Time Management The Jefe Way

My long-time friend and mentor Matt Hogan once told me, "You know, Jefe, the hard thing about doing nothing is that you never know when you're done."
You see, Hogan was a musician, and even in the depressed live-music industry of rural Northern California, it was his sole source of income, save the annual prune harvest. Hogan always had a surplus of leisure time.
I never understood his words--until now. I didn't even take him seriously, as I never expected to be in a position to benefit from his sage advice.
I also think of Chuck Bukowski saying "the days run away like wild horses over the hills."
And so they do.


You see, I'm currently unemployed. My skills include nine years as a bike messenger with some "editorial" skills from long ago as a hazy afterthought. The Clift Notes version: virtually unemployable. And so, with a Hogan-esque amount of free time, minimal time-management abilities, an over-active imagination and serious lack of focus, not to mention a stunted maturity level, I found myself mired in an state of nervous lethargy.

Just as the sun rose to exciting and lofty goals and the best of intentions, it would set to loose ends, wasted time and predictable disappointment. Like the Tell-tale Heart, Hogan's words beat like a drum, unrelenting and clear in my mind. The day doesn't last forever, I told myself, and my days as a man of leisure would not last forever, either. If I couldn't find a way to effectively structure my time, how close was I to spending my days with Regis & Kelly, Montel and Springer?

In order to cope with such a dire predicament I've developed a routine. The beauty of a routine is that it forces you to make a kind of non-binding schedule--and keep it. Now, it may sound like an intimidating task, but look at a routine for what it really is--a kind of structured rut.

My routine helps to keep things like looking for work or calling the weekly claims office from getting lost in the shuffle, safely tucked away in an implied to-do list.


My routine goes a little something like this:

First, I get out of bed. Once I've turned on NPR, I settle in for an intensive briefing on world events until about 9:30am, 11am at the latest. A jingoistic world-view and an Amero-centric sense of superiority aren't helped by listening to "World Have Your Say."
Next, I dive right into a rigorous 10-minute calisthenics program I've designed for myself before hitting the shower--I'm in the job market, so I've got to groom for success.
After that, I check my e-mail and see if the iSkills Match has found a job that I'm qualified for. Hmm, no luck (relief masked as disappointment is part of routine). After my morning meet and greet with the cat, I grab the newspaper, shades and flip-flops--I'm Stumptown bound. If I've slept in--I mean listened to "World"--I'll get that quadruple iced Americano to go.
If I can find an outside table, I'll quietly do my crosswords and "people-watch." Eventually, alienation and my overriding sense of purpose will drag me back home for a little lunch. Now, for a while I was watching Perry Mason from noon to 1pm. But this proved to be too restrictive, schedule-wise, so I don't watch TV (except baseball) until the first Simpsons comes on at 6pm.
This is about the time that my schedule gets tight. Housecleaning and other projects usually take up the rest of the pre-ride afternoon. I've got to stay in shape, so the ride is soft-scheduled at 3pm. Often times I'll get a late start and not get on the road until 4pm--like today. When I'm done writing this bullshit, I'll have to kick it up a notch and/or shorten my ride, because now it's a mad rush to get home by 5:45pm, in time to fix dinner and have it ready by 6pm.
The day being finished, I can settle in for a much deserved night of Sanford & Son until mid-August when the cable gets disconnected.

Regrettably, road blocks occasionally appear on my horizon. This is where flex time becomes invaluable. Take today, for instance. It was time for coffee and I was out the door. Just as the door closed, I had that feeling that one gets when he's just realized that his keys are locked in the house. I had misplaced them during calisthenics.
My initial reaction was to panic, or erupt in a tantrum of expletives and foot-stomping. I was, however, able to keep it cool and gain access to the back yard through a sleeping neighbor's house. I'll save my comments on cleanliness for another time. I then proceeded to the basement to get a ladder. Yet again, fate would not smile upon Jefe, for the paranoid douche bag that lives next door had locked the (communal) basement door AGAIN. After some strategic swearing (NOT a tantrum) under said neighbor's window, I spied a long-dormant gas barbecue rusting in the bushes. It was a short drag to my bedroom window. The aged grill held my weight as I slipped, ninja-like, through the window.
Vindicated, I grabbed my keys, returned things to their rightful order, reapplied my flip-flops and headed for a well-earned Americano. Right on time.