Admit it; you've always wondered how to mix that perfect, permanently unemployed cocktail haven't you? How to make sure most potential future employers wouldn't touch you with a barge pole.
According to a survey of 300 hiring professionals conducted by Reppler, a social media monitoring service for managing online presence, a job candidate’s social network is thoroughly examined during the hiring process by 91 percent of employers and recruiters. ...
So what can job seekers learn from this? First, realize that the importance of a professional online image will help enhance your first impression when applying for a job. It cannot be stressed enough that even one picture, tweet, or exaggeration about your skills can deteriorate your personal brand.
Second, since Facebook is the number one most utilized social network (followed by Twitter), employers may want to inspect that your social skills and personality will match their corporate culture. If that were the case, you should use good behavior and judgment of your words and persona online as if you were working in a professional setting.
So for those trying this recipe out at home, remember the very best way to make yourself an employment pariah is as follows:
Wanted: Cheap, pliable, particle-board copy of what an executive used to be for junior-assistant management cannon fodder.
Applicant must be minimally-competent-but-not-scary-smart, gullible enough to work themselves to death for scraps and promises,
be willing to do unspeakably cruel things to others in ways that keep the boss' skirts clean, and not even realize they've been screwed when they finally find themselves kicked to the curb, used up, with two weeks pay and a hollow 401K.
Degree and five years experience a plus; more than that and you'd never put up with the crap we're going to put you through.
Older Jobseekers Face An Uphill Climb Laura Bassett Laura Bassett Tue Apr 27, 5:26 pm ET
Since Eamonn Coughlan, 57, was laid off from his job managing a Jaguar dealership over two years ago, he has sent out over 2,000 resumés but still hasn't landed a job. He is convinced that his age is to blame for his inability to get back into the workforce.
"I had one head-hunter tell me that I will never again find a full-time job," Coughlan said. "She was very pleasant about it. She said they're looking for someone 30 or 35 that they think will work for another 20 years. They look at you and think you'll work for another 7 or 8 years, and that's it. Depressing is hardly the word."
Coughlan, who has over 25 years of management experience, said he rarely gets called for an interview but when he does, he is immediately written off because of his age.
"One guy that was supposed to interview me saw me in the waiting area through the window of his office. Minutes later, his secretary came out and told me he needed to cancel the interview but didn't specify the reason. He must have been expecting someone a bit younger." ...
Meanwhile, in Totally Unrelated News...
All the Obama 20-Somethings
By ASHLEY PARKER
“This party,” Herbie Ziskend announced, “is in honor of John Quincy Adams.” The dirty-blond, blue-eyed 24-year-old, who once handled luggage for Barack Obama’s campaign and now works in the vice president’s office as a staff assistant, stood in the living room of a red-brick row house in Washington and flung his arms in the air as if to pay tribute to America’s sixth president. Then he paused, deflated: “But the police are here.”
Blue lights flashed through a window as Ziskend and a housemate, Jake Levine, went onto the porch to talk with the cops and promise to quiet things down. Levine, who is now 26, is a policy analyst in the energy-and-climate-change office of the White House. He and Ziskend, along with their other two housemates — Eric Lesser, 25, and Josh Lipsky, 24, who were then both White House staff assistants — were giving a party last July in their group house in Logan Circle, a neighborhood just east of Dupont Circle. People shifted nervously as they checked their BlackBerries and cellphones and talked about heading out. Ziskend reappeared. “Everybody, it’s O.K.,” he said, grinning. “Party is on.” ...
There is a Club. You are not in it.
And I would be willing to bet all the money in my PayPal account that at least some of the very volatile, very destructive "Take my county back!" rage abroad in the land has something to do with the day-to-day professional histories of a lot of capable, experienced, hard-working, middle-class Americans of a certain age who were forced to eat a lot of this kind of shit for a lot of years
on the promise that, in exchange for being humiliated a little more every day, they'd at least be able to salvage some kind of future for themselves and their families.
Americans for whom that last, fragile economic compact has been brutally and unilaterally revoked, and who are now staring straight into the very abyss they crawled -- smiling -- through so much dung for so long to avoid.
The ‘Labour Day’ begins with the United States labour movement in 19th century. The labour movement was started on May 1, 1886 in United States. Some labour organizations in the country called on strike because they wanted 8-hour working days. There was carnage in Haymarket Square in Chicago on May 4th. A rebel threw a bomb into that area. Nearly 12 people including a few police officers died. About 100 people were wounded.
The rebels did not find an urgent result. But they gained a successful result slowly. When 8-hour working days became a reality, it became a standard in many countries around the world. ‘Labour Day’ was therefore selected as a day for rallies, processions and speeches. ‘Labour Day’ is a most important holiday in United States, Russia and other socialist nations.
‘Labour Day’ is an event observed on May 1 in many countries around the globe. ‘Labour Day’ is now frequently a day for processions and parades. Nevertheless, in current years, the commemoration of this day has obtained a new roll, where the workers and trade organizations claim for safety and give the financial growth a humane countenance.
Break out the soapbox, crack a beer and sing, sing, sing!
Maggie's Farm. Written by Bob Dylan. Covered here by "Rage Against the Machine".
Do take a sip— don't stop until you get to the bottom of the glass.
I sure miss my old comrade— who the fuck writes like this anymore?
The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved
by Hunter S. Thompson
"I got off the plane around midnight and no one spoke as I crossed the dark runway to the terminal. The air was thick and hot, like wandering into a steam bath. Inside, people hugged each other and shook hands...big grins and a whoop here and there: "By God! You old bastard! Good to see you, boy! Damn good...and I mean it!"
In the air-conditioned lounge I met a man from Houston who said his name was something or other— "but just call me Jimbo"— and he was here to get it on. "I'm ready for anything, by God! Anything at all. Yeah, what are you drinkin?"
I ordered a Margarita with ice, but he wouldn't hear of it: "Naw, naw... what the hell kind of drink is that for Kentucky Derby time? What's wrong with you, boy?" He grinned and winked at the bartender. "Goddam, we gotta educate this boy. Get him some good whiskey..."
I shrugged. "Okay, a double Old Fitz on ice."
Jimbo nodded his approval.
"Look." He tapped me on the arm to make sure I was listening. "I know this Derby crowd, I come here every year, and let me tell you one thing I've learned--this is no town to be giving people the impression you're some kind of faggot. Not in public, anyway. Shit, they'll roll you in a minute, knock you in the head and take every goddam cent you have."
I thanked him and fitted a Marlboro into my cigarette holder. "Say," he said, "you look like you might be in the horse business...am I right?"
"No," I said. "I'm a photographer."
"Oh yeah?" He eyed my ragged leather bag with new interest. "Is that what you got there— cameras? Who you work for?"
"Playboy," I said.
He laughed. "Well, goddam! What are you gonna take pictures of—necked horses? Haw! I guess you'll be workin' pretty hard when they run the Kentucky Oaks. That's a race just for fillies." He was laughing wildly. "Hell yes! And they'll all be nekkid too!"
I shook my head and said nothing; just stared at him for a moment, trying to look grim. "There's going to be trouble," I said. "My assignment is to take pictures of the riot."
"What riot?"
I hesitated, twirling the ice in my drink. "At the track. On Derby Day. The Black Panthers." I stared at him again. "Don't you read the newspapers?" ...
The remainder of the Good Doctor's Derby Day goodness is to be found here.
