An Englishman in New England

I admit it, I confess. I'm a grumpy ole git.

I'm a bit snobbishly fnar at this year's bumper crop of fresh-faced graduates. Almost everywhere I look, I see them hugging and kissing dear friends/soulmates/casual sexual partners goodbye over celebration drinks (I'm keeping an eye on my closet - there shall be no fornication there without my permission/involvement and videotaping).

No, I'm not jealous of the fact that they're still in college (for another 24 hours at least). I feel the way a war veteran who joined up in 1938, and spent his formative years bayonetting krauts for queen and country must have felt abbout the snobby lads fresh out of Eton, who joined up to 'serve' at the tail end of the ruckus, and immediately got promoted to lieutenant without a single shot fired. There, that's a perfectly crystal clear simile if ever I saw one.

Okay, scratch that last point, and allow me to explain. This time in '03 was hell for me. I was jobless, graduating, poor, I had the INS on my back, and was desperately in need of plans post diploma and handshake, all of which are hardly characteristics that would land my ugly mug on the cover of Forbes (especially the INS thing). Somehow, things weren't going according to plan.

But I persevered, and somehow, slowly, I managed to construct a life after college. Now before you get all stroppy, I'd be quick to point out that mine wasn't the only triumph-of-the-human-spirit story, but it was an experience that taught me a lot about making a life for yourself, and I doubt I'd have had the same fire under my feet to do something about it if the job market hadn't been the equivalent of a tattered bum's ass-rag (used).

Fast-forward to this year, and from a jobs perspective, things seem a bit better than they were, although far from they way they should be. McDonalds is paying its employees enough to afford the bus home now. Staples has upgraded the cafeteria food, and stopped serving meatloaf comprised of reconstituted pencil shavings and eraser rub-off. The companies with crap sales jobs that made up 99% of the positions available in my time no longer require you to be willing to sign a contract in blood, and have softened their stances to accept some kind of sputum, or perhaps a minor organ instead. Signing a contract in minor organ, now that's quite the mental picture.

All of which makes me leer at this year's grads like the aforementioned grumpy old bastard. They won't know the full extent of the black depths of despair, stress, and feelings of complete and utter incompetence and worthlessness that the bulk of the '01, '02 and '03 grads endured.

And I'm kinda glad about that because I don't think I'd wish the experience upon many people on my love/hate continuum. But God help the '04's if I hear any complaining, lest I break out in a rousing rendition of The Ornery Git Rant:

"Goddamn ungrateful kids! In my day, jobs were so scarce, I had to sell two kidneys just to make rent each month, and not all of them were mine!"