January 1995: I was about to begin my second semester at a community college in Troy, New York. My grades the fall semester were fairly decent, and I was looking forward to taking some classes outside of my comfort zone - namely, creative writing and biology. Biology because I was absolutely horrific with the sciences in high school. Whether or not I even bothered to try in high school is always up for debate, but I can tell you for a fact I did not try with biology because I hated it, and not due to typical teen malaise. Years prior to this class, I ventured on a field trip. One of the chaperones for this trip had a googly looking eye, and I kept making fun of it. Little did I know that she was behind me a few of those moments I pointed it out to others. She said nothing then, but likely digested every insult I uttered that trip.
Fast forward to my senior year of high school. AP Biology - this lady is now my teacher. How I managed to make it through her class without evisceration is beyond me, but it wasn't a good time at all.
My creative writing teacher was a fellow by the name of Joe Cardillo. Evidently he is Dr. Cardillo now, writing in the fields of health, psychology, and mind-body-spirit. But in 1995, he was just Mr. Cardillo, author of a few small novels, one of which appeared on our reading list. It was a good read, a more Upstate New York-y spin on The Catcher in the Rye. It was the first time I read fiction involving places near my hometown. Joe taught us to think more abstract with the creative process. To think outside the box a little. Unorthodox methods to find your happy place to create. I still try to employ some of those practices today.
January 2005: I had just started working for a company that remodeled drugstores. The job had very nice perks, such as travel expenses and flights to job sites all paid for by the company. I was interested in this kind of work because of my time working in retail, where I wanted a more behind the scenes role, instead of being on the depressing sales floor. And this position was definitely behind the scenes. More like 5AM rises to make it to the scenes by six. I met an entertaining array of personalities with this position, many of whom were my direct peers. There was one woman from Rhode Island who didn't have custody of either of her children, smoked like a chimney, and cussed like a sailor. Another one got shitfaced drunk every night, regardless if we had to be at the store by the crack of dawn. Another fellow was a hot-tempered womanizer, who sort of looked like Danno in the new Hawaii Five-0. A few more rounded out our group, a core of "assistant managers" who really weren't managing anything or anyone.
Our goal was to help facilitate the local merchandising team's eventual store transformation, shifting products and shelves and displays from one corporate way-we-want-it setup to another. And just like any job, since we were naturally always pressed for time, us assistant managers also had to become the merchandisers ourselves. That made for many long days and longer nights. We'd work on the project for nine days, fly home for four. Well, three really - Sunday was the travel day. While I loved the travel aspect, the work itself was very physically demanding. I began to dread the Saturday nights at home, constantly checking my email for the upcoming flight itinerary for the next morning.
Fast forward to my senior year of high school. AP Biology - this lady is now my teacher. How I managed to make it through her class without evisceration is beyond me, but it wasn't a good time at all.
My creative writing teacher was a fellow by the name of Joe Cardillo. Evidently he is Dr. Cardillo now, writing in the fields of health, psychology, and mind-body-spirit. But in 1995, he was just Mr. Cardillo, author of a few small novels, one of which appeared on our reading list. It was a good read, a more Upstate New York-y spin on The Catcher in the Rye. It was the first time I read fiction involving places near my hometown. Joe taught us to think more abstract with the creative process. To think outside the box a little. Unorthodox methods to find your happy place to create. I still try to employ some of those practices today.
January 2005: I had just started working for a company that remodeled drugstores. The job had very nice perks, such as travel expenses and flights to job sites all paid for by the company. I was interested in this kind of work because of my time working in retail, where I wanted a more behind the scenes role, instead of being on the depressing sales floor. And this position was definitely behind the scenes. More like 5AM rises to make it to the scenes by six. I met an entertaining array of personalities with this position, many of whom were my direct peers. There was one woman from Rhode Island who didn't have custody of either of her children, smoked like a chimney, and cussed like a sailor. Another one got shitfaced drunk every night, regardless if we had to be at the store by the crack of dawn. Another fellow was a hot-tempered womanizer, who sort of looked like Danno in the new Hawaii Five-0. A few more rounded out our group, a core of "assistant managers" who really weren't managing anything or anyone.
Our goal was to help facilitate the local merchandising team's eventual store transformation, shifting products and shelves and displays from one corporate way-we-want-it setup to another. And just like any job, since we were naturally always pressed for time, us assistant managers also had to become the merchandisers ourselves. That made for many long days and longer nights. We'd work on the project for nine days, fly home for four. Well, three really - Sunday was the travel day. While I loved the travel aspect, the work itself was very physically demanding. I began to dread the Saturday nights at home, constantly checking my email for the upcoming flight itinerary for the next morning.
January 2015: I am working through my third glass of chardonnay poured in a Stella Artois glass, while dipping french fries in blue cheese dressing.