• Woke up at 11 ayem after a riotous night at the lamest hardcore show the world has yet witnessed. Hipster-core. Round on the edges. Child-proof.
• Decided immediately upon seeing a movie. Showered. Shaved. Now, what movie?
• Nuthin’ worth nuthin’ at one theater. Then, another. Finally, see that “Bronson” is playing. A crazy, brutal comedy it looks like. One film review says you’ll love it or hate it. A cult film. Perfect.
• Missed the G Train because I had to fill my card. Made the connecting L in perfect time.
• Looking for a spot for lunch, and in the mood for Chinese, finally thought to check out the cash situation.
• Stopped off at a bank to get cash for lunch and a movie. This was in the East Village.

  In the lobby was the ATM. Next to the door to the tellers were four blanks. One was of the branch manager with a picture of a man in it. Another was a picture of the investment specialist, that also had a picture of a man in it. A third was for the small business specialist. That had a picture of a woman in it. Last, lowest on the rung, was the home loan specialist. No name. No picture.

• At about 3:15 p.m. Two men, one with a Yankees towel wrapped around his neck as if he were SuperBambino, were spotted — clearly, STILL celebrating Wednesday’s World Series victory and also spouting a manner of mock-speech I will call “Italian”isms: “Prosciutto! Linguini!” etc.
• The Chinese give an odd look when they notice you notice them at what is clearly a touristy Chinese restaurant. Well, Jersey touristy.
• Women who are clearly models — working but unknown — amuse me when they walk down the street. Because, they dress like they’re still in a photo shoot, even if the clothes clash with the weather or surroundings or common sense.
• At 3:55 p.m. The same gentlemen walked by the window, a floor below me, this time spouting what I will call “retarded”isms
• A sign for a new cooking show at a bus stop: I’m tired of cooking shows and I don’t even watch them. I suspect this of many people.
• In a bar. TV on. Why was Jay-Z on the Yankees’ parade float? I missed his role in all this.
• These are the worst movie preview of all times. It’s difficult to say what any of them are about.

  One’s about a woman whose husband is about to leave her for a younger woman so she tapes him to the toilet. She does everything better than him. Somewhere along the line a robbery happens. It’s a comedy.

  Then, one about a girl. She’s an actress. She has a boy best friend and a guy she has the hots for. The two men hook up. Everyone is straight and best friends.

  The third, a documentary: Either capitalism or Wall Street or both are responsible for poverty in Africa.

  The last: called “Fix The Movie.” It’s about douchebags.

“Bronson” — the movie that was whole point of this trip — was brilliant, bloody, bawdy. British. Hilarious.

See it.

As for me, still more Friday to go.

• My costume cost $6.09; I didn’t come up with it until 4 p.m. the Day Of; and it was a hit. Everyone wanted to know about the guy with the money taped all over his body. I went, originally, as the Federal Reserve (each fake 20, 10, 5 and 1 had “I.O.U.” written on it, save two that read “Federal” and “Reserve” on my hat). But strangers often made their own assumption about my costume — “You are soooo money.” And I was.
• I spent much of the night at the bar Union Pool. And Union Pool on Halloween is a difficult beast to describe, clientele-wise. Imagine parent-teacher night in San Francisco: a lotta gay dudes, a lotta single women and a few straight couples and a few straight guys.
• Or, better yet. Imagine if Trader Joe’s opened Andy Warhol’s Factory. You’ve got your common assortment of hipsters, but they’re not really top-shelf hipsters. More like two-buck chuck hipsters. Good value, good times and a reliable product for the sort of person who likes to hipster-watch. And all for $2.50 a PBR.
• Difficult to say what the transvestite to non-transvestite ratio at this particular BK bar was. Suffice it say, more than you’re used to. Probably lower than in past years, however, as their numbers were definitely compromised by “Where the Wild Things Are.”
• Favorite costumes? Run-DMC Giraffe (giraffe costume + long cardboard head + gold chains and hat) and the guy who looked exactly like Fidel Castro. Exactly like him.
• Most memorable? The man who came dressed as the elderly pederast from “Family Guy”. Bathroom, walker, slippers and a giant papier-mâché head. That was some serious dedication.

Hope you had a happy one.

They’re also painful and awkward as hell and involve more smiles than the human mouth is designed to handle. And like dates, you have to go through a helluva lot of ‘em before you find one you really like from whom you really — gosh, wouldn’t it be swell! — want to hear back.

Which, oftentimes you don’t.

But, let’s begin at the, um, beginning.

You arrive early at whichever establishment you’ve decided to conduct this get-together — polished and dressed as if something your mom said finally stuck. Pants are creased; hair is coiffed; breath is, ah, de-coffee-fied. You are ready to make an impression.

You give your name to the person in charge in front, who either seats you immediately or tells you it’ll be just a few minutes.

Waiting is always part of the game. To see how you deal with the pressure. Though usually, because the other party — the one not you — is frequently running behind. You would, too, if you had a job. But you, you’re patient, you’re smiling, you’re wondering, “Do I get points for magnanimity and patience?”

Finally, however, you’re seated with the other party in this match-making bliss.

You immediately proceed to discuss the weather. About how cold it is. Or rainy. Or “why won’t it just pick a temperature and stick with it?” A lot of pleasant, if dry, banalities about every-day life so that everyone can ease into being human.

At this point, someone will approach and ask if you’d like something to drink. Water, perhaps. Or tea.

“Water, please.”

And the person leaves and you begin your conversation with your opposite number about the matter that brought you two together in the first place.

If you’re lucky, the discussion is animated, lively, with salient points made about matters of concern to both. And that second “date” is unspoken, in the air, for the duration of the sit-down. Really, the two of you make an excellent pair already, and you really do believe in stars and kismet and drippy songs that rhyme “you” and “too”.

Likely, however — “here’s your water” — fumbles of small or large consequence occur almost immediately. The two of you are a poor-to-fair fit for any number of reasons. Perhaps you both are looking for something different: They something temporary, you something permanent. Perhaps you both are on different schedules: You need something today, they something … eventually. Or, worse, you think this position is open, while they, on the other hand, “are just looking.”

Oftentimes, the person you meet is little like the advertisement claimed. It’s as if one person wrote the ad and another showed for the meeting.

“Fact checker? No this is a position for a bond insurance reporter.”

“Enjoys art? No, I just like going to their parties.”

And you can’t ask, why would you advertise one thing and say another. Or “why are we still going through what is, obviously, now a charade for a position we both know I can’t fill?” Because to leave would be rude.

Of course, there’s also the let-down that comes when someone is more qualified than someone else — one of you definitely makes the other look good (or desperate, one). And that there could be a bullet to bite here if it’s been a while. Basically, someone’s just going to have to suck up the whispers of “what’s s/he doing with that?” — the kind of gossip you can see before you hear — if someone needs something — needs anything — and needs it now.

You know immediately, too, which kind of interview it is — a “you/too” moment or one where balloons slowly deflate for tragi-comic effect. You spent the waking — even dreaming — moments up to this moment lowering expectations so not to get your hopes up — which in the end only confirmed, even ramped up, your desire for this position. And so anything less than perfect is palpable.

And yet, you try to bail water (you were missed on the Titanic).

You find yourself trying to impress. Maybe throwing a bit of your wit into the pot to see if that makes any magic happen. Likely not, though. You don’t know each other. You don’t know what makes the other person laugh. And, maybe, they’re just not in a laughing mood. Who knows. Maybe you’re the third one this week. Or today. What they want isn’t a good chuckle, just solid, quantifiable information about you and some idea about how you would fit inside their already complicated life.

You ask questions, of course. They’re not the only ones doing the interviewing, after all. Plus, it looks good to show you know something about their world and/or show an interest in whatever the hell it is they do (which, hopefully, you remember from five minutes earlier).

By now, however, whichever course this encounter will take is too far gone for your meager efforts to force a dramatic, game-saving turn-around. If you’re in, it’s more of the same. A lot of “that’s rights” or “exactlys”. If not, it’s also more of the same. A lot of “Sort ofs …” or “I wouldn’t go that fars.”

The worst is yet to come, though.

Eventually, mentions of “other candidates” filter the air. And that they “don’t really know how long this process will last” but “you should definitely check back” with us. Or constant references are made back to your work, or previous work, because they still don’t quite understand it, even this far into the meeting. Either way, it’s a bunch of obvious hints, dropped from airplanes, whose parachutes never open.

They’ve made their decision. You’re not moving passed this stage. Yet, they’ve committed to a polite front. And thus, smiles and questions chain you to your chair longer than really need be. However, “that one really interesting thing you mentioned earlier that I said was interesting really does, kind of, interest me. You should keep me informed about how it goes.” And … smile!, because you really want to believe them.

And then it’s done. At the end, it’s smiles and handshakes and glad tidings and cursing — the latter either in a cab or an elevator or back at home, as you mentally go through game film of every movement, thought and deed, in real time. Several real times, actually. Sometimes with friends. Sometimes with sock puppets (depending whether or not you have friends).

Oh, and by the way … Don’t expect them to call you back after your first or even second encounter to tell you “thanks, but we’re moving on in our search.” It would be nice. It would be the classy thing to do — particularly in an email age where nothing is seriously asked of you in a two-sentence “there, there” pat on the e-back — but it’s not always in the cards.

Closure is what you get in a relationship. This? This was just a date.

The job is for a local TV travel show gig (although no details other than that are given) and the recruiters are seeking, “an attractive (emphasis mine) edgy female age 28-45 to host a local NYC TV show” (an ad that disqualifies me on two counts).

And, yes, you probably just noticed what I first noticed. But, first, here’s a quickie clip of that portion of the ad:

And here’s the ad in full (I’ve omitted the email address):

Description:
Host for local show – non union position – New York, NY
Full Job Description: Looking for an attractive edgy female age 28-45 to host a local NYC TV show. Previous hosting experience is a plus. We are looking for brains, wit and talent. You must be able to adlib on the fly and add your own personal flair to our show. Please include photos of yourself both face and full body. Video examples preferred. We`ll then contact you to schedule an audition. Preference given to females who have experience reporting or hosting. This is a non-union job. Talent should live in or around the New York City area.
Reply to: Subject Line: Job Reference #2301 XXXXXXXXXXXXXX@live.com Digital Submissions Only

Now, we all know how the world works: People switch to the channel where the hot people are discussing … what was it recently? balloons? children? aliens? … something? Who knows.

Any way, that the person eventually hired for a TV gig is genetically predisposed to have a shapely leg up on the competition is no surprise.

What is a surprise is the recruiters for such a position coming right out and saying it.

And while Title VII, which polices this sort of thing, provides what are called bona fide occupational qualifications (BFOQ’s) — a woman’s restroom attendant must be a woman, I’ve learned — they don’t seem to apply to here (even Hooters has yet to make its case). Not unless the point of the show is to demonstrate how TV talk show hosts use fat suits to secure ratings gold, um, well, ratings.

And even then, maybe.

They didn’t even use the time-honored euphemism “health-conscious.” What kind of shabby operation is this?

For instance, The Hollies:

The interviewer is far from prepared for this meeting.

His or her dress is fine. Not as good as yours, of course, but acceptable. But their composure is such that, were roles reversed, you’d thank ‘em for coming in and wonder “where we get these people.”

Case in point.

Once upon a different unemployed time, I interviewed with a well-known financial news organization. I arrived as usual about 15 minutes early and was immediately escorted to a conference room with one of the editors. Primarily a print news organization, this position would help them expand their presence online, and as a candidate to fill this position, I did a pretty damn good job recommending myself.

I demonstrated breadth and some depth of knowledge of then-current financial news; of what the limitations and advantages of online media were; as well as how the tone and language of that financial news organization differed with its competitors.

It was a rousing success.

Then came the next interview.

This one was simple, I thought. But a bit curious, because why was I interviewing with the HR woman second? You would think that the HR woman would come first, to sniff out the truly terrible, and only then would the candidate see the editor.

No matter, I thought. And the interview began.

Almost immediately on the wrong foot.

Why is of some mystery. The woman, late 20s but four-year-old serious, sat with a stern lip about her role as gatekeeper.

Questions were curt and answers were questioned. Moreover, my resume wasn’t my introduction. It was a study guide for the final exam.

“How many years did you work at Time Magazine?”

“What were your duties there?”

“Describe three responsibilities at your last position.”

As if I had cribbed my resume.

Finally, came this question: “What was the title of your last supervisor?”

Here I stumbled, not out of ignorance but of sheer surprise.

“Um … uh … He, he was my editor.”

“His exact title.”

“Editor.”

I half expected her to say, “Point, Douglas Freeman High,” as if this were a Battle of the Brains competition.

More questions followed:

“You’re in a desert, walking along when you look down and you see a tortoise. It’s crawling toward you.

“I’m sorry?”

“You reach down and flip the tortoise over on its back. The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over but it can’t. Not without your help. But you’re not helping.”

Twenty or thirty questions like this. Until, finally, while I was answering one of these very important questions, I noticed … “a tear?” sliding down her right cheek. Just another employee, it was; fetching some papers. They’re in here somewhere. Left ‘em just a few minutes ago. Don’t mind the tear. Just needs to make. it’s. way. down.       that.        cheek.

She kept talking, though. Asking questions.

“Why aren’t you helping, John?”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You see the tear don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Pretty odd, isn’t it?”

“Well, not so much the tear. That you’re just letting it pass, unremarked, is what’s got me curious.”

What I could do was respond, diligently, to her questions. What I couldn’t do was not. stare. at.     that.     tear–

“I HAVE ALLERGIES!!!” she thundered. I woke up, and she violently wiped away the interloper.

“Oh, um … yeah … no, I understand. I have allergies, too.”

My answer was honest. Unfortunately, tone is everything, and I sounded like I was calling her a liar, not to mention a balling, crazy, (“probably on her period … or having her period … or whatever it is”) hysterical woman.

I was right, to a point. Maybe not about the monthly discharge part, but it was Fall and something was definitely wrong. Whatever the source of that tear, it had walked in with her. And like the poor, well-meaning traveler whose only mistake was to take the back roads late at night on a full moon — I was never heard from again in those parts.

The point of this story is this:

There are variables outside of your control at all times. By this point, interviews were old-hat to me. I’d heard all the questions. Or had prepared answers that could fit any new one.

There was that “what was the title of your last supervisor?” But even from that, I quickly recovered.

But when your interviewer has a mini-breakdown during the interview — and from that point it descended from cold to Kelvin — you’re helpless.

It’s a rarity, I admit. But the more you interview, the more likely it is you encounter a scenario for which it is impossible to game-plan. Your best bet — then, there, at the moment the universe is collapsing — is to remember poise. Comment upon the tear. Or ignore it. But whatever you do, do it in character: As a worker who ruffles at nothing.

Terrorists? Hadn’t noticed.

Mayan Apocalypse? Ah, here’s the creamer.

And so forth.

In retrospect, my halting “Me, too” answer was abysmal. Better would be “New York is awful for allergies.” Because that’s how you handle a good espionage plot: You’re in, you make the switch, and you’re out. Don’t linger. Don’t double-back. Make a quick-strike and then move on.

Again, let’s return to the love-jobs metaphor I like to use: Sometimes ships that pass in the night are perfect for each other on paper. Sometimes, however, Events seize the moment. Events beyond your control. Perhaps beyond the company’s control. Perhaps Advil’s.

It’s unfair. But these things will happen. And you have to remember to keep your head afterward when they do.

A favorite article of mine from the past few days educated anyone “overqualified” for positions on how to get a job. The advice went something like this:

1) a four-paragraph lead.
2) knowing the person doing the hiring is better than not knowing the person doing the hiring; so, try to know the person doing the hiring.
3) suddenly, and without warning, you have an interview (likely, because you followed steps one and two).
4) talking to the interviewer helps him or her get to know you (that bit o’wisdom, incidentally, took two full graphs)
5) don’t be an aggressive know-it-all in the interview if you’re overqualified. … of course, don’t do that if you’re underqualified. or exactly qualified, either.
6) you’re a team player
7) don’t expect your old salary (the implication being, I guess, we got the job. So, hurray, for us! We followed steps 1-6. The key being a four-paragraph lead)
8) for some reason we NOW decide to address the resume with this tip: don’t outright lie.

Sigh … I’d provide a link, but I don’t believe a person should (outright) mess with someone else’s paycheck (namely mine, in case the writer sees this and puts two and two together).

If you’re overqualified. Or a late-model Ford. Or if you can’t figure out either why a manager wouldn’t hire someone six years your junior at a 15% (at least) pay cut — then the interview is the least of your worries.

It’s the resume.

How does a resume that screams “Overqualified!” compete with one that screams “I’m young, impressionable, and I come cheap”?

Well, not easily, that’s for damn sure.

But here are a few tips. And, as always, email lovelyrecession AT gmail DOT com or comment if you have extra ideas.

• You’re unemployed. We’ve established that much. This means you have a lot of time now to do a bunch of stuff like save the world or paint the poor (hey, they could use a fresh coat) that earns you karma points, which are only redeemable at the Karma Store.

  The thing is, if you can show on your resume that, since you were laid off you began doing serious (minimum 30 hours a week) work for a good cause that required, ahem, teamwork and a belief that paychecks waste paper — well, then, that goes pretty damn far to prove that horsesh–t about you WANTING a reduction in status and DEMANDING a cut in pay.

  “Can I keep hitting myself in the head? I’m ALREADY hitting myself in the head!”




• We all know that you tailor the cover letter and resume to suit the job. But do we know that that is nice diplo-speak for “Tell them what they want to hear”?I always say that looking for a job is like looking for love. And in this case, unless you are a catch in any market, you need to tell the one you’re with exactly what she wants to hear. Sorry, but like love, if you haven’t had any looks in a few months, you’ve gotta either lower your standards to “anything with a pulse and a mop and a bucket” or “anything willing to buy what I’m sellin’.”
  
  Here, you need to tailor the description of your duties on your resume to what you reasonably believe the HR person wants to hear. In fact, think of it as “chalking your ID when you’re 18.” That is, “It says it right there: 21″. If you do it right, then everything should make the HR person think “mule.”

  Remember, you are willing to pick up the slack at work. In fact, at your last job, downsizing was such a way of life that by the time you were cut, you were doing the work of 16 Siamese twins. Hell, you wouldn’t know what to do with a lunch hour. You hate lunch. Who else would train the 23-year-olds who come in with coke hangovers every morning?

  What should it say, exactly? Who knows. It’s your job. You figure out whatever the hell that is. I crack the jokes; you do the legwork: that’s the deal on this website.




• You can’t cut 7 years off your resume. But you may be able to cut three or four. Remember, after college, you toured Europe for a year. Then it was back home to help with your sick mother and/or father. That was a full-time job that you complemented with a job at a now-defunct firm with no-forwarding anything. After that, once the ‘rent(s) was/were well, you needed a break. Caring for a parent at your then-age is awfully stressful. That’s when the pottery classes started.And then there was the disease that struck your dong.

  The point is, you can shave off a bit from the bottom of your resume — probably no more than 4 years — so long as it makes sense to do so.

  Obviously, this is less help if you’re over 40. In that case, you spent seven years on an ashram in India.

  Oh, and if the interviewer has a BS-detector and asks you “which disease did the parent(s) have?”, then it was “something a lot of women at that age have to deal with” if the guy’s a he and “something a lot of men that age have to deal with” if the she is a she.

A number of you naturally will ask: John, isn’t this a) lying b) immoral and c) lying? And my response is, “Well, yeah. But who told you to believe everything I say?” I exaggerate — always — to prove a point: The only important quality in an employee is the ability to parachute blind into an alien situation and fight your way out. TV anchors aren’t actually experts on the U.S. policy towards Israel or Pakistan or, hell, Belarus. They become experts on the fly so that when the chips are down and the feed is live, they can look like an expert.

You must do the same.

Your 2006 resume is null-and-void in 2009. You’ve got to be creative and pretend you’re pitching a movie to Mr. Big-Time Hollywood Producer that satisfies the kind of film that audiences want to see in the New World Disorder:
“In a world, where multi-task is the new mono-task …”

“If you hire only one employee this holiday season, you won’t need to hire two — if he’s ‘John Flowers: The Motion Picture’.”

With that in mind — and after much back-and-forth venting with friend and blogger Unemployed Brooklyn — I have decided to formalize some protocol for the well-meaning Ivory Job Tower sector. That is, those who don’t have to think about unemployment. Those who likely never will be out of work for long. And those with manners, just not tact or common sense.

• Ask yourself, “Is this a stupid question?” Is this one of those softball, celebrity-interview questions where the answer is obviously and unequivocally “yes”? Do you honestly wonder — right out of the gate — whether so-and-so has been looking for a job. And if so are they checking the want ads? If so, you’re likely to get your face ripped off.
• “How’s it going?” or “How’s the job hunt going?” are well-intentioned queries but a red flag to out-of-work bulls. You need to treat this question as you would contact with a friend whose last name is Mr. Peehole. Mr. Peehole has heard all the jokes. Every permutation of “Peehole” you can think — sex on a golf course = “A Peehole in one” — he’s heard. Likewise “How’s it going?” — It’s the first time for you. The 12th time that day for the unemployed friend in question. It’s understandable and quite friendly-like that you would ask this question. But understand also, your iteration of this question could be the straw that takes the safety off the camel’s shotgun.
• Well, then how the hell am I supposed to keep tabs with my friend? Invite him over for dinner. Or drinks. Or offer to buy him a few rounds on a Wednesday, when everyone’s looking more to unwind and unload, not wind up in weird places with tattoos in confidential areas. It lets that guy be a person again. You get to talk about the problems in your life; he talks about the problems in his; and no one feels like a leper begging “alms for the poor, sir.” Let your question be: “Hey, let’s get together and be constructive in our mutual allocation of time.” Only, phrase it better than that.
• Now, about your well-intentioned offers to help. These must be concrete. Too often friends or associates tell the unemployed about “definite” jobs they can “definitely get you” — only for the unemployed among us to discover that these “definite” jobs are more theory than reality. Or the “definite” job is the one that Monster.com is “definitely” advertising on its site right now. “And you should apply!” In other words, your rolodex surpasses its reach. Again, never deal in abstractions. If you have a definite job, check and double check under threat of the business end of a Bactrian-barreled shotgun. If it’s just a foot in the door, say that. We love doors. We’re like Merle Haggard: We like Swingin’ Doors, a jukebox and a barstool.

• If you haven’t looked for a job since the advent of the Internet, you should keep your trap shut. Old Lamarckian notions of How It Gets Done may be your undoing.
• If you have questions about searching for a job — because you’re scared, you might be next — by all means, we’re all ears. If you’re just generally curious for your own sake — again, My Camel’s Got a Shotgun. Specific questions that show you’ve done some research on your own are always accepted. However, “I was just bored and a little curious and you and your state are an oddity to me” is the patent answer of daemons who waste other people’s time. By about the age of 8, those kinds of questions are no longer cute.
• If you ever, ever, EVER imply that your Unemployed Friend should do a certain something, like help you move, because, “you’ve got a lot of time on your hand,” The Camel will show no mercy. None. It’s like suddenly being treated like the kid in school who’d eat anything off the cafeteria floor on a dare. Our time has value. As much as yours. Remember that.
• Much of these entries sound angry. Good. You have some insight now into the mind of the average working day of someone looking for work. All the BS you put up with at your job? All the stupid questions people ask you at work? All the hard-work-for-such-little-pay gripes you have, week-in, week-out? All the conversations you have with friends to explain what it is you do on a given day that go — whoosh — right over the heads and through the ears to grandmother’s house we go? Unemployment is that, but worse.

“It sounds like the best thing I can do is not do anything at all.” In a sense, yes. Just treat the person the same way you did before he lost his job. If you used to rip each other (because you’re guys) or, um, do whatever it is girls do, then keep doing that. That’s not to say ignore the unemployment situation. That means when you look at your friend, look at “Bob Peehole, friend/family member/neighbor and bon vivant” not “Poor, poor, pitiable Bob Peehole, the walking dead” or “Bob Peehole, guy with time on his hand.”

And please. If you have any suggestions for more advice, forward the answers to lovelyrecession AT gmail DOT com.

I thank you. Bob Peehole thanks you. And My Camel thanks you.

But anyway, it touches upon “rumspringa” — the next hit song for Ini Kamoze and the period of time the Amish spend away from their fellow Amish and in the arms, bars and brothels of the tainted rest-of-the-world.

You gotta wonder if some guy in one of those “Back in My Wild Days” discussions with the rest of the Amish guys, talks about his “bad” days — without realizing he’s incredibly lame when it comes to “wild days.”

It’s all, “You would not believe the amount of caffeine I had” and “I would use a telephone — and not even need to.”

Then, everyone else would chime in

“Yeah, I had a threesome.”

“Me, too.”

“Yup, me, too.”

“Yeah, this one time, I think a guy slipped into the pile. I’m not positive, but that was one hairy ass.”

And the first guy is like “Oh. Um …”

And now everybody’s embarrassed and trying to pretend the guy had some wild and crazy days and say things like, “Yeah, um, so … uh … was this, was it, the caffeine, was it in a, ah, soft drink?”

“Yeah.”

“So, um, coke or pepsi?” followed by a lot of forced laughter.

“Actually, it was root beer. I loved, loved root beer.”

And it is at this time you learn a good definition for the term, “pregnant pause.”

So, this gets me to thinking. Do the Amish have dorks? What is the “Doctor Who” equivalent in the Amish world? 19th Century must have had its version of dorks and nerds — a people pining for some totally bizarre future world or space-time that, really, makes no sense (at least, as we now understand the physical sciences).

A future-time in which barns build themselves!
… where horses talk!
… and, um, there are black Amish people!

That’s right, in Amish Sci-Fi, black people exist.

Think about it.

Of course, the really weird thing — and you may have trouble getting your head around this one — is that Amish Sci-Fi only exists in Amish Sci-Fi, meaning the only place you’re ever going to read about Amish Sci-Fi is inside Amish Sci-Fi. Literally making it the thing in itself.