Pesky Interview Execution

Tis the season to apply and hire. FA LA LA LA LA, LA LA LA LA

Seems in every facet of life - friends, family, career - people are hiring or applying for new positions. In light of this recent trend, I've decided to lend pearls of wisdom to the wayward, would-be worker.

As the late Louis Pasteur once said, "Luck favors the prepared," so take a page from the Boy Scout handbook and get your shit together. First, construct a resume. It is important that a resume have content applicable to the job posting - chances of landing a job at Barnes & Noble will not be improved by listing that exotic pole dancing class you took.

Standard font. One page. White paper. Bring a copy for yourself and for each interviewer.

Those well versed in the art of interview execution are keenly aware of minuscule details - they will notice the bags under your eyes and the bourbon on your breath. Show up to the interview well rested and preferably not after a night of binge drinking.

Dress appropriately. Suit up!

Once at the interview, be bold. Make eye contact and give a firm handshake. Eye contact is a sign of confidence, and a firm handshake is the sign of virility. Lack of eye contact is a sign of pussyfoot, and a loose handshake is like erectile dysfunction of the arm.

Interviewers will ask for the following:

• Three strengths
• Three weaknesses
• Example of a mistake made
• Self characterization by fictional friends

In responding to these questions, it is important to lie. Maximum bench press is not an applicable strength. Burning sensation when urinating is not an appropriate weakness. The first born is not a relevant mistake. Chronic masturbator is not a flattering self characterization. Lie.

Name drop - you're a nobody, but you know a somebody.

Keep anecdotal stories short and be mindful of your audience - it might be best to forgo the late night narratives, college chronicles, or sexual subjugations until after the three month probationary period.

Don't brag about your jazz flute.

Recognize the end of the interview. The interviewer may provide time for you to ask questions. Politely ask something trivial, thank them for their time, and get the fuck out. Lingering applicants are like pesky strippers - they mean well, but you just don't want to pay them.

Heed the advice.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Ideal Mate (Part Deux)

Preface:

For those unaware, Blogger crashed back in the middle of May, taking with it roughly thirty hours of posts and comments. Sadly, The Ideal Mate entry originally posted back on 5/11/11 was a casualty. For this reason I'm reposting. Thanks to David for providing the backup. Please enjoy.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

---

At age seventeen, I was tasked by Ms. Murray, our high school health teacher, with the Ideal Mate project. The assignment was to design the person you would pair off with by using words and images to describe him/her.

Ideal Mate made Ms. Murray a target - a young, blond-haired, blue-eyed, ex-cheerleader whose eligibility was well know (she was saving herself for Joey Harrington). Her mugshot from the year book was often herald as the ideal mate by many male students. These presentations were accompanied by humor and much laughter, but were likely admissions of a teacher crush. If Ms. Murray was spared, and the teenage boy's ideal mate was not her, it was often some model cut from the Sports Illustrated Swim Suit edition.

Mine was different.

While I don't remember the exact words used to describe my ideal mate, the image was quite unforgettable...

A female Leonardo.

Leo was always my favorite - decided at the age of five because he was the leader and because he had the most effective weapons. Fact: double katanas > bo staff > sais > nunchucks.

Whether Ms. Murray was excited to see a male student pick someone other than her or a super model or she just felt embarrassed for me, she held the female Leo as an example for years following my departure from her class and high school.

Now, roughly eight years later, I've decided to revisit the project. This redux is likely related to my SO challenged status. Ladies, you are on notice.

In the interest of brevity, I've provided details on the most important aspects of the ideal mate in bullet format:

• Humor: if you don't find Hyperbole and a Half funny, you are not an ideal mate.
• Sushi: I eat it off naked models.
• Blazers: there's 82 regular games a season and I will be watching all of them with or without you. Note they got their own bubble away from sports...it's that important.
• Crackers: I like them.
• Bud Light: when I'm feeling thrifty, I drink Bud Light because it's sterile and I like the taste.
• String Cheese: I buy the industrial Costco pallets and live off them for months.

So, ladies, if this sounds like a good time...you know what? Screw it. Ms. Murray, if you're
reading this, wanna grab a beer sometime?

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Gaudy Bar Gewgaw

"Hiiiiiiiiiii! Vanessa and I are here tonight promoting [insert drink here] and if you buy three you'll get this [insert crap here]!"

We've all been approached by them. It's awkward. No one likes it.

Yet beverage companies regularly turn to female promoters, or libation forcing floozies, to sell their product and hock junk. Cheesy trinkets get thrown around for the price of purchasing a certain beer or tasting a nasty liquor concoction. More often than not these knickknacks are tacky clothing or accessories that ultimately end up in the Goodwill pile.

Inevitably, if you frequent bars as I do, you will be approached by these ladies of the trivial. Most recently I acquired these rockin' sunglasses from one such encounter...

The cost was the mere purchase of some root beer flavored vodka drink. Thanks, Smirnoff. I like to leave the glasses as a coffee table piece - provides the illusion that women frequent my man cave.

The best piece of superfluous garbage ever bestowed was filched by yours truly. While that last sentence reeked of sarcasm, it was, in fact, sincere. Two promoters (read prostitutes) were navigating the crowded bar and pushing multiple beverages - one of which happened to be Dewar's 12 (scotch whiskey). The promoters, after reaching their two hour quota, left behind their treasure trove of souvenirs for vultures to pillage. My reward was this handy golf shoe bag...

Justification on keeping the bag around comes from one simple fact: it isn't uglier than sin.

Now...the inspiration for this post was not merely to showcase frivolous items in my closet. Instead the post is to call out the muse: the sassy trash that walked into the gym wearing this...

The Rockstar trucker hat was accompanied by the cool-girl gait and thick eyeliner - all contributing to make this individual as klassy as Ke$ha.

These gaudy gewgaws should never make it in to your regular wardrobe cycle as they did with this girl. Wearing these items is legitimate only during the stupor evening on which they were acquired or when attending the inevitable white trash party.

Rember: you will be approached; it will be awkward; you will not like it. Bar flies are just doomed to encounter promoters; however, if you sample their wares and wear their samples, do so responsibly.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Art of Man Camp

Good weather is upon us, and with it comes the opportunity to camp. Our team is embarking on the first camping trip of the season, so I've provided some guidance on the essentials of true man camping. The art of man camping has been lost with such distractions as preparation, cooking, and vanity.

It's time to grow a pair. Pack your bags and come with me. You're invited to man camp.

Preparation is for Boy Scouts. No need to set the tent up prior to leaving. A missing tent pole is simply an opportunity to sleep in your original, Picasso-esque, creation. The lopsidedness gives the tent character. In situations where all tent poles are MIA, simply sling the tent carcass between two cars and sleep underneath it. Better yet, forgo the tent...sleep in the damn cars.

Nutrition is important when man camping - strenuous activities such as building fires, drinking beer, and sharpening sticks into weapon-like objects takes a lot of sustenance. To ensure there is ample time to complete these camping chores, cooking must fall by the wayside. The menu calls for trail mix, pepperoni sticks, and Funyuns. The cured meat and onion puffs will be devoured, and everyone will pitch in picking out the M&M's from the shitty trail mix. Because they may be utilized for breakfast and as a dessert, Cocoa Puffs may make an appearance on the man camp menu - they are delicious.

Man camp is BYOB. Pack enough beer to last you a month because you'll ultimately finish it by the end of the weekend. Truck in the shitty stuff to share, but also schlep a small selection of good beer to use as currency. Don't want to set up the tent? No problem. Pay your buddy a micro brew to do it for you. Remember: there's no such thing as too much - leftovers are a desired problem. There's nothing worse than a dry campsite...except maybe a dry wedding.

Keep in mind every article of clothing you bring will smell like smoke and BO by the end of the trip. Even the shit you don't wear - the stuff still in your bag - will smell like smoke and BO. Pack accordingly. Showers are an unavailable luxury, so there really is no need to bring a clean change of clothing. Gone for two days? One pair of underwear. Gone for three days? One pair of underwear. Gone for four days? One pair of underwear! So on and so forth. For those prissy campers concerned about smelling nice - take a couple pine cones and rub them in your armpits, on your feet, and around your genitalia.

Man camping is a wonderful experience and a chance to live it up with your closest friends. Side effects of man camp will include crushing hangovers, abdominal cramping, massive bloating, and severe constipation, but the memories will last a life time!

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Bloody Contributions

When people find out I donate blood, they generally ask, "You donate blood?" which is quickly followed by, "They let you donate blood?!"

It's true - the Portland Red Cross loves to suck my fluids.

Recently, I've noticed that the Red Cross could use some help in their marketing department. They always need more donors, but their trite reasons to donate fall flat on the masses. Free cookies and juice just aren't cutting it anymore.

The following is a list of reasons I donate, and you should too:

The Nursing Staff.
They're young. They're attractive. They're nurses. Hitting on the hemoglobin hotties helps pass the time. Most are female, but I don't discriminate. And if the nurse has a ring on, as most nurses do, I try harder. In order to donate, donors must answer some personal questions. Very similar to speed dating. For example, when the nurse asks, "Have you ever had sex for money?" I casually respond with, "Oh you wouldn't have to pay me." Fifty percent of the time it works every time.

The Exercise Excuse.
Believe me, physical exertion becomes extremely difficult post donation. A short run, climbing the stairs, a rousing game of just-the-tip - all become painstaking feats resulting in cramps and exhaustion. Full recovery time can take a couple weeks, so this provides an acceptable excuse to avoid activity. So sit on the couch, take the elevator, and push that frisky SO off of you.

The Drunk Donor.
The less blood circulating your arteries, the easier it is to get intoxicated. It's simple physics. Be sure to drink water prior to donating, but as soon as you leave that donor's chair, head straight to the local public house and order the highest alcohol contented brew possible. You're gonna be one cheap date tonight.

The Donor Deduction.
Blood donations are tax deductible. Because I donate red blood cells, I cannot sell my plasma. Income from plasma can be as high as $300 per month, multiply that by twelve months, and you're missing out on $3,600 annually. Turbo Tax won't prompt you for this deduction - clearly a simple programming oversight by Intuit.

To learn more about donating blood or to schedule an appointment, visit the Red Cross on the web: http://www.redcrossblood.org/

Follow the Portland Red Cross on Twitter: @RedCrossPDX

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Anecdotal Excuses

Oddly enough, I have nothing for you this week. However, I have produced some explanations regarding the absence of content for the week. Excuses are like assholes: everyone's got them, and they stink.

Here now, for your viewing pleasure, please consider the following assholes excuses...

[Excuse Number One: The Ghostwriter's Dog]

Gupo, an Ecuadorian native with an affinity for wellingtons, ghostwrites for this blog.  He has a dark, smooth complexion, hazel eyes and jet black hair.  Contributors of ShavedGolf are paid handsomely - fifty cents American for every page (single-spaced, 10 pt font, Times New Roman).  Gupo excels.  He has a strong command of the English language and a vibrant future in writing.

Gupo has a dog.  We chose him together at the local animal shelter.  Black and tan fur and a mutt in every sense.  After a very logical argument, Gupo and I settled on a name for the mutt - Syllogism.

Ill tempered with a mean disposition towards Americans.  Once, on a brief visit, Syllogism laid a turd in one shoe and puked in the other - my Doc Martins have never smelled the same.  Perhaps it is Syllogism's bigotry that led him to devour some of Gupo's manuscript for ShavedGolf StoryTime.

Unfortunately, for this reason, I have nothing for you this week.

[Excuse Number Two: The SWG Strikes Back]

The definition of "screen" has become very loose over the years - the word now covers all luminescent projections of entertainment.  Sadly, this blog is a victim.  The Screen Writers Guild demanded that I cease and desist my blogging or face dire consequences - solitary confinement with piped in reruns of Mad About You.

My days are now spent picketing local movie houses, and not only am I on strike from writing but from food as well.  A hunger strike until the SWG gets what it deserves: better pay, more control over content, and a submarine fortress...Aquaman style.

Unfortunately, for this reason, I have nothing for you this week.

[Excuse Number Three: Smart Phone Carpal Tunnel]

Carpal tunnel from furious games of Words with Friends has resulted in a smart phone ban by my primary care physician and seven specialists.  My weekly wordsmithing allotment was totally consumed by the game and my friendships began to suffer.  Sleepless nights were common and I began drinking heavily. Much of my days were spent perusing thesauruses and dictionaries for the perfect letter combination.

The stress of games with all consonances or all vowels finally caught up to me.  Police escorted me to a detox cell at the local precinct for allegedly rolling naked in a pile of books in a Barnes & Noble while simultaneously attempting to roll doobies out of the pages of Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States.

In addition to the WwF breakdown, the smart phone's auto correct had become the bane of my four-letter word existence.  Expletives were constantly being altered: fuck, shit, piss would become duck, shot, loss.  Blog content severely suffered.

Unfortunately, for this reason, I have nothing for you this week.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Accidental Walking Stranger Stalking

There are people in this world with terrible spatial awareness.  They lack peripheral vision.  They are easily distracted.  They seem unconscious to the world.  And somehow, as a pedestrian, I constantly find these people milling about Portland.

Encounters with these day-walking, daydreamers normally ensue as follows: the oblivious one will be roughly a block ahead.  I'll continue walking at my normal click because this Helen Keller of the sidewalk hasn't been identified as such by yours truly.

Now, I'm no Olympic Ecuadorian speed walker.  No, my gait is not that of Jefferson Perez, but I generally walk with purpose.  My accidental stalking victims seem to be on a nonchalant stroll to nowhere.  The difference between us is one of intent - my feet are being used as a mode of transportation, but the vic (as they say on CSI) is out to enjoy themselves.  Out for a merry walk to exercise and daydream.

For some reason the snail finds it necessary to daydream down the center of the sidewalk, thus making any attempt to pass uncomfortable for both parties.  Comparable to camping in the fast lane of I5 while simultaneously star gazing out your sun roof.

Suddenly I realize that I'm too close.  I've caught up.  And worse yet, they haven't noticed my presence.  By the time I'm close enough to recognize I'm slightly stalking this person, it's too late.

Now I'm committed.

To avoid the awkward moment when the slow-walker realizes they're being followed at close range, the stalking must continue.  The stalking becomes premeditated and strategic.  I'm treading ever softer so my footsteps don't give me away. My breathing is calm and controlled.  Hands into my pockets so my clothes don't rustle and coinage doesn't jingle.  I turn my cell phone to silent.

The thinking here is that one of two things will happen prior to them becoming aware: either, A), I reach my destination and no longer have to follow, or B), the stalked turns in another direction.  However, as I continue to close the distance and neither of these two things have happened, I panic, thinking, "How in the hell can I let this moron know I'm behind them without startling the poor ignoramous?!"

Strategies to alert such a person include, but are not limited to:

• Slight cough - not too loud, not to soft, just enough to bring them out of their trance.
• Clearing of the throat - the only danger here...they might then expect you to say something.
• Dragging of the feet - a little scuff on your Pumas might help signify your presence.
• Produce keys from pocket and jingle like a bell - recently tried this method...while slightly unorthodox, it did the trick.

But you know what...screw 'em.  They're hogging the pedestrian thoroughfare.  There's no reason for me to feel socially awkward.  So confidently, boldly, eloquently, I gently clear my throat and say, in the snottiest, pompous, and most standoffish way possible, "Exxxxcuuuuuse me."

The shocked space cadet reacts with disbelief that some creeper is halfway up their pant leg attempting to pass them during their state of mental vacay.

Chest up, nose in the air, I arrogantly parade by the absent minded pedestrian - another stranger successfully stalked in the Rose City.

xoxo,

ShavedGolf