Does a Second Career Necessitate a First One?
If you had asked me at 24 whether I would be teaching preschool at 44, the answer would have been "I certainly hope not." Actually, it would have been "fuck, no." Such is the folly and faux-foresight of the young, as here I am, an almost-old man in a world of mostly-young women. Be careful what you don't wish for.
So twenty years of working among virtual children in the form of network executives has given way to spending my days with actual ones. I had had enough of going into every new gig with eyes wide open, free of guile and suspicion, only to find myself as the returning champion in another game of "Watch Your Back." ("With your Watchmaster, Jim Lange!")
Twenty years of guys who needed it taken "to the next level," but who rigged the staircase that went there with explosives. Network execs who were self-described "aesthetes" and came bearing offbeat music choices, ironic eyewear and hilarious tales of being the sole sporters of bowties in their high schools. Guys who had graduated summa cum buttmunch from the University of Mediocre with a degree in post-modern sycophancy.
So it gets to a point. The slowly-closing window of opportunity draws nearer the sash. Or you find yourself writing one too many lines like that. Or the business changes, as they all do. Once, in the early 90s, it was Big Sky country, as cable nets like Comedy Central and Nick at Nite ran like stallions and grazed in the fertile pastures of creative freedom, with nary a land baron in sight. But at century's turn, they broke those pretty horses, sapped them of their spirit, slapped a corporate name on 'em and penned 'em.
Thanks for joining us tonight on "Troweled-On Metaphor."
So you start to wonder what to do next. And not next like what the investment companies say it should be, collecting pre-Cambrian artifacts outside Morocco or building a teakwood sailboat to dock at your winery. Next like, mid-40s with a good 25 years of work ahead. Next like, a profession where ideas aren't subject to the whims of people who think...well, people who don't think.
And that has led me here.
So twenty years of working among virtual children in the form of network executives has given way to spending my days with actual ones. I had had enough of going into every new gig with eyes wide open, free of guile and suspicion, only to find myself as the returning champion in another game of "Watch Your Back." ("With your Watchmaster, Jim Lange!")
Twenty years of guys who needed it taken "to the next level," but who rigged the staircase that went there with explosives. Network execs who were self-described "aesthetes" and came bearing offbeat music choices, ironic eyewear and hilarious tales of being the sole sporters of bowties in their high schools. Guys who had graduated summa cum buttmunch from the University of Mediocre with a degree in post-modern sycophancy.
So it gets to a point. The slowly-closing window of opportunity draws nearer the sash. Or you find yourself writing one too many lines like that. Or the business changes, as they all do. Once, in the early 90s, it was Big Sky country, as cable nets like Comedy Central and Nick at Nite ran like stallions and grazed in the fertile pastures of creative freedom, with nary a land baron in sight. But at century's turn, they broke those pretty horses, sapped them of their spirit, slapped a corporate name on 'em and penned 'em.
Thanks for joining us tonight on "Troweled-On Metaphor."
So you start to wonder what to do next. And not next like what the investment companies say it should be, collecting pre-Cambrian artifacts outside Morocco or building a teakwood sailboat to dock at your winery. Next like, mid-40s with a good 25 years of work ahead. Next like, a profession where ideas aren't subject to the whims of people who think...well, people who don't think.
And that has led me here.
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