advertising and winning foreign awards so I can dress up in a clown outfit and shout into a microphone, "DO YOU WANT FRIES WITH THAT?"

A Thousand Splendid Evenings of Reading Pleasure

Yesterday, for the first time in almost five months, I trotted off to a bookstore. I knew precisely what I wanted to get.

If you read a few posts back, I wrote about Khaled Hosseini's first novel, "The Kite Runner". Well, it was a runaway success. And I enjoyed it so much that I have been intending to read his second effort. Neatly and firmly tucked under my arm, I made my way to the cash register.

"Good afternoon. No, I do not have a Barnes & Noble book club member's card, yes I found everything just fine thank you and now I would like to purchase this exquisite piece of cultural literature from your fine establishment."

And off I trotted.

Tonight I shall bury myself in the pages of "A Thousand Splendid Suns" and get lost in time-forgotten Afganistan.

Marvelous Kitchen Miracles

Every home should have at least one. Kitchen, that is. And in one's kitchen, one should have at least one Marvelous Kitchen Miracle.

I am fortunate enough to have two: a dishwasher, and that thing in your sink that eats all the gunk at the flip of the switch. What's that thing called? Oh yes, a garbage disposal.

I hate washing dishes. Wait, allow to rephrase. I ABHOR washing dishes. So my dishwasher is a much-appreciated Godsend. I did a load of dishes this weekend and they all shiny and clean and like new. We like new.

As for the garbage disposal, she has started to reek somewhat. So it's a bit of bleach for her, some hot water, some lemon, and VOILA! Like new. Technology, ah. Life is so much easier with Marvelous Kitchen Miracles.

A day with my knight

Back in the days of jousting for love, and plunder of kingdom, young aspiring wanna-be knights would select a knight they respected, they looked up to. And they would spend almost every waking moment learning everything they could about knighthood from their mentor.

They would learn how to shoe a horse properly, how to take care of one's lance (?), and how to polish suits of armor. If the trainee knight showed promise, the knight would teach him how to joust and be a proper knight.

My knight is a woman knight, and while this may have been relatively unheard of back in the days of round tables and what have you - Joan of Arc doesn't count, she was French - it appears to be more acceptable these days. That is, if we still had knights. My knight happens to work in advertising. And what a jouster she is. She stands tall, metal armor blindingly bright, lance in one hand, spear in the other, she mounts her stallion and makes me proud. Okay, let me rephrase that last bit. There's no mounting going on here.

I digress. There aren't that many women knights in the advertising kingdom, on neither this side of the ocean, nor that. That's because all the big men knights are afraid the women knights might find out just how tiny things are under suits of armor. That's why I chose a woman knight mentor. She's fearless. She's talented. She has the driest sense of humor I have ever come across, oh and she mentors me, albeit from one kingdom to another. And despite what Neil French once said at an ill-fated speech given to ad folks in a kingdom tarpaulin in Ye Olde Toronto, this one has shutzpah.

All the other knights in yonder kingdom respect her, because stepping out into the male-dominated jousting pit every day takes courage, stamina, determination, and my mentor has those all. She guides me. She chides me. She tssk tssk's me from time to time, but she is always there to answer a question, offer a comment on how to improve my technique.

She's wonderful. She's also 25,000 miles away. And we have only met once. But communication technology being a little more advanced than they used to be in yonder days, we stay in touch regularly. But still, I hope to see my knight some day.

Having my cake, and eating it

I have decided that there are in fact some nice people on this planet. Take for example the nice girl who randomly gave me this nice cake on Friday. What a wonderful gesture. Bless. Perhaps she gave it to me because she thought I needed to put on a few pounds, but I like to think she gave it to me out of the kindness of heart. Because that's what nice people do.

So she handed over this German Chocolate cake and asked politely, "Would you like this German Chocolate cake, kind sir?"

To which I cordially replied, "Hand it over, it's mine. ALL mine."

So this weekend, I was a little pig. I finished three quarters of the cake, and now can bearly move. This is what they mean by having your cake and eating it too.

Personally, I've always wondered what the point of having a cake is if you can't eat it.