Now here’s a scary headline:
“Taking Early Retirement May Retire Memory, Too”
As if I didn’t have enough trouble justifying my retirement to Gilda, other family members and friends, the NY Times had to send up caution signals for the world to see (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/12/science/12retire.html?_r=1&src=me&ref=general).
I could simply ignore the issue. Or maybe joke my way through it. But let’s be serious, for a moment. I am open to working again. Just not the typical 9-to-5-or-longer job I had for nearly four decades. I’m especially not interested in working “for” somebody. That’s one reason I didn’t go to work for my father way back when. I don’t respond too well to authority. I’m more the collaborative type. The big picture type. I can sweat the details if necessary, but I prefer the creative process and working with a team to implement it. That strategy worked before. No reason to think it wouldn’t work again.
Speaking of work, had a meeting today with an old colleague. Perhaps we’ll collaborate on some new projects he is launching. Except on rare occasions, I wouldn’t have to wear socks...
Party Time: I consider myself to be a relatively astute political consumer. I generally know the significant issues and the major candidates from each party running in an election. What galls me this election, and to be honest, for several years now, is the reluctance of candidates from both major parties to identify their campaign messages with their respective party affiliations.
Lawn signs, mailers, radio spots and TV ads—all are in patriotic red, white and blue, with no clue as to party allegiance. Seemingly from dog catcher all the way up to president of the United States, no candidate has the consideration to inform. Or perhaps they are just too scared to openly align themselves, lest voters tar them with contempt they have for the national, regional or local party.
Time to Man Up: Perhaps it’s because I live in an area where Tea Party meshugaas (that’s Yiddish for craziness) is not so prevalent, but I am wondering how it is that presumably sane Democratic candidates for office have not exposed Tea Party nominees and their regular Republican brethren for the reactionary suits they are? Are Democrats not running ads detailing the political agenda of the right wing?
The other day, CBS News reported the GOP candidate in West Virginia running in a special election for the U.S. Senate seat formerly held by Robert Byrd wants to abolish the minimum wage. How could any non-salaried worker in West Virginia be tempted to vote for him? Is the Democrat candidate not blasting that message home every day?
Tea Party/GOP candidates also want to abolish Medicare, dismantle Social Security; they rail against the government bailout of the automobile and banking industries. It is easy to challenge programs that cost billions of dollars. Democrats have been ineffectual in explaining the benefits of these programs. They have but 18 more days to man up and defend their record.
Last Sunday I saw a profile of Stieg Larsson, the Swedish author of the Millennium Trilogy, the books and movies that have enthralled the public (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played with Fire, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest). Larsson died before his books became must-reads.
In the middle of the TV piece, I hit the pause button to note to Gilda with more than a degree of irony that Stieg Larsson’s after-death fame paralleled that of Jonathan Larson, the creator of Rent, the rock musical. Jonathan Larson died the night before Rent opened off-Broadway. It shortly thereafter moved to Broadway where it played for 12 years.
I’m not the first person to recognize the similarity of their last names and their deaths before success. But in case you weren’t aware of it, there it is.
Coincidence? Hardly: I can’t remember a time in our near-38 years of marriage when we didn’t have half a dozen or so 8 oz. Pyrex monkey dishes. Gilda broke one a couple of weeks ago, so she asked me to look for some more in the store. I found a set of four slightly smaller dishes, not Pyrex, but more or less the same, with the added benefit of removable plastic tops.
End of story? Not really, given my belief that inanimate objects have a mind of their own. They always know when you have a little extra cash on hand, or when you’re going to replace them. They send messages. They seek revenge (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/10/iminginanimate-messaging.html).
So I wasn’t too surprised earlier this week when another Pyrex dish shattered as I was trying to balance it atop papers I was carrying in from the TV room.
Showing posts with label Rent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rent. Show all posts
Friday, October 15, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
One year, or as the song “Seasons of Love,” from Rent put it, “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes...”
A year ago, as publisher and group editorial director of Chain Store Age, I ran a mid-to-high-single-digit million-dollar enterprise encompassing a monthly magazine, a Web site, e-newsletters and several conferences. Today, I run errands. A year ago I supervised two dozen associates. Today, I plan activities for one.
My last commute to the office at 425 Park Avenue took place a year ago today, June 18, 2009. It was a trip I made for more than 32 years, driving to the White Plains Transcenter parking garage, riding Metro North into Grand Central Terminal, walking up Park Avenue to 55th Street, taking the elevator to the 6th floor.
Forced retirement, even if welcomed, as it was by me, has confronted many of my demographic cohorts. The number of unemployed age 55 and over increased 331% between January 2000 and December 2009, going from 490,000 to 2,114,000, according to AARP. To paraphrase a lyric from the song “If I Were a Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof, “It’s no great honor being a statistic.”
Yet, please don’t read this and wonder if I am depressed. I am not. I have no regrets about what happened. The economy tanked. Publishing tanked. Our area of coverage—retailing, specifically capital spending by retailers—tanked. We made cutbacks, within my group and within the whole company. They weren’t enough. The role of any manager is to prepare the next generation of management. I did my job well. Two associates were ready to take on my responsibilities. Sure, I would have liked to continue, but the prudent corporate move was to reduce overhead. I was treated fairly.
I’m often asked if I’d like to work full-time again. No, not really. I’ve paid my dues. Publishing is an especially brutal business these days. Not that it ever was a 9 to 5 job, but the Internet has made it even more of a round-the-clock profession. I do miss the recognition. Last week I participated in a retail industry panel discussion and was humbled to hear the other panelist describe how he followed my commentary over the years. For three decades I was the voice of Chain Store Age. Nothing, nothing was published without my seal of approval. But Chain Store Age was not mine to hand down to my family. It was my job, not my equity. In return for value received, I produced value. Call it rationalization, if you will, but I’ve come to the belief that at some point one has to say, “I have enough. Enough to do what I want to do. Enough to live the rest of my life in comfort. Enough to hopefully leave something to my children.” Each person will determine their level of “enough.” Hopefully, I’ve calculated correctly.
I enjoy most days. That’s no different than when I was working. Occasionally I do wish Gilda or some of my friends were already retired so we could have play dates. But even when I was employed my closest work-friends already had left the company. For most of my working life I ate lunch in restaurants with one or more of them. During the last few years I ate too many meals at my desk. Few things were as lonely as eating lunch by oneself. For some reason, it’s not as lonely in retirement.
In case you’re wondering, I keep fairly busy. I don’t sleep late. I usually get up within 30 minutes of Gilda’s departure for work sometime between 7 and 7:30. I rarely nap during the day. I don’t watch much television—usually a DVR’ed tape of the prior night’s Daily Show and maybe The Colbert Report during lunch, and perhaps an old movie. I write several hours most days (these blogs don’t show up mysteriously, you know). I do a little consulting work for a few companies. I exercise, mostly walking in the neighborhood. I run errands, do the shopping midweek to avoid weekend crowds. Once a week I deliver meals to homebound seniors. I don’t nosh—I weigh a few pounds less than a year ago. I play sous-chef for Gilda, prepping salad and other foods for her return from work—as I might have previously written, during our marriage we have divided the chores thusly: Gilda cooks (really well), we both eat (sumptuously), I clean. I am content.
I actually have one regret. I had hoped to read a book a week in retirement. Not even close. I won’t embarrass myself by detailing my paltry output, or should that be input? Whatever.
A year ago, as publisher and group editorial director of Chain Store Age, I ran a mid-to-high-single-digit million-dollar enterprise encompassing a monthly magazine, a Web site, e-newsletters and several conferences. Today, I run errands. A year ago I supervised two dozen associates. Today, I plan activities for one.
My last commute to the office at 425 Park Avenue took place a year ago today, June 18, 2009. It was a trip I made for more than 32 years, driving to the White Plains Transcenter parking garage, riding Metro North into Grand Central Terminal, walking up Park Avenue to 55th Street, taking the elevator to the 6th floor.
Forced retirement, even if welcomed, as it was by me, has confronted many of my demographic cohorts. The number of unemployed age 55 and over increased 331% between January 2000 and December 2009, going from 490,000 to 2,114,000, according to AARP. To paraphrase a lyric from the song “If I Were a Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof, “It’s no great honor being a statistic.”
Yet, please don’t read this and wonder if I am depressed. I am not. I have no regrets about what happened. The economy tanked. Publishing tanked. Our area of coverage—retailing, specifically capital spending by retailers—tanked. We made cutbacks, within my group and within the whole company. They weren’t enough. The role of any manager is to prepare the next generation of management. I did my job well. Two associates were ready to take on my responsibilities. Sure, I would have liked to continue, but the prudent corporate move was to reduce overhead. I was treated fairly.
I’m often asked if I’d like to work full-time again. No, not really. I’ve paid my dues. Publishing is an especially brutal business these days. Not that it ever was a 9 to 5 job, but the Internet has made it even more of a round-the-clock profession. I do miss the recognition. Last week I participated in a retail industry panel discussion and was humbled to hear the other panelist describe how he followed my commentary over the years. For three decades I was the voice of Chain Store Age. Nothing, nothing was published without my seal of approval. But Chain Store Age was not mine to hand down to my family. It was my job, not my equity. In return for value received, I produced value. Call it rationalization, if you will, but I’ve come to the belief that at some point one has to say, “I have enough. Enough to do what I want to do. Enough to live the rest of my life in comfort. Enough to hopefully leave something to my children.” Each person will determine their level of “enough.” Hopefully, I’ve calculated correctly.
I enjoy most days. That’s no different than when I was working. Occasionally I do wish Gilda or some of my friends were already retired so we could have play dates. But even when I was employed my closest work-friends already had left the company. For most of my working life I ate lunch in restaurants with one or more of them. During the last few years I ate too many meals at my desk. Few things were as lonely as eating lunch by oneself. For some reason, it’s not as lonely in retirement.
In case you’re wondering, I keep fairly busy. I don’t sleep late. I usually get up within 30 minutes of Gilda’s departure for work sometime between 7 and 7:30. I rarely nap during the day. I don’t watch much television—usually a DVR’ed tape of the prior night’s Daily Show and maybe The Colbert Report during lunch, and perhaps an old movie. I write several hours most days (these blogs don’t show up mysteriously, you know). I do a little consulting work for a few companies. I exercise, mostly walking in the neighborhood. I run errands, do the shopping midweek to avoid weekend crowds. Once a week I deliver meals to homebound seniors. I don’t nosh—I weigh a few pounds less than a year ago. I play sous-chef for Gilda, prepping salad and other foods for her return from work—as I might have previously written, during our marriage we have divided the chores thusly: Gilda cooks (really well), we both eat (sumptuously), I clean. I am content.
I actually have one regret. I had hoped to read a book a week in retirement. Not even close. I won’t embarrass myself by detailing my paltry output, or should that be input? Whatever.
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