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July
2003 |
Work.
I
sense we are entering approximately year three of relentless news
stories detailing the deeply toilet state of the American job
market, as I sit here with yet another news magazine story about
degreed and experienced people spending sixteen hour days on job
fairs, resumes, networking, and the other desperate, scattershot
methods Americans use to secure paid employment, to utterly no
avail.
Perhaps
if most people would quit waving their gosh damned flags and incorrectly
responding to national poll questions regarding American motives
for war in Iraq for a minute and contemplate this situation, they'd
agree that the U.S.A. is in rather sorry shape these days.
It's
interesting to contemplate our relationship to work in this country,
and its affect on their lives (in my case, attaching to it like
a mighty lamprey and sucking out most energy, creativity, and
time with the force of an industrial shop-vac). Articles like
this one can help to gradually clue in those of us who are
not students of American labor history to how, in fact, we ended
up in this current state of affairs, working ourselves to death,
or scared to death to lose our abilities to work ourselves to
death, depending on the situation fate or circumstance has handed
you.
What
do you know, the tail end of the evening has arrived once again,
with tiny dog too drained of a clue to draw the current screed
to a close. Accept it peops. It's the way of tiny dog.
Please
allow the
following selection from the Quirkyworks song blog to end
things on a thematically appropriate note.
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