The Alpha Male’s Guide to Unemployment
I am an Alpha Male.
I can drink beer, play softball and chase women. I know the difference between a Camaro and a Trans-Am. I have a collection of pit-stained T-shirts and can recite the opening to the “A-Team.” I’m so confident of my machismo I don’t correlate my salary with the size of my penis. I’m an Alpha Male, y’all — can you smell the musk?
Still that doesn’t mean my job isn’t vital to me. As a matter of fact it’s as much a part of me as my aforementioned Johnson (actually he’s called “Leroy” or “The Hammer”). And, again, I’m not talking about that regular paycheck and the amount of digits (or lack thereof) printed upon it. It goes way deeper than that. My job is who I am. It defines me and my place in the world and, perhaps more importantly, the Alpha Male Kingdom.
Yes, we all say what we do at work is what we do at work and that we’re different people away from the office, construction site, garage, etc. Every Joe Lunchpail insists work is what we do, not who we are. Loverboy, those musical virtuosos of the 1980s, even penned a ballad preaching the Everyman’s desire to merely work for the weekend.
The truth, however, is that’s all complete bullshit.
By nature all men most definitely are defined by their jobs. It’s in our DNA and might as well be stamped on our birth certificates. This is especially true for the Alpha Male.
Since the dawn of time the most masculine men were hunters who kicked ass and killed wildebeests or some shit. The man who swung the biggest club was the equivalent of a CEO or Tom Brady: All the cavewomen wanted to be with him (and thus fucking his brains out), while the other men wanted to be him (and that usually meant knocking his fucking brains out). And those ubercavemen took pride in their position in the prehistoric hierarchy. This continued as centuries passed and is evident even today. Think about it: Chuck Norris is probably too old to be Walker, Texas Ranger, but who’s gonna kick his ass to take over? He’s Walker for life.
It doesn’t only apply to the upper echelon, though. The manliest of men have taken pride in their craft for as long as we’ve walked upright.
The guy driving the bus? He’s a success if he makes all the stops and does so relatively on time. That man collecting tickets at Yankee Stadium? You can’t get in without him working the gate. And just think about the sense of power your local DMV employee feels. He’s king shit because your entire day is in his hands. You get the point.
That’s why it can be a blow to even the most macho of men when unemployment rears its revolting head.
Sometimes it’s nothing more than a glancing shot because you can see it coming, especially if you’re the office jerkoff who’s managed to piss off everybody from the receptionist to the person who fills up the water coolers. No one really cries when the office jerkoff — or the “OJ” — is handed his walking papers. It frees up another parking spot as well as an extra piece of cake when human resources throws those ridiculous birthday parties.
And it ends the relentless Monday morning stories (actually his Monday morning lies) about his killer weekend. Yes, clown, we all know you went jet skiing on Saturday. He may have been an Alpha Male, but he’s also a jerkoff. Those traits cancel each other out, thus making him merely a tool.
It’s a dissimilar story, however, when it’s happened to the innocent Alpha Male — especially when the engine powering unemployment is the dreaded company cutback. The news is piercing and blunt, painful and numbing.
The mind races, first about whether or not it’s because some douchebag IT dude discovered the hacked photos of a nude Jennifer Lawrence on your harddrive (thank God you deleted the Selena Gomez pics). Then the search for a reason vanishes when the reality of your financial situation smacks you like Rebel Wilson fighting for the last Reese’s Cup.
You feel only slightly better when the stammering HR lady seated across from you smiles. First instincts are to wonder what the hell is she so happy about, then you consider the impossible position she’s been tasked with manning. So you loosen the white-knuckle grip you have on your seat and try to focus as she tells you about the parting gift of a severance package you’ll receive. Oh, guess what? You’ll also have benefits until the end of the month! For the first time since you received the news, you exhale a slight sigh of relief.
Oh, but that’s only the beginning of the Alpha Male’s ordeal and journey.
From the moment he cleans out his desk and takes down his vintage 1986 New York Mets calendar he begins to undergo a drastic change. It hits him as he’s walked out by security as the rows of former co-workers try are balanced by two groups. One sect is composed of those offering good luck and to stay in touch. The rest look away or even act like they’re on the phone because of the guilt and shame they feel from keeping their jobs. You can’t decide which group is less hypocritical.
But that’s the least of the Alpha Male’s worries.
Life as he knew it evaporates as he embarks upon a journey into the wilderness that is unemployment. And it’s different for him than the millions of other Americans who find themselves sitting on the couch in the middle of the day rather than scurrying off midshift for a quickie lunch or just a plain quickie.
For the Alpha Male it’s like having his identity wiped clean. Who he was is no longer who he is. The thing that got him out of bed five or so days a week — the purpose that prompted him to actually put on decent duds in lieu of those pit-stained T-shirts — has been ripped away. Because grown men are like children and we need guidance whether we admit it or not. No job means no guidance which means no direction.
You get the idea.
A TRIP TO MARS
Make no mistake: I didn’t believe any of this, either. I swore I wasn’t the man who needed a business card to flash every time I met somebody new. The real me was the one you saw tailgating on Saturdays outside of a college football stadium or the one who couldn’t hit a driver, but looked and felt cool in khaki shorts that were probably too baggy.
I was a fool. And reality slammed me with the truth.
I had my dream job, one I had craved for nearly a decade. After toiling my way up the ladder at various publications, I became a writer for one of the world’s largest golf magazines. I wasn’t confined by the three-wall prison that is a cubicle, either. I worked from home, which meant (aside from the weekly staff conference call) working from the gym, a softball field or while stacking my plate at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
I traveled from coast to coast. I had a no-questions-asked expense account. And there was an endless supply of public relations firms willing to kiss my ass if I only acknowledged their feeble existence and gave their client a nod in an article. Rounds of golf were complimentary and boxes arrived regularly with everything from sporting goods to clothes to super-vitamins touted to improve performance on the course and in the bedroom.
Oh, and even my title was awesome: Senior Business Writer, which meant I wasn’t just a knuckle-dragging sportswriter, but one of the so-called intelligent ones on staff who wrote about the important things other than sticks and balls (that being money and more money). I could get Fortune 500 CEOs and network television execs on the phone easier than I could get in touch with my own mother.
And how sweet it was to finally identify myself over the phone or when making initial introductions to new faces.
Because starting around 1984, sharing my name with a diminutive and excitable male figure skater wasn’t always fun. There were the usual cracks, etc., until one day I noticed people were less reluctant to say anything, And when they did their mocking tones had been replaced with a nervous laugh because I actually had some juice or at least a little leverage over them in this thing called life.
It was incredible to finally own my name — and it was downright orgasmic when I actually met my gold-medal winning nemesis. Thanks to a little bottled courage, I informed him what it was like for a 6-foot-2 man to live in the shadow of someone he could fit in his pocket.
To his credit, he took it like a champ, posed for some pictures to prove we actually aren’t the same person and provided yet another layer to my bulletproof aura by being genuinely kind. I almost felt guilty afterward before realizing a vital piece of information: I’m Scott Hamilton, damn it. Now clear the way because I’ve put an Olympic champion and cancer survivor in his place. Hell, you can call me “Billy” if you want — as in Billy Badass.
Don’t worry: I took others with me along for the ride.
My friends would pimp me out for everything from hotel rooms to concert tickets to rental cars. If I had a connection, they wanted to milk it. And they loved having me as a wingman — the guy who they’d prompt to open his phone’s contacts list in a bar. “Want to see Donald Trump’s cell number? Here you go, baby. Now go make out with my buddy in the parking lot.” People were in awe — or at least fascinated — when I told them what I did for a living or I broke down and flashed that little white business card I thought I really didn’t need. You would’ve thought they met Elvis, or at least Elvis’ first cousin.
I was somebody.
Then I was nobody.
The call came around 7:30 on a late-spring Thursday evening.
“First-quarter advertising revenues were down and 17 positions are being eliminated,” a slightly monotone voice told me. “Unfortunately, you’re №17 and yours is one of the jobs being cut. Human resources will be in touch tomorrow to give you the details of your severance package. I’m sorry.”
I asked a question I don’t remember.
But it doesn’t matter because I didn’t receive an answer. I didn’t get much out of my boss other than the cuts were primarily seniority-based as he contacted me shortly before boarding a plane. I don’t know if he did it that way because he honestly felt bad and needed an easy out or if the timing simply worked out like that.
Either way I found myself standing in the backyard holding a silent phone to my ear while trying to wrap my mind around what just occurred: I had lost my rockstar status in about the time it takes to brush your teeth.
For sure the thought this could happen had materialized once before, but only for a fraction of a second. Low advertising revenues resulting from a poor editorial decision as well as the Great Recession were to blame. Not my performance, personality or anything else fixable other than me buying house ads with everything in my bank accounts. It was all about business and business was a cruel motherfucker.
I made two quick phone calls and then choked down my first bourbon and Coke of the evening. I remember noticing only seven minutes had passed since I’d received the news before I was silent again, so it’s obvious the people I called during my shock didn’t have much to say, either.
The phone rang sporadically throughout the evening, though I have no idea how many people I spoke with and the context of each conversation other than it was colleagues and other associates delivering their sympathies and offers to help. I was sitting on a couch across from a friend who says I passed out in mid-sentence sometime around 11 that night, muttering something about Barney Fife (I’ve never asked for him to elaborate on that one).
I woke up with a headache to a different world and a stranger stared at me from inside of my dirty bathroom mirror. And that guy — unlike the Alpha Male who so suavely primped in that same spot just 24 hours prior — had no plan, no direction and not a shred of self-confidence. The phone started to ring again, a few well-wishers who I guess imagined I needed a 24-hour cooling-off period, and each said the same thing: I wouldn’t be on the market long, not with my experience, not with my talent, not with my contacts.
At the end of that first day visiting what seemed like Mars, I was convinced my stay would indeed be brief and this could really be the thing I need to actually get a better job. After all, I had grown so comfortable and complacent it was likely I never would have moved onward and upward. What a waste that would have been for not only me, but the world! Yep, this was the beginning of what was sure to be a lightning-quick process during which I’d be courted by the best and at the end of it — after carefully vetting my options — I would assume my customary position at the top.
After all, I’m Scott MF’n Hamilton and being the target of much asskissing is my birthright. Brace yourself, I thought, because elevators for me only go up and they rise fast.
Then the phone stopped ringing and calls to once close confidants were rarely returned. Things such as complimentary golf and hotel rooms no longer existed in my world and the only free stuff I got in the mail are usually samples for women’s deodorant (which actually work better than anything for a man). Even my friends — the list of which mysteriously began to get shorter soon after Black Thursday — weren’t fighting each other for my wingman services. They moved on and either barely remembered my glory days or saw my story as a cautionary tale that prompted them to keep their distance.
Maybe it’s because I had the stench of, gasp, mediocrity?
MAINTAINING ALPHA MALENESS
After a brief time of aimless living, it occurred to me losing a job for the Alpha Male is similar to having a loved one die or going through a messy divorce. It’s especially true when unemployment arrives in such a dramatic fashion as it did for me — you know, with all the death threats and being pranced out onto national television to speak some rehearsed nonsense that made me seem hateful or ignorant or both. Remember that poor editorial decision I referenced? Yeah, it was that bad.
Things like that can definitely affect (”warp” is probably a better word) a man, thus a process must be observed. There has to be a mourning period during which you can allow all those feelings you’re not supposed to reveal in public to come to the surface.
No, don’t start crying in the McDonald’s drive-thru because they didn’t give you enough honey mustard for your McNuggets. That’s just pathetic. But it’s OK to maybe tell a close friend or whomever that, yeah, you’re having a tough time. There’s no shame in it and, much to my surprise, it will actually make you feel better.
You can also avoid parties and other functions if you want to be alone or just don’t want to go because you know they’ll suck, but do so at your discretion. Otherwise, if you wallow in self-pity for too long you’ll drown in it.
Yes, your massive pride will take a hit when you sign up for unemployment (an actually simple process as it seems the government had no choice but to dumb it down in recent years). That will be countered, however, by the reassuring fact you’ll be able to keep the lights on and internet running.Hopefully the other bills you’ve accrued during your prime days as an Alpha Male will be able to stay close to current. After all, you want to be in relatively decent shape financially when you return to the world of the gainfully employed.
There’s also the daily rituals you’ll need to establish.
I recommend being an early riser simply due to the excellent low-stress programming on television during that time. It’s hard to feel sorry for yourself and think about all you’ve lost when you have the likes of “Saved by the Bell” to occupy your mind. I’ll contend the late Dustin Diamond was the glue for that fine piece of 1990s television. Mario Lopez is a different story, but I digress.
And God bless the person who gave the “Today” show that extra hour. If nothing else their babbling will keep you feeling smarter than they are and their apparent drinking problems will scare you from turning to the bottle to muffle your pain.
There are also the steady trips to the gym that must be maintained.
The Alpha Male cannot allow his body to slip to a level better suited for lesser men. For sure it helps with the whole stress thing, but who are we kidding? When the Alpha Male knows he looks good outside, then he’ll feel good on the inside. Think Fabio with an overdrawn checking account: He’d still stroll into the supermarket like he owned the place even if has only foodstamps in his pocket. And the ability to bench press three times as much as that geeky guy on the bench next to you who drives a Porsche will help you sleep at night.
Reading is important, just be sure to keep it light — fitness magazines, all things pop culture and the occasional dive into a bookclub you found on Pintrest simply to feel enlightened from time to time. Just steer clear of biographies of the ultra-successful or members of the royal family. Oh, boohoo, William is teased for his receding hairline — I bet he doesn’t have to recycle K-Cups.
The same thinking applies to eating. Food offers a great escape, just be sure you’re not having too many cheesecake pityparties at 3 AM.
Eat at regular intervals and be sensible about it — which for the Alpha Male obviously means lots of red meat. So a George Foreman Grill can be an invaluable investment as an aid for not only easy cooking, but for maintaining that vital physical appearance. Being able to throw a $2 steak on the Foreman is likewise kind to your now thinner wallet, something that’s always on your mind no matter how many hilarious episodes of “The Office” you try to absorb as a distraction.
One way to change your regular menu and keep the lights on is to scout out all the local supermarkets to see which offer the best samples.
Yes, it sounds ridiculous. But trust me when I say that even I, the ultimate Alpha Male, have learned the joys and benefits of rolling into a Whole Foods on a Tuesday night to indulge in some savory portions of cheese on a toothpick. After a few visits and trips through the deli area the little, old sample ladies start becoming more generous with the portions and offer tips on what’s coming next, etc. It’s not filet mignon, but free goat cheese served with a few slices of something warm out of the deli oven staves off the urge to gorge on 99-cent frozen pizzas alone in the dark at home (though there are times that call for that, as well).
It’s equally vital to pay particular attention to hygiene.
Now of course the man’s man of Alpha Maledom can gleefully refuse a manicure and even have the occasional nose hair pop out. But the nametag that reads “unemployed” doesn’t give you a license to become just nasty. It’s actually quite the opposite.
Steve Jobs always seemed merely a few days away from looking like he lived in the back of a van, but he pulled it off because he had toiletpaper rolls made of money underneath his bathroom sinks. Likewise for Mark Zuckerberg and his hoodies?
You might be so broke you’re thinking about stocking your cabinet by raiding a gas station bathroom, still that doesn’t mean you have to look like you’re out of work. So shave and shave often. If nothing else it will make you appear to those not in the know that you’ve been to work or are heading that way.
Haircuts are also key. I suggest going shorter than usual in order to require less trips and thus less expense. No, cutting your own hair is not a cost-reducing option. Sell your plasma to pay for a good trim, if necessary.
And please, for the love of God, brush your teeth and brush them often. That, along with a good mouthwash, will help save your choppers from the ravages of that off-brand diet soda you’re sure to get hooked on while watching countless hours of television.
The tricky part to polishing the unemployed Alpha Male’s appearance is the wardrobe. What to wear?
The natural instinct is to go with those nasty T-shirts with sweat pants, but are we going for cliché here? You might not have a job, but you do have dignity. That means fighting the urge to totally slob out even in the comforting confines of home (again, unless you’re Zuckerberg).
Resist the urge to “recycle” outfits and change your clothes daily, even if the only place you visit is the post office and the gas station down the block where you plunk down $1 or more for that outdated thing called a newspaper. Golf clothes are a great choice for those jaunts out. They’re conservative, but not stuffy. And, like shaving, they give off the vibe that just maybe you’ve been off doing some kind of work or perhaps a meeting.
Gym clothes should be clean, wrinkle-free and not so worn out that it looks like you’re wearing a mosquito net. Gym shoes are also for that — the gym. Wear them only in the gym and throw them in the washing machine regularly. Otherwise you go from playing the role of the mysterious, attractive, health-conscious guy who seems to always be in the gym to just being the average gym rat. With everything else going on in your life, that’s a line you just can’t afford to cross. Especially if you expect to continue any sort of social life in your work-free state.
And the Alpha Male, being the testosterone-oozing beast he is, will try to continue dating.
After all, the drive is still there and like a prepubescent boy it will rear its head at unusual times, such as during midnight reruns of “The Golden Girls.” Now there’s no shame in getting occasionally aroused while watching TV Land, especially if it’s one of the earlier episodes during which Blanche is on the prowl. But if the pattern occurs and you find yourself adjusting your boxers when Bea Arthur lumbers onto the screen, then that’s definitely a sign you need to get out.
Because you’re unemployed — not dead. And having carefully cultivated an image shouldn’t send up obvious red flags, there should be opportunities to fraternize with members of the opposite sex. You’re fit, well-groomed and, again, have that delicate air of mystery so many women can’t resist. Arrange dates at your leisure, just dial back everything you practiced in your former life.
That means keeping conversations about current events and asking lots of questions about them. I repeat: Not talking about you, for a change, but them. This will serve a dual purpose by making them feel you genuinely care about their lives (as you should) while also deflecting attention from your current employment situation.
Be vague when that does pop up. Deliver general answers. If they ask what you do, describe the industry in which you have the most experience. And then — with a wistful, faraway look — tell the female your dream is to find a career in some other profession, acting like you’d sacrifice so much and make a tremendous leap of faith simply for a chance to do what you love.
Yes, you were sharing legitimate aspirations. However, the fact is you’ll take just about anything that pays at this point, especially since you’re silently stressing over her ordering $40 in sushi. But if she senses pain, longing and unfulfillment with your current “job” then she’ll shift gears and probably even encourage you to pursue your dreams.
To be clear: do not lie. Just don’t offer up anymore information than necessary or you’re pressed to provide.
It’s then that you gradually shift the conversation to some rigamorole about travel while you pour another glass of the one wine you’ve spent countless hours researching. You’ll come across as worldly, yet also sensitive, caring and genuine. In other words: game, set, match. You might as well start making plans to stay at her place that night.
Enjoy.
VENTURING BACK INTO THE WORLD
OK, so we’ve addressed how to keep your head together and go about the seemingly unlimited amount of empty days now on your calendar. But during all of this you should still be looking for work. Believe it or not there are plenty of jobs to be had, though that doesn’t mean to apply haphazardly. Do your homework. To be sure I haven’t been unemployed the entire time during the past decade. Quite the contrary.
After seven months of flooding the major media outlets with my resume and actually interviewing at a handful of places, I dialed back my approach and returned to the small daily newspaper where I’d gotten my start.
On the surface it seemed like starting over. But my thinking was it would keep me busy, provide a steady paycheck and keep me writing until the economy recovered while getting my name back into circulation. Besides, the paper was located in an upscale island community and there were worse places to spend a few months.
The editors were cautious to hire me at first, making sure I’d give them at least a year or so before “going somewhere much bigger.” I chuckled and agreed. Seven months into that tenure I was called into the office on my day off to be informed I was being let go, again a victim of cutbacks and that damned recession.
That’s when I wrapped my arms around the sobering truth that maybe there was no longer a seat on the journalism train for me, as things are just so different now.
The Internet had already changed the game and that damned iPhone took it to an entirely different stratosphere. People just weren’t reading like they used to and if they were they weren’t doing it as often or via the traditional platforms. I started receiving messages from older peers that were eerily similar to the e-mails I fired off after Black Thursday. No one was safe. And that resulted in more people competing for jobs that recent college graduates were willing to do for basically beer money. It was time for me, as well as hundreds of others, to move on.
But to what?
Journalism was all I knew. I thought I’d die at my keyboard (or at least within a few feet of it). Now I had to find something else that matched up with me.
Public relations? Those firms evaporate as quickly as caffeine-free coffee shops and I just couldn’t stand the thought of being one of “them,” the ones I had stripped of all dignity just to appease my ego. There was no way I wanted to toil in a college sports information department and the idea of working on technical manuals would basically be akin to loading a pistol and placing it in my depressed hand.
So writing was obviously out. I would have to reinvent myself and approach a life in a different career.
Month passed before I realized the world of sales was calling. The skill sets align perfectly for a former journalist. In sales you have to be able to communicate and build relationships. That’s basically the same as when you’re a reporter, developing sources and digging around for news. With my experience dealing with marketing firms, advertising sales seemed a natural fit. Pair that with my sports background and the ideal option materialized before my eyes: ad sales for a Minor League Baseball team. Fresh air, a corporate atmosphere, energy at nearly every event and the opportunity to again blind people with a job description most find fascinating — yep, this was for me.
So it came to pass that through a friend I landed a job with a Class A team. Yes, it was the bottom of the baseball ladder, but starting low had never bothered me in the past. Besides I was certain my stay there would be brief before I caught the eye of not one, but many big league organizations.
And not only had this team been excited to hire me, it even started me off by making me a Senior Sales Executive with my own little office despite the fact I had never sold a thing in my life and that it created quiet resentment among my new peers. I was only surprised for a second, however. After all, in my mind I was still a rockstar. The difference now is I had to perform before a new audience, with co-workers who barely remembered when Bush, Sr., was president and that they didn’t give a damn who I was in my former life.
Regardless, from January until April, I’d march into my little office like Caesar wearing a jacket and tie (which I had to learn to tie). I worked the phones, arranged meetings and made things happen, baby. Before the season started I had easily accrued more new business than any other salesperson in the office and was thinking how I’d simply roll through the rest of the year living off the commission and glory that was mine.
I learned it doesn’t work like that.
When you’re part of a Minor League Baseball organization you don’t just walk around shaking hands and making deals. Starting opening night (during which, of course, it rained) I was thrust into a world of parking cars, selling programs and unrolling that God-awful tarp when raindrops fell. On gamedays, I’d report to work in the morning and leave in the middle of the night, a pattern that repeated itself 70 times. And did I mention everyone on staff has to take turns wearing the mascot costume at public appearances? Nothing smells as bad as a mascot costume in mid-July.
It wasn’t long before King Kong began to wear down while his younger peers kept on chugging and snickering more and more at the jackass they had (correctly) perceived looked down his nose at them. The season was barely over and the “selling season” had just begun when I decided to once more start the employment hunt. Sure, I’d cite the office tension as a factor, but the Alpha Male I am made me say money was the reason it was time to move on.
Serendipity, however, again found its rightful place by choosing me.
There were reporter openings in news to be had at a respectable, mid-size newspaper where I had contacts. I seized one, rocked it and then was moved home to sports a few months later. The columnist had retired after 34 years and, of course, I was the last man standing when it came to choosing a successor.
For the uninitiated, the sports columnist is one of — if not the — face and voice of the newspaper. It’s a gig where you basically write about what you want and do so only a few days each week. It usually comes with higher pay than the other newsroom jobs and comes with lots of perks and lots of praise — sound familiar?
I’d made it through the wilderness and after five years I was back. I even had a daily sports talk radio show to compliment things, a property that seemed to have so much synergy and elevate everyone involved. If nothing else, it also gave me another outlet from which to siphon praise and elevate my ego. I was back, bigger and badder than ever.
Then I wasn’t.
It turns out that columnists are luxury positions for any publication regardless of its size. And with the higher salaries it’s the first to go when company cutbacks are inevitably made. The only difference this time was the news came in the form of a text on a Sunday night. The company was eliminating jobs en masse across the chain and no one was safe. It was a courtesy text from my boss, who wanted to prep me for what was going to happen the next morning. I appreciated his thoughtfulness, yet seven years back atop the mountain were wiped away in about 150 characters.
And that radio show? Well, I suddenly didn’t have as much cache. It ended four months later following a sweet three-year run.
For that I didn’t even get a severance package.
ALPHA MALE FOR LIFE
Of course my first instinct was to extract some measure of revenge on my former employers as a way of satisfying the ultraprimate inside me.
I could vent on social media, outlying to my loyal audience how unceremoniously I was let go. I could belittle the work of the remaining reporters, question every decision the paper made going forward and rally my radio audience against the person who now occupied my drivetime slot. Remember: I’m the victim yet again.
I’m not proud of much, but I’m proud that those thoughts were fleeting. One thing the unemployed — or, as I’ve learned, even the gainfully employed — Alpha Male doesn’t need is bitterness in his heart. I sound very Zenlike, don’t I?
Certainly, I was rattled. Yet, unlike with my previous setbacks, I didn’t require a morning-after pep talk to convince myself these terminations (or whatever you call it) had purpose — it was obvious. There was even less fear because I knew what to expect this go around. I wasn’t like a blind squirrel foraging for nuts. I was experienced as to how to approach life and simply survive.
For sure it delivered a blow to my Alpha Maleness, but it wasn’t a potential killshot like I had experienced before. And my journey has given me the clarity to see great things can still be achieved despite the setbacks and smackdowns. I only need to look at some members of the Alpha Male Hall of Fame for motivation:
• Nicholas Cage — The guy goes from a bit part in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” to winning an Oscar. But through circumstance and, well, his own wacky ways he ruins his finances and starts acting in straight-to-video productions simply to pay his bills. And yet Nicky continues to get work and is always at least mentioned annually as a possibility for prime roles. If nothing else he can continue making those “National Treasure” movies, where he can keep the attention of conspiracy theorists.
• George W. Bush — Member of affluent family boozes it up, gets arrested, and generally raises a dozen different kinds of hell. He then gathers himself, buys a baseball team, becomes governor of Texas and later President. He even manages to top his pop by living in the Oval Office for two terms despite the mishandling of wars, natural disasters and his consistent butchering of the English language. And though a large part of the American population wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire, the dude still struts around like everything is hunky dory. Maybe it is in his world, and if that’s not the definition of an Alpha Male then enlighten me.
• Terrell Owens — The mercurial wide receiver is an NFL hall of famer, despite having been labeled everything from a pariah to a cancer and ruining more quarterbacks than a torn rotator cuff. But teams kept giving him a chance. Maybe it’s because T.O. adhered to the Alpha Male playbook I’ve laid out: He stays in phenomenal shape, is always well-groomed and he never spoke about anything too serious (other than how his quarterback at the time sucked). And when he did open up it was always with that sense of longing and vulnerability to which I alluded. You know, to appeal to the ladies.
• Mark McGrath — Why is this guy famous again? He was in a band that had a couple of catchy songs two decades ago and they haven’t been heard from since. But he was smart enough to leverage that little bit of celebrity he was afforded to reinvent himself into a television and satellite radio mainstay. He won’t be starring in any hit dramas (at least I don’t think so) or replacing Anderson Cooper, but no red carpet coverage is complete without McGrath chiming in with the wisdom he accrued while with Sugar Ray (yes, that was his band’s name).
• Donald Trump — Politics aside, if I ever get down I need only think of The Donald. Where to begin? He’s an iconic figure just for being an iconic figure. Hell his hair is an Alpha Male of its own. During the past 40 or so years he’s created and lost empires, destroyed the USFL, mangled the way we look at the major beauty pageants and has generally pissed off people ranging from Rosie O’Donnell to world leaders. Trump always rebounds, however. He had a popular reality show, built palace-like hotels and his name is on everything from neckties to golf courses. All that strokes a massive ego that is either oblivious to detractors or actually embraces them because it confirms they acknowledge his existence. And, being the second Commander in Chief on this list, I’m encouraged to consider that maybe I have a future in public office.
• Matthew McConaughey — I don’t even know where to begin. He’s always winning, so I’ll just leave it at that.
It would be impossible for any Alpha Male to not find inspiration from the examples I’ve just presented.
Yes, some were born into wealth and power, while others have talents most of us simply don’t possess. But each has endured circumstances similar to those of the unemployed Alpha Male and experienced incredible setbacks only to make it through unscathed. Some actually ended up in a significantly better situation. I’m pumped thinking about it.
So what now?
I’ve assembled this piece with the same laptop I regularly manned when I was at the peak of my Alpha Maleness 2.0. It wasn’t assigned to me, I merely felt the need to reach out to my Alpha Male brothers who might be experiencing comparable difficulties as those I have fought and continue to overcome.
And you’re reading it, which means I’m touching a nerve. Either way it’s apparent people still read at least a little and perhaps there still is a seat for me on that writing train, even if it’s a brief ride. Now it’s time to scope things out yet again to see if there’s another opportunity for me to write.
Regardless, I realize my world isn’t going to come crashing down if I again find myself in another field.
I know how to keep on keeping on even if I end up like one of those semi-retirees at Wal-Mart that greets you at the door. Actually that doesn’t sound like a bad gig right now considering it’s time to pay my cellphone bill. It also sounds appealing because I’ll know you can’t get through the gate to the land of rolled-back prices without walking past me first, again providing me that sense of being lord over all I survey.
But job or no job, I’m still an Alpha Male and that will change only if I allow it.
Can’t you smell the musk?
