Nobody ever asks you if you're wearing pants: Job Hunt Frustrations, 2020

One of the big frustrations of job hunting in 2020: needing four different kinds of online meeting programs.  Yeah, four.  In the last few months, I've been offered interviews using:

• Zoom;
• Skype for Business;
• Microsoft Teams*; and
• Google Meets.

I don't find much difference between online interviews and in-person interviews.  Sure, eye contact is nice.  A better impression is a greater possibility.  But wow, it's so much easier online.  No travel, no parking, no uncomfortably waiting to be called in.  I'll bet the interviewers find it more comfortable, too.

Still, one must maintain one's professionalism.  I always wear a suit and tie, even though I'm sitting in my own kitchen or living room.  And yes, I said suit.  Jacket and matching pants, or at least khakis, if I'm wearing my blue jacket.  

You've seen the videos.  People who thought they could get away with boxers, but didn't.  I do enough stupid things, thank you very much.  I'm not risking that. 

And yet, I'm tempted.  It's so tempting.  Jeans, at least.  Just put on some jeans!  

But no, no, I want this job, and these people are professionals.  So I go what - in 2020 - feels like the extra mile, and I put on pants.  I even put on appropriate shoes and socks.  Just in case.

Is it so wrong of me to wish that, just once, somebody would ask me to prove it?

*My Microsoft Teams interview was changed to a phone interview a few days prior, so I've never actually used that one.  Almost, though.

The Adverbial Crutch

Does everybody know what an adverb is?  It's a word that describes a verb.  "He adverbly verbed the direct object," is the most common usage, although - as always, when it comes to English - it's more complicated than that.

Don't use adverbs, writers.  Don't ever use them.  Just don't ever use them.  That's the rule.

Wait, the what?  The rule?  

A lot of people will tell you: there are no "rules" to writing.  I suppose they're right.  Writing is art, sometimes; and craft, other times, so getting outside that comfort zone and trying things you've never seen anyone try before... that ought to be the rule.  Grammar be damned, and Oxford Comma forever!

And yet, writers love throwing around the rules, the most famous of which is: "show, don't tell."  Only slightly less well-known is: "don't use adverbs."

If you've written something, and you look and see you've used an adverb, cut that adverb immediately.  Brutally, coldly, viciously, heartlessly.  Cut.  That.  Adverb.

No adverbs!  An entire chapter of English grammar, banned from the English written word.  Adverbs are the boarded-up wing of the English mansion; the crusted-up ketchup bottle at the back of the English refrigerator.

And why would we banish adverbs from the written word?  Because Elmore Leonard and Stephen King both say so.  You may not have heard of Elmore Leonard, but you've seen some movies made out of his books.  Stephen King, you've heard of.

I believe the road to hell is paved with adverbs, and I will shout it from the rooftops.

That's what King says about adverbs. And Stephen King is such an enormously voluble writer - an excellent writer, and I really mean that - but so effortlessly (or so it seems) verbose.  He must pop off a thousand words just by walking past his typewriter.  He needs a briefcase to carry around his grocery list.  For King to swear off one entire category of word is like a compulsive eater cleaning out the whole bakery except for the cupcakes.  

Imagine how long his books would be if he hadn't sworn off adverbs.

There's no arguing that King's prose is excellent, though.  And Elmore Leonard (if you haven't read him, do so) is a master.  I, wanting to also be a great writer (even if you'll never hear of me), am inclined to follow their advice.

It's not as if there's no reason to it.  It's all part of that "show don't tell" rule I mentioned earlier.  They're not two separate rules: "no adverbs" is an offshoot of "show, don't tell."  Adverbs are by their very nature explanatory words.  

The coach chewed his gum furiously.

That seems pretty innocuous, doesn't it?  Is that "furiously" really hurting my prose?  

Maybe not.  But I think the point is: I shouldn't need the "furiously" (or, I think, that whole sentence) because my readers should already know the coach is angry, or stressed, or whatever's causing him to act that way, because I've painted that picture through action and dialog.  I shouldn't have to explain how he's doing things.  If I've done my job, the reader should already understand it.

And: that was me, explaining back to the professor what I know he wants to hear.

What's really behind the "no adverbs" rule?  I think it's this: writers tend to over-write.  Writing can almost always be improved with cuts.  Single out one section of the language for total banishment, and that gives you one whole section of the language to eliminate, easy peasy.  

And that leads to tighter prose, and might lead to even more cutting.  Hey, if I can cut this word that I thought I really needed, I suppose I can cut that word I think I really need, too.

See, it's not really the adverbs.  It's a crutch for writers who hate, hate, hate cutting their own prose.  Meaning: it's a crutch for writers.

Addendum: I was going to go back and count exactly how many adverbs I purposely slipped into this post, but honestly, I'm not completely clear on all the grammar rules.  I was also going to re-write this without the adverbs, just to compare, but that assumes somebody besides me will read it.  So.

Take the right-of-way!

Regular readers of this blog (he said, looking timidly into the mirror) will know that I seldom take on controversial or sensitive topics. Yet, there are times when even the most civilized, peaceful man feels the need to hoist the black flag, buckle up his pants, and hold forth.

Damn the consequences. I'm a little annoyed, and I can't hold it in anymore. Nobody seems to understand exactly how crosswalks work.

Yes, crosswalks. You heard me. I had a pet peeve triggered not long ago, and since I’m not eighty years old yet, I can’t just write another angry letter to the editor, wrinkled fist waving in the air.

A little background: I recently (and successfully) helped my fourth and youngest child learn how to drive. One incident from a trip to the store stuck with me: my son was behind the wheel, waiting to make a left turn. There was oncoming traffic, and also a pickup trying to make a left from the road we were turning onto. My son asked: should we let the truck go first? No, I said. You have the right of way. You go first.

See, there are two parts to the right-of-way, both equally important. There’s yielding the right-of-way, which we were doing for oncoming traffic, and which the pickup did for us; and there’s taking the right-of-way. When you have the right-of-way, it’s your responsibility to take that right-of-way. Otherwise, people don’t know what you’re doing. People don’t have certainty, and certainty becomes really important when we’re all driving thousand-plus pound five-figure-price-tag vehicles.

Then, much more recently: I was a pedestrian, waiting to cross what counts as a busy four-lane street in my home town. I’m waiting at a crosswalk, standing on the sidewalk.

Make note of that. Crosswalk. Sidewalk. They’re different, and that’s important.

So I’m waiting for the traffic to clear and, as sometimes happens, a vehicle stopped to let me cross. It was a dump truck – very large – driving in the third of four lanes. Lanes one and two were clear. Several other vehicles were now stopped behind the truck in lane three.

You can guess what happened next. Being a good Midwesterner, I couldn’t refuse the gesture. Waving him on would be both rude and confusing for everyone, and the first two lanes weren't going to stay clear forever. I began jogging across and… lo and behold, a car coming in the furthest lane – lane four – that I couldn’t see because of the vehicles stopped in lane three!

I’m not entirely sure that this last driver saw me. I think he did. Regardless, I made it across with only a slight increase in speed.

I wonder what the truck driver was thinking then.

Both drivers were in the wrong. First, the driver of the dump truck. You only stop for a pedestrian who’s in the crosswalk – not near the crosswalk, not waiting to enter the crosswalk. In the crosswalk. Here’s what Wisconsin law says:

…the operator of a vehicle shall yield the right-of-way to a pedestrian … that is crossing the highway within a marked or unmarked crosswalk.

I ellipsed through there a bit, but you get the point. “…that is crossing,” which I wasn’t (shakes old man fist).

Second, the driver of the last car, in lane four. Wisconsin law also says:

Whenever any vehicle is stopped at an intersection or crosswalk to permit a pedestrian… to cross the roadway, the operator of any other vehicle approaching from the rear may not overtake and pass the stopped vehicle.

This driver either didn’t know the law, or (more likely) didn’t put two and two together. I couldn’t see him – did he see me? Maybe he thought the truck was stopped to make a left turn.

So, really, this is about the truck driver. Hey, man, I appreciate the gesture. I acknowledge your politeness, and your wish to ease my passage from one side of Eighth Street to the other, and I thank you for it. But I wasn’t in the crosswalk. I wasn’t “crossing the highway.” I was on the sidewalk, waiting to cross the highway. You had the right-of-way, and the best thing you could have done was: take the right-of-way.

By stopping, you created uncertainty. Uncertainty for other drivers, who didn’t know what you were doing; uncertainty for me, who couldn’t know what all those other drivers were going to do.

Creating uncertainty is a great option if you’re trying to assert dominance, or win at poker, or win an Emmy for best new drama. On the road, certainty is better. Especially when I’m the only one on foot.

I'd really meant to do more beergarden blogging...

...which is to say, blogging about the barley and hops in my garden. Not blogging from a beergarden. Although, now that I've thought of it...

I shared a few pictures in previous posts, so some of these may be duplicating past effort. Here's my four rows of barley from May 15:


And here on May 21:


I obviously need to standardize my lighting somehow.

And here's the same garden over a month later, on July 12:

Yikes! Get a haircut, hippie!

So a couple things there: weed control has been a problem, especially directly to the left of the barley. I'll mulch that area better next time, and space my rows further apart. Maybe a good foot next time.

Also, that old phrase "knee-high by the Fourth of July" may not - hopefully does not - apply to home-grown barley, because it still isn't. Oh, it's growing. Maybe a foot tall. I could call it knee-high if my five-year-old nephew from Michigan comes to visit, but that doesn't seem likely. Maybe I could borrow a local kindergartener.

That won't make the barley any taller, but what the hell.

My plans remain solid. Whatever I get from these plants, I'll save a handful for future planting, and malt the rest for home brew. Which reminds me:

That was my sole remaining hops plant on June 27. It's quite a bit taller now.