.:: The StrongBrain Collective ::.

I've heard it said that life is a lot like baseball.

And I say that's the stupidest adage I have ever heard. But the list goes on, because apparently baseball is rife with little life lessons:

Sometimes life throws you a curve. You can't hit them all out of the park. When you make an error, you've got to dust yourself off and get back up on your feet. Well, you win some and you lose some.

Just like life, right?

Gimme a break. I say that life is more like a cell phone: When a call gets dropped, you just have to punch in that number and dial again. If you drop the phone, it may not work properly, so be careful. When your cell phone bill arrives, pay it and move on.

Equally powerful, yes? Life-changing affirmations, right?

Idiot cliches really make me upset. "Six of one, half dozen of the other" is the worst. "No shit," I say if I hear anyone say that. "In the future, just tell me 'it doesn't matter' or 'same fucking difference' or some equally simple explanation rather than spouting a supercilious claim about life in general. Okay?"

Anyway, sorry for the sidebar, back to baseball. I attended a Boston Red Sox game at Fenway Park recently and was subjected to nine innings of baseball cliches being continuously cascaded upon me by two men a row behind us. I wasn't planning on subjecting you to this nonsense, but if I have mental scars, then so will you.

Idiot #1: "Nomar missed that one."
Idiot #2: "Yeah, but he hustled, and a hustler is better than a non-hustler in my opinion. That's applicable to life, too!"
Idiot #1: "Hey, you're right!"

Idiot #1: "Pedro really got rocked on that pitch."
Idiot #2: "Yeah, well, you win some, you lose some. Just like life!"
Idiot #1: "Hey, you're right!"

Idiot #1: "Well, we won this round."
Idiot #2: "Yeah, but we play again tomorrow and you never know what tomorrow will bring."
Idiot #1: "Hey, just like life!"
Idiot #2: "You're right! High-five!"

*SLAP*

I'm serious. With a few minor changes for hilarious effect, the above is a true account of the nine innings of conversation between these two nimrods my sister and myself were forced to endure. I'm sure these two guys were curious as to why we were acting a bit odd during the game. Sure, we cheered when the Sox scored. And we got excited for beer and pizza. But, between innings, when the conversation was often at its most ridiculous, I can't help but wonder what they thought of me and my sister, each tilting a silent ear towards them and then erupting out in soaring laughter at the culmination of perhaps every sentence they vomited from their mouths.

It was just as amusing as the game was entertaining.

Man, that was funny. I will always make fun of those two overly aphoristic gentlemen. But the happy memory of that experience does not equal the embarrasment I am experiencing at this very moment. Because you know what I just realized during this most recent of my weekly epiphanies? Certain aspects of life are EXACTLY like baseball. Well, more specifically, Red Sox baseball.

So, let's examine shall we? The Red Sox haven't won a World Series since 1918, a span of eighty-six years. How funny! Ten minutes ago, in the midst of a very intense job search, I sent out my 86th resume of the month, emailed, faxed and snail-mailed! Seriously, I counted.

I have thus far received four out-right rejection notices, which just so happens to be the exact number of World Series the Sox have lost since 1918. I have received 15 "we're considering" notices and 67 no replies. And '67 is one of those years the Sox lost the World Series, although I can't remember that particular year since at that point my mother had not yet hit puberty.

My discouraging job search is akin to the anguish every Red Sox fan has felt for 86 years. You know how books like "Band of Brothers" and "The Greatest Generation" have emerged recently detailing the experiences of our World War II heroes before they die of old age and we lose their first-person memories forever? I think something like that needs to be done to actively track down and record every living person's testimony who remembers the last Red Sox World Series victory, if they still live. It would be a shame to lose that part of our nation's history, because apparently it will never happen again. Stupid Red Sox.

Just like apparently I will never get another job again. And the frustration I feel after I wake up every morning with no emails, no mail and no phone calls informing me that I am a qualified applicant they wish to hire immediately equals the tormented depression I willfully entered after the horrific conclusion to the 2003 Red Sox season. The pain is almost unbearable. I know anyone who reads this is going to have their own remedy to my situation, their own suggestions. What advice can you possibly provide? I've already tried everything reasonable: booze, pot, coke, smack, and crack. What else is there?

Well, in addition to increasing my use of illicit drugs, I've also begun lowering the standards of my search parameters. I had been focusing on editorial assistant positions, copywriting positions, or targeting local publishing houses or newspapers for writing or copy editing positions -- of which there are ostensibly zero -- since the creater of strongbrain.org angrily rebukes me every time I inquire as to the possiblity of being financially compensated for this ridiculous commentary of mine.

But now I am trying new, less idealistic search methods. The phrase "high school diploma or equivalent" has suddenly become okay for me, a graduate of Trinity College, a so-called "little Ivy". So has "no experience necessary". And "entry level applicants only". And "some heavy lifting required". And "must have valid driver's license". And "must be able to type 50 wpm".

I have crazy credentials. These employers have no idea of my limitless talent. In addition to the fluff that is my resume, do they know that I have an innate ability to immediately become aware of every 24-hour Mexican restaurant in a 50-mile radius? Trust me, that shit comes in handy.

Do they know that my pitiful, puppy dog expression has convinced every single airline that I've flown in the past five years that being 6 foot 8 inches tall is a handicap? Many times, I've been ushered onto the airplane before pregnant women, elderly in wheelchairs, and once some 8-year old kid travelling by herself. (Before you get upset with me, please understand that I need that window seat by the wing. I really do need that extra leg room or my back begins to spasm violently. Those pregnant women would totally understand!) This is a skill, right? Something that prospective employers would find valuable?

A pox on my ridiculous meticulous nature. Obviously, it is more important that I have the ability to rhyme those two words, right?

A pox on my ability to learn and quickly master any new position. What's more important than the fact that I can quote a Simpsons' saying for every possible life situation? Try me!

"What am I going to do about this pink eye?"

"Well, it's like the Simpsons episode when Bart wore his red hat to the box factory and then lost it. You'll lose it too!"

"But didn't he find it again later in the episode?"

"Yeah, so he did. But you'll probably get pink eye again someday, too. See, it all fits!"

What's more important than giving quality advice to friends in need? Surely that's a skill coworkers would truly appreciate, right?

A pox on my writing and editing ability. I am 6'8'' for Christ's sake! I can reach that ream of 8.5x11 paper on the top shelf!

A pox on my analytical abilities and uncanny skills at problem solving. My iPod has 1874 songs on it as I write this. I can listen to music for almost seven days straight through! And it's only half full! Crazy, right? Obviously, an employer is going to want to know what sorts of music I enjoy. I mean, it's a foregone conclusion that people who have seven Mozart symphonies, every Eminem album, and the Cure on the same iPod immediately get hired. Right?

Anyway, I think I have digressed at least fifteen times in this article. I'm just a little frustrated, but PLEASE don't let that convince you that I wouldn't make a good data enterer or courier or heavy lifter. I would be the best you have ever seen.

Sigh.

Eighty-six resumes. Eighty-six years of Red Sox futility. Perhaps the next resume is the resume. Just like this year is the year for the Red Sox. Yeah right, Pedro just got smoked for eight runs. Being a Red Sox fan is like being a job hunter. It sucks. Not a hope in hell.

Six of one, half dozen of the other, right?

Well, I must push on. Practice makes perfect. You can't win 'em all. If at first you don't succeed, try try again. Tomorrow is another day. Life is tough, and then you die. You can say that again. Life is tough, and then you die. Live and learn. No! try not, do or do not, there is no try.

Job hunting is like Red Sox baseball, a no win situation. But, I will continue to try, because winners never quit and quitters never win. Life is indeed like baseball.

Oh wait, I hate that ridiculous cliche. It's like cell phones. If at first you don't get reception, move to another spot and try, try your call again.

Ahhh, I like that one much better. I'm going to the beach, maybe I'll get reception there.