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THE BUZZARDS ATE MY FLESH: I heard the flapping first, then looked up. A couple stories above me, in the city, were vultures. They were resting on the building's ledge and circling over the entrance. Big black nasty-looking buzzards, watching me as I walked into the building. I'm looking for work. They're looking for food. I guess their quest is just more direct than mine.

But vultures circling me? I mean, I've been feeling morose, but I didn't think it was time to pick my cadaver yet. I still move quite a bit. Maybe it's the smell?

Here I am at the Senior Employment Center. I need to go through this experience in order to get a grant from the State of Ohio. The grant is for training. They'll give up to $10,000 for training that will improve workers' employability. In order to qualify, I have to convince them to admit me to the "Jobs Club." This club meets for thirty hours and covers such advanced topics as accessing the Internet, using Word, writing a resume, sending thank you notes. Just what I need, right.

I lost my job seven months ago. For the first time since college I'm involuntarily out of work and it couldn't have happened in a less-pretty time for the economy. I've held high-level sales and business development positions for DuPont and 3M; identified, captured and managed global accounts; negotiated two acquisitions and joint ventures with a Japanese company here and with a Chinese company in Quzhuo, China. My long-ago degree is in chemistry. I learned the Japanese as an adult, and earned a coveted black belt in a tough martial art just six years ago. I'm not bragging, as I present myself to you now without a job, no better than anyone else here. My point: I'm no slouch, and quite trainable.

I'm hoping for funding for a one-on-one intensive course in Chinese, from Berlitz. It's either that, or pole-dancing, and the survey said, let's go for Chinese. I've paid for this grant over the years, through my taxes, as have you. With Obamabucks being doled out, we'll also likely be paying for years to come, as will our kids.

The Senior Employment Center is a crowded room with some hard chairs and a few terminals along the sides. Every chair is filled and there's no obvious "do this first" indicator, though the counter to the side is a likely start.

"I'm here for the orientation session?" say I, to the woman behind the counter, the only one with whose eyes I can manage to make contact. Two forms of identification are needed, and I've got it licked, to

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