I don’t know about you, but I am getting real tired of being assailed by companies that seem to spare no expense when it comes to marketing. It isn’t enough that they insert themselves into nearly every page of every newspaper and magazine and web page. They harangue us for 20 minutes out of every hour on the radio and TV. They hire people to accost you in the mall. They incessantly deliver unwanted (and unread) sheaves if slick ad copy to your mailbox, or annoying automated calls to your voice mail.
You cannot even escape at the beach. Your placid moment on the sand will be disturbed by the droning of a single prop ww2 vintage fizzlewhacker with a banner trailing behind to announce the wet tee shirt contest and one dollar for frosty 12oz drafts at the local beer joint.
We are forced to pay extra for software to prevent pop-up ads from taking over our PC’s and even then you cannot view a blog or a searched page without some adware jiggling or twinkling to catch your eye. AOL makes a big thing out of preventing pop-ups, but allows insidious – and I reiterate UNWANTED - ads to appear in the middle of the screen and move through your field of vision, then disappear. If these are not pop-ups, what are they?
Even PBS programs – which are billed as “commercial free” give lengthy and blatent advertising plugs for high level donor companies. If these aren’t commercials what are they?
Apparently, the companies who spend all this money on advertising don’t care how effective it is. In fact, the jillion dollar “knock-off” industry sells products that are just as good as the “genuine article.” They let the big company spend all the money to hype the brand and then sell their look-a-like product cheaper and reap a high margin.
So my point is that I am annoyed. I decry the pollution of every media platform and venue with constant and repetitive advertising. I also object to the portion of each dollar spent that goes to pay for the promotion of the product.
There are many companies that would be on the list of blatant offenders – who spend an obscene amount of money on advertising and charge outlandishly for their products. Two are in my sights this morning: BOSE and OMAHA STEAKS.
BOSE: they make a fine product. But I see their full page ads in every paper nearly every day. They advertise on every radio station I know of. They are in magazines. They send expensive glossy direct mail pieces every couple of weeks. I would never buy the product because I don’t want to pay for the heavy advertising costs that drive their prices to premium level. There are high quality knock-offs (see Cambridge Soundworks) for half the price.
OMAHA STEAKS: They produce delicious looking pictures in their brochures. They package-up what looks like a real great deal. Then you get the shipment and are disappointed that the steaks are small and thin and not even close to the flavor and juiciness of a fresh steak purchase from the meat guy at the market. I was disappointed but wrote it off to experience. Yet they will not leave us alone. We get offers in the mail every week and constant calls from telemarketers in Nebraska. Their Hype is annoying. I will not buy their products again.
Ironically, the one product ad that has appealed to me lately is for the new High Definition radio sets which are hyped largely on the basis of being “commercial-free”.
Come to think of it, I am having second thoughts about the complaint about arial banners at the beach. How else would you know where to go for those one dollar frosty draft beers?
12/21/2006
12/19/2006
When Do I Start?
A few weeks ago I received an email which had been forwarded through several degrees of separation, from the original sender to one of the ladies in my wife's book group. Thence to me.
It was a announcement of a temporary, part-time job maintaining the membership database for a non-profit organization. "Maintaining" is just a high-falootin way of saying "mostly data entry." It sounded like your basic clerical type function entering data from new and returning member forms. Pretty mundane for a world class Systems Analyst, you say...but a real challenge for a recently retired fellow who types like a crow pecking at an ear of corn.
But, this is the difference between you and me. Where you see a boring, low level job, I see a portal of opportunity: an entree to an organization, where you get to do paid research, meet people, look for problems to solve....
Besides, the magic words were: temporary, part-time, local and $20/hr. (Higher wages than his last retail job, he thought to himself).
Anyhow, I responded to the mailing, and was rewarded with an in-person interview. After a few pointed remarks by the director it was pretty clear that she did not regard me as the best candidate, since they were really looking for a person who typed very quickly and was also not distracted by any real thoughts about what she was doing. I guess that should be perceived an implied compliment to my creative thought process. I hastened to assure her that I could be as vapid and thoughtless as the next guy, er girl, or whatever. Too late, the damage was apparently already done. As we exchanged pleasantries, I could sense that I had been figuratively crossed off the list.
Maybe they really thought I was "over-qualified" The Director seemed perplexed that someone of my qualifications was interested in doing clerical work. My response that all work is clerical, and I need some extra spending money to pay overdue library fines was not well received. Perhaps the Director needs to believe that some work is indeed more important than "menial" tasks. (I should have pointed-out that even the most gourmet meal needs to be served on clean plates.)
I waited in vain all all last week to hear from them. Today I got the idea to appeal to their sympathies. I decided that they probably would choose someone who really needed money. Here is the text of my letter:
Dear Emily,
Just wondering if you’ve made a decision yet on the enrollment data base job. It would really help me to know, as I am in the process of budgeting for the coming year.
1) Thanks to generous bribes offered to the parole board, mother will be getting out of prison in April ( for good behavior) and I was hoping to get her a new motorcycle. She so loves the fresh wind in her hair. But a new Harley can cost over $20K. Let’s hope she stays out, this time.
2) As one who loves fine cheese, I recently bought a goat on E-Bay. Now, the guy is asking for his money.
3) In a moment of utter optimism, I purchased charter tickets on a flight to Mars, which is scheduled to leave Cape Canaveral in the Spring of 2045. I also bought these tickets on the Internet (brooklynbridge.org) for a discount price. The bill is due in a few weeks.
So, you can see that I really could use a bit of extra spending cash. This is not to imply that my revenue needs should affect your hiring decision, mind you.
Unless you were thinking of hiring some other – less needy - person.
Please let me know soon if you have decided to hire a less gifted and needy individual, as I do have another offer pending. My brother-in-law needs a partner on a project that involves “soliciting funds at banks, gas stations and convenience stores in the Boston suburbs.” I really would prefer to work in an environment where I do not need to carry a mask and a weapon, so I am giving you folks first refusal.
Best wishes for the Holidays
It was a announcement of a temporary, part-time job maintaining the membership database for a non-profit organization. "Maintaining" is just a high-falootin way of saying "mostly data entry." It sounded like your basic clerical type function entering data from new and returning member forms. Pretty mundane for a world class Systems Analyst, you say...but a real challenge for a recently retired fellow who types like a crow pecking at an ear of corn.
But, this is the difference between you and me. Where you see a boring, low level job, I see a portal of opportunity: an entree to an organization, where you get to do paid research, meet people, look for problems to solve....
Besides, the magic words were: temporary, part-time, local and $20/hr. (Higher wages than his last retail job, he thought to himself).
Anyhow, I responded to the mailing, and was rewarded with an in-person interview. After a few pointed remarks by the director it was pretty clear that she did not regard me as the best candidate, since they were really looking for a person who typed very quickly and was also not distracted by any real thoughts about what she was doing. I guess that should be perceived an implied compliment to my creative thought process. I hastened to assure her that I could be as vapid and thoughtless as the next guy, er girl, or whatever. Too late, the damage was apparently already done. As we exchanged pleasantries, I could sense that I had been figuratively crossed off the list.
Maybe they really thought I was "over-qualified" The Director seemed perplexed that someone of my qualifications was interested in doing clerical work. My response that all work is clerical, and I need some extra spending money to pay overdue library fines was not well received. Perhaps the Director needs to believe that some work is indeed more important than "menial" tasks. (I should have pointed-out that even the most gourmet meal needs to be served on clean plates.)
I waited in vain all all last week to hear from them. Today I got the idea to appeal to their sympathies. I decided that they probably would choose someone who really needed money. Here is the text of my letter:
Dear Emily,
Just wondering if you’ve made a decision yet on the enrollment data base job. It would really help me to know, as I am in the process of budgeting for the coming year.
1) Thanks to generous bribes offered to the parole board, mother will be getting out of prison in April ( for good behavior) and I was hoping to get her a new motorcycle. She so loves the fresh wind in her hair. But a new Harley can cost over $20K. Let’s hope she stays out, this time.
2) As one who loves fine cheese, I recently bought a goat on E-Bay. Now, the guy is asking for his money.
3) In a moment of utter optimism, I purchased charter tickets on a flight to Mars, which is scheduled to leave Cape Canaveral in the Spring of 2045. I also bought these tickets on the Internet (brooklynbridge.org) for a discount price. The bill is due in a few weeks.
So, you can see that I really could use a bit of extra spending cash. This is not to imply that my revenue needs should affect your hiring decision, mind you.
Unless you were thinking of hiring some other – less needy - person.
Please let me know soon if you have decided to hire a less gifted and needy individual, as I do have another offer pending. My brother-in-law needs a partner on a project that involves “soliciting funds at banks, gas stations and convenience stores in the Boston suburbs.” I really would prefer to work in an environment where I do not need to carry a mask and a weapon, so I am giving you folks first refusal.
Best wishes for the Holidays
12/07/2006
Day of Infamy
60 years before 9/11, there was the sneak attack by Japan on Pearl Harbor on this date in 1941. It was the event launched the US into the war that was already raging in Europe and Asia. The enemy powers were nation states with uniformed armies, territorial ambitions and nationalistic missions. It was the defining and unifying moment in the lives and minds of many Americans who were alive at the time. Every thing was suddenly changed, just as the attack on the World Trade Center in New York City has impacted the lives and thoughts of all of us who are alive today. That event forced us all to stop in our tracks, to realize that we had more to worry about than the rising costs of health care or how to maximise the return on our IRA accounts.
Yesterday, during our weekly Tea (these days we actually drink tea instead of beer), my friend George lamented that we are not unified as a nation the way we were in WW2. The topic under discussion was the announcement of the findngs by the Iraq Study group that we need to do something differently in Iraq. Even if you are a Bush hater, you cannot feel happy about the fact that we are in yet another nasty mess - one that we will always look back upon as a huge mistake.
Sixty five years ago we had a clear enemy. Every family in the USA was personally touched by the war because sons, fathers, brothers and uncles went off to fight. Today, hardly any of us know someone who is stationed in Iraq. Hardly any of our political leaders have a relative in harm's way.
As painful as it is for us to watch the casualty numbers of Americans on the evening news, we cannot help but compare the staggering cost of past wars compared to Iraq. Most of the current deaths are civilians, in a culture that does not seem to value human life.
I wish I could propose a solution to this mess. We cannot pull-out without leaving a power vacuum that would almost certainly make the situation and US security worse that when Saddam was in power. We cannot stay and remain the magnet for world acrimony.
I only hope future leaders will learn from this situation. Democracy cannot be imposed on people who do not value individual freedom and do not recognize the rights of people who believe differently.
Well, enough of this -- who has their Christmas shopping done?
Yesterday, during our weekly Tea (these days we actually drink tea instead of beer), my friend George lamented that we are not unified as a nation the way we were in WW2. The topic under discussion was the announcement of the findngs by the Iraq Study group that we need to do something differently in Iraq. Even if you are a Bush hater, you cannot feel happy about the fact that we are in yet another nasty mess - one that we will always look back upon as a huge mistake.
Sixty five years ago we had a clear enemy. Every family in the USA was personally touched by the war because sons, fathers, brothers and uncles went off to fight. Today, hardly any of us know someone who is stationed in Iraq. Hardly any of our political leaders have a relative in harm's way.
As painful as it is for us to watch the casualty numbers of Americans on the evening news, we cannot help but compare the staggering cost of past wars compared to Iraq. Most of the current deaths are civilians, in a culture that does not seem to value human life.
I wish I could propose a solution to this mess. We cannot pull-out without leaving a power vacuum that would almost certainly make the situation and US security worse that when Saddam was in power. We cannot stay and remain the magnet for world acrimony.
I only hope future leaders will learn from this situation. Democracy cannot be imposed on people who do not value individual freedom and do not recognize the rights of people who believe differently.
Well, enough of this -- who has their Christmas shopping done?
12/01/2006
Nostalgia and Tradition
'Tis the season, a time for memories. Around this time of year, we start hearing those old Christmas Carols and we remember those halcyon days when our parents and other adult relatives were still alive. Grandpapa strumming his old guitar and mother at the blonde mahogany spinet, singing Deck the Halls.
They were indeed wonderful times, and I am pleased to be able to recall those memories still. (Even the time when uncle Harry arrived drunk, and then and fell off the sofa on the floor where he lay unconscious - to the utter horror of mother as well as the new neighbors who had come over for a glass of cheer. All very entertaining for a young lad.)
But alas, (in the words of one of my favorite modern visionaries) Nostalgia isn't what it used to be.
A good friend of mine has recently taken to wallowing in the past on a public forum.
He laments the loss of decadent traditions that he and his Ivy League cronies had in their callow youth. He sees the relentless tide of progress as a bad thing. He wishes he could travel back to those prime times and relive the frivoloties of carefree college fraternal glee.
Most of us in the post war pre-boomer generation do not share those fond memories. We went into the service or to commuter colleges or joined a union and went to work after high school. We were definitely not the intellectual elites. Unless we had been star athletes in high school, we had not yet peaked. We were always looking to the future with optimism, because we believed that things would get better. (And they did.)
My friend notes that I am the founder (and still President) of the local Here and Now Society. We go around picketing historical sites. We proudly display plastic signs on our homes that show that they were built after 1960.
We accept, nay welcome, the tide of progress. We buy lottery tickets and go to casinos because we believe that luck can level the playing field that was unlevelled by fate. We don't spend time bitching about what's the matter with kids today. We look to the future with optimism and hope.
We love our fond memories, but do not wish to go back to the days of yore, before micro-brews and MP3, those black and white test pattern days when everyone smelled funny. We embrace reality with eyes wide open and welcome the adventure of each day.
That is here and now.
Who wants to join?
They were indeed wonderful times, and I am pleased to be able to recall those memories still. (Even the time when uncle Harry arrived drunk, and then and fell off the sofa on the floor where he lay unconscious - to the utter horror of mother as well as the new neighbors who had come over for a glass of cheer. All very entertaining for a young lad.)
But alas, (in the words of one of my favorite modern visionaries) Nostalgia isn't what it used to be.
A good friend of mine has recently taken to wallowing in the past on a public forum.
He laments the loss of decadent traditions that he and his Ivy League cronies had in their callow youth. He sees the relentless tide of progress as a bad thing. He wishes he could travel back to those prime times and relive the frivoloties of carefree college fraternal glee.
Most of us in the post war pre-boomer generation do not share those fond memories. We went into the service or to commuter colleges or joined a union and went to work after high school. We were definitely not the intellectual elites. Unless we had been star athletes in high school, we had not yet peaked. We were always looking to the future with optimism, because we believed that things would get better. (And they did.)
My friend notes that I am the founder (and still President) of the local Here and Now Society. We go around picketing historical sites. We proudly display plastic signs on our homes that show that they were built after 1960.
We accept, nay welcome, the tide of progress. We buy lottery tickets and go to casinos because we believe that luck can level the playing field that was unlevelled by fate. We don't spend time bitching about what's the matter with kids today. We look to the future with optimism and hope.
We love our fond memories, but do not wish to go back to the days of yore, before micro-brews and MP3, those black and white test pattern days when everyone smelled funny. We embrace reality with eyes wide open and welcome the adventure of each day.
That is here and now.
Who wants to join?
11/07/2006
Botched Joke - Inconvenient Truth
The other day, John Kerry showed again why he should not be his party's nominee for the office of President in 2008. Speaking to a group of college students, he made a lame comment about how you should stay in school and be smart or else "You get stuck in Iraq."
Opposition opinionaters went into a feeding frenzy declaring that Kerry had maligned the honor of the US military by insinuating that they were all dunderheads. Even President Bush declared that the Senator from Massachusetts should apologize to the brave troops. Kerry, of course, went to the media to explain that what he said was not what he meant. In a display of even more pretzel logic, Kerry said that his remark was just a botched joke that was aimed at the current administration's failed enterprise in Iraq. Nobody believed him.
What everyone took out of the comment was the underlying truth that the people who end up fighting in wars are not the "best and the brightest" minds in our society. Check out the number of sons and daughters of our political leaders who are over there laying their asses on the line. Not too many eh?
Never mind that, say those who want to skewer Kerry, and they trot out some statistics that show that our current military is smarter than the group who fought in Viet Nam. Apples and oranges. Remember that during the Vietnam conflict we had an involuntary draft system in this county. If you could get into college you could get a deferment and avoid the unpleasantness of getting shot at by jungle snipers or being shredded by mortar blasts. Drop-outs and the less academically inclined tended to be the ones on the line.
This ain't WW2 either. In today's Army and Marine corps, the enlistment rolls are chiefly made up of people without better prospects. Duh - Would you sign-up for a chance to become a casualty if you had the option of having a nice peaceful day working at a job where you don't need a gun, coming home to dinner with your nice family? Chances are, you would opt for the lesser risk. The fact is that many of the guys who are there were called up from reserve units. These folks did not join the reserves thinking that they would have to go into battle, and we all know that.
The uplifting fact is that most of these soldiers have accepted their duty and are serving their country honorably - even heroically. Along with an uncomfortable number of GI's who are not doing things that make us proud. If Rumsfeld ever lets the reservists get out, the pool of replacement recruits is embarrassingly uneducated and unskilled - people who have few other choices. This is just the truth, folks.
It is not un-American to recognize that smart people tend to avoid military service. And it does not malign all GI's to note that they might have preferred to go to college and study philosophy, but they couldn't get in. It does not say that they aren't salt of the earth guys you would want as your friends and neighbors. It is what it is.
The smartest guys are generally officer rank, and not the guy with the gun, looking for IED's and enemy troops. Most of us would not want our loved ones to be over there - no matter how honorable. "Stay in school," we warn them "or you might get sent to Iraq."
How much more we would have admired Kerry, if he had the ability to articulate his point of view. Bush, for all of his elocution faults, lets us know exactly where he stands.
Opposition opinionaters went into a feeding frenzy declaring that Kerry had maligned the honor of the US military by insinuating that they were all dunderheads. Even President Bush declared that the Senator from Massachusetts should apologize to the brave troops. Kerry, of course, went to the media to explain that what he said was not what he meant. In a display of even more pretzel logic, Kerry said that his remark was just a botched joke that was aimed at the current administration's failed enterprise in Iraq. Nobody believed him.
What everyone took out of the comment was the underlying truth that the people who end up fighting in wars are not the "best and the brightest" minds in our society. Check out the number of sons and daughters of our political leaders who are over there laying their asses on the line. Not too many eh?
Never mind that, say those who want to skewer Kerry, and they trot out some statistics that show that our current military is smarter than the group who fought in Viet Nam. Apples and oranges. Remember that during the Vietnam conflict we had an involuntary draft system in this county. If you could get into college you could get a deferment and avoid the unpleasantness of getting shot at by jungle snipers or being shredded by mortar blasts. Drop-outs and the less academically inclined tended to be the ones on the line.
This ain't WW2 either. In today's Army and Marine corps, the enlistment rolls are chiefly made up of people without better prospects. Duh - Would you sign-up for a chance to become a casualty if you had the option of having a nice peaceful day working at a job where you don't need a gun, coming home to dinner with your nice family? Chances are, you would opt for the lesser risk. The fact is that many of the guys who are there were called up from reserve units. These folks did not join the reserves thinking that they would have to go into battle, and we all know that.
The uplifting fact is that most of these soldiers have accepted their duty and are serving their country honorably - even heroically. Along with an uncomfortable number of GI's who are not doing things that make us proud. If Rumsfeld ever lets the reservists get out, the pool of replacement recruits is embarrassingly uneducated and unskilled - people who have few other choices. This is just the truth, folks.
It is not un-American to recognize that smart people tend to avoid military service. And it does not malign all GI's to note that they might have preferred to go to college and study philosophy, but they couldn't get in. It does not say that they aren't salt of the earth guys you would want as your friends and neighbors. It is what it is.
The smartest guys are generally officer rank, and not the guy with the gun, looking for IED's and enemy troops. Most of us would not want our loved ones to be over there - no matter how honorable. "Stay in school," we warn them "or you might get sent to Iraq."
How much more we would have admired Kerry, if he had the ability to articulate his point of view. Bush, for all of his elocution faults, lets us know exactly where he stands.
10/27/2006
The World She Will Grow up in
I was lamenting to one of my friends - who happens to be a NeoCon sympathizer - that I shuddered to think of the world that my new grand daughter would be growing up in. I was painting a fairly bleak picture of a nation overrun by illegal immigrants, subject to frequent bomb threats and actual random terrorist attacks, gasoline prices shooting above $5 per gallon, a populace whose freedoms would be tightly controlled by a totalitarian government that brooked no dissent. OK, I was admittedly playing the literary license card to advance my own personal agenda which is to throw the current rascals out of power.
I am mostly an independent - which annoys both sides. The cons call me a "flipflopper" and the libs call me a "tool." I subscribe to the political sentiments that I hear from a lot of Brits: "Governments are like a baby's nappys; they need to be changed frequently - and for the same reason."
So, this is why I am willing to help defeat the incumbent party in the next election. The Cons say that Bush administration has protected us. Well, I'm not seeing it. The borders are still as porous as a knitted doily. Nobody thinks the rail system or ports are safe from people of bad intent, with a decent plan and destructive means. Homeland security is a joke that has no one LoL-ing. Kim IL Jong thinks we are a pussycat. Chavez can come to the UN and act like an asshole and get a standing Ovation. (Maybe it doesn't matter if a bunch of boogerglob 4th world countries think he's funny, but I find it annoying - even Nixon was treated better in South America.)
The Republicans have simply failed on all the measures where they had previously claimed the high ground.
I am mostly an independent - which annoys both sides. The cons call me a "flipflopper" and the libs call me a "tool." I subscribe to the political sentiments that I hear from a lot of Brits: "Governments are like a baby's nappys; they need to be changed frequently - and for the same reason."
So, this is why I am willing to help defeat the incumbent party in the next election. The Cons say that Bush administration has protected us. Well, I'm not seeing it. The borders are still as porous as a knitted doily. Nobody thinks the rail system or ports are safe from people of bad intent, with a decent plan and destructive means. Homeland security is a joke that has no one LoL-ing. Kim IL Jong thinks we are a pussycat. Chavez can come to the UN and act like an asshole and get a standing Ovation. (Maybe it doesn't matter if a bunch of boogerglob 4th world countries think he's funny, but I find it annoying - even Nixon was treated better in South America.)
The Republicans have simply failed on all the measures where they had previously claimed the high ground.
- Fiscal Responsibility - check out the national debt; look at the earmarks; look at the Budget! We in the middle class are being crushed by the profligate spending of the current, irresponsible house and senate. What happened to 8 Billion cash "lost" in Iraq? They gotta go!
- Moral Superiority - : Mark Foley Scandal; lobbyist Scandal; Indictments; Earmarks for indefensible projects.
- We won't Cut and Run - The fact is, and everyone knows it - they are looking for a way to do just that - despite the contrary protestations of Mr. Bush. He can't commit us beyond 2008. Anyhow.
10/11/2006
The Sky is Falling Part 2
As if to make my point about the difficulty in getting the Truth on this data rich world of ours, I just had to shut off the TV in frustration because the BREAKING NEWS BULLETINS were interrupting all the other programs on all stations to show the same poor quality film clip of a building that was burning in New York City.
The reports had almost no real factual data except that "something" apparently had crashed into a high rise building near the river. The speculation was that it was a small plane or a helicopter. Astoundingly, in the city of 10 million people, a full hour after the incident not one eye witness could be found to say what he or she observed. There seems to be no debris from the crashed aircraft. One neighbor says she heard an explosion, but did not see any aircraft.
So I am frustrated that the news people are in such a hurry to bring us the non-news and to fill our heads with non information (speculation) that I had to shut the damn TV off. Why can't they wait to find out what happened? I am willing to wait for the facts, believe me.
It would be like me posting the news that my expectant daughter is at the hospital in labor. You don't really need that information until we know that the baby has been born and all the attendant facts. So I would never post that sort of information prematurely, even if it were true,
which it is.
The reports had almost no real factual data except that "something" apparently had crashed into a high rise building near the river. The speculation was that it was a small plane or a helicopter. Astoundingly, in the city of 10 million people, a full hour after the incident not one eye witness could be found to say what he or she observed. There seems to be no debris from the crashed aircraft. One neighbor says she heard an explosion, but did not see any aircraft.
So I am frustrated that the news people are in such a hurry to bring us the non-news and to fill our heads with non information (speculation) that I had to shut the damn TV off. Why can't they wait to find out what happened? I am willing to wait for the facts, believe me.
It would be like me posting the news that my expectant daughter is at the hospital in labor. You don't really need that information until we know that the baby has been born and all the attendant facts. So I would never post that sort of information prematurely, even if it were true,
which it is.
10/04/2006
The Sky is Falling
It is difficult to sort through the welter of information that is drifting around the cyberverse these days, especially if one is seeking to know the Truth.
There was a report of a study the other day that purported to make some useful conclusions about the personal hygiene of our fellow Americans.
Although 92% of the people polled said that they always washed their hands after using the bathroom, The Soap and Detergent Association reports that a 2005 study it commissioned shows that only 83% of people washed their hands after using a public restroom.
How is the discerning reader to make any sense of this type of sloppy research and reporting. In the first case the question is about all bathroom usage. One can assume that the respondants were thinking about the primary site of bathroom use - the home. In the second case, the observation is specifically about public bathroom usage. Cripes, at least a third of the public facilities in the USA do not have fully functional sinks or towel dispensors. And for guys, if there is any sort of a line, well....
If you asked me if I always washed my hands after using the rest room, I would say yes 100% of the time. Yet, I have noticed that a lot of my fellow males skip this importance phase of the rest room visit. This has created a certain amount of anguish for me.
What is the point of me gallantly washing the germs off my hands if I am going to have to open the door using the door handle that is clearly infested and probably infected with the teeming bacteria of the non-handwashers?
People look at you like you are a wierdo if you just stand around in the men's room waiting for someone else to open the door. Until someone invents the self sanitizing door handle I shall be forced to use the paper towel to open the door.
Some of my friends - especially the dog owners* - think I am a bit too obsessive about germs. But, once the bird flu gets to be a pandemic, the non handwashers will be sneezing their eyeballs into the sink; clean people like me will be the survivors.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*If you want and education, google this phrase: "Dogs like to eat and roll in feces"
There was a report of a study the other day that purported to make some useful conclusions about the personal hygiene of our fellow Americans.
Although 92% of the people polled said that they always washed their hands after using the bathroom, The Soap and Detergent Association reports that a 2005 study it commissioned shows that only 83% of people washed their hands after using a public restroom.
How is the discerning reader to make any sense of this type of sloppy research and reporting. In the first case the question is about all bathroom usage. One can assume that the respondants were thinking about the primary site of bathroom use - the home. In the second case, the observation is specifically about public bathroom usage. Cripes, at least a third of the public facilities in the USA do not have fully functional sinks or towel dispensors. And for guys, if there is any sort of a line, well....
If you asked me if I always washed my hands after using the rest room, I would say yes 100% of the time. Yet, I have noticed that a lot of my fellow males skip this importance phase of the rest room visit. This has created a certain amount of anguish for me.
What is the point of me gallantly washing the germs off my hands if I am going to have to open the door using the door handle that is clearly infested and probably infected with the teeming bacteria of the non-handwashers?
People look at you like you are a wierdo if you just stand around in the men's room waiting for someone else to open the door. Until someone invents the self sanitizing door handle I shall be forced to use the paper towel to open the door.
Some of my friends - especially the dog owners* - think I am a bit too obsessive about germs. But, once the bird flu gets to be a pandemic, the non handwashers will be sneezing their eyeballs into the sink; clean people like me will be the survivors.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*If you want and education, google this phrase: "Dogs like to eat and roll in feces"
9/21/2006
Being Nice
I saw a piece in the paper this week about a book that was just published entitled "The Power of Nice." The authors are advertising execs who claim to have become successful by being nice instead of being cut-throat, backstabbing sharks.
This Being Nice philosophy is somewhat counter to the popular culture of competitveness, being the best, doing what Machievelli would do. I like the sound of it, but I am a bit skeptical. If I had to compile a ranked list of factors for success, "niceness" would appear very near the bottom, if at all.
In my experience I have noticed that not many nice people get put in charge of things. The rewards system of most organizations favors the individual who can concentrate on a single-minded organizational goal without sentimental regard to personal/human considerations. Like a good chess player, the future leader must sacrifice some pawns to capture a knight. And so on.
I am not saying I like it. I am just saying that's how it is.
This Being Nice philosophy is somewhat counter to the popular culture of competitveness, being the best, doing what Machievelli would do. I like the sound of it, but I am a bit skeptical. If I had to compile a ranked list of factors for success, "niceness" would appear very near the bottom, if at all.
In my experience I have noticed that not many nice people get put in charge of things. The rewards system of most organizations favors the individual who can concentrate on a single-minded organizational goal without sentimental regard to personal/human considerations. Like a good chess player, the future leader must sacrifice some pawns to capture a knight. And so on.
I am not saying I like it. I am just saying that's how it is.
9/16/2006
And Your Hat looks Funny Too!
News Report: Gunmen firebombed five churches in the Palestinian territories Saturday over remarks by Pope Benedict XVI this week that outraged Muslims around the world who interpreted the Pope's words as criticism that Islam endorses violence.
Why would Anyone think that Muslims endorse violence?
Why would Anyone think that Muslims endorse violence?
8/29/2006
Off to Bonny Scotland
I'll be taking the high road for the next few weeks and will not have time for blogeries, so get your fix somewhere else for a change. See you back here sometime around the ides of Sept.
8/23/2006
Confessions
I have never disclosed this before to anyone, but since one can get a lot of unwarranted attention, free food and air travel by admitting to old unsolved crimes, I want to be the first to admit that I was the real Boston Strangler. BTW, I thought Tony Curtis did a great job in the role, although I am much better looking. Of course I am long since retired from such shenanigans.
My last slaying was a fat chipmunk about two weeks ago who went for my tomato-baited rat trap. I was hoping to exterminate the marauding squirrels but they are too quick for the traps. I felt bad about the chipmunk, so I put the traps away.
I may have found a new solution: at the take-and-leave section of the dump I found a discarded (never opened) motion sensor alarm. It was one of those electronic gimmicks from Sharper Image that plays the sound of a dog barking and growling when it senses movement nearby.
I'm sure there is an interesting story behind it: eg, Somebody probably bought it for their poor widowed mother to make her feel safe living alone in that run-down apartment in a bad section of the city, rather than having her moving-in with the family in the toney suburbs, like she's been begging to. But, before she could get out to the drugstore to buy the 4 "D" cell batteries (not included) she was probably strangled by some pervert.
I loaded it up with fresh Duracells and it worked fine. The contraption seems to keep the squirrels away from the tomatoes - for now. Funny how one person's loss can be another's gain.
As I look out on the garden this morning, I realize that we are less than two weeks from Labor Day, which is considered the potential First Frost Date here in new England. And I am just now picking the Early Girls. The Jet Stars are still the size of eggs and green. Naturally, we will be in Europe when the Jet Stars ripen. Feel free to come over and pick some for your dinner salad.
The old e-mailbag has been overflowing with at least one inquiry about my health.
Thanks - you know who you are. I hope the rest of you do not feel guilty. My courageous battle against ulcers has been tough and lonely, but it has been a journey of hope and inspiration.
Ok. That was a lie. I never knew I had ulcers. I have been taking 2 Aleve on a daily basis for jillions of years (at least 5), for my arthritic and old age pains. I just noticed that there is a warning on the label on a bottle of ALEVE in the smallest typefont known to modern man, it warns that if you drink 3 or more beers a day it could result in stomach bleeding. Which leads to "pernicious anemia."
Perhaps the Aleve (Naproxen) served to dampen any ulcer pain. It should also be noted that I have a cast iron stomach and have only been sick enough to regurgitate twice in the past 40 years. Once in 1972 when I ate too many hot dogs for dinner the night before passing papers on our first house (nervous, no doubt, at the burden of amassing a staggering debt of $22,000). The other time was in 1999 when I got food poisoning. I have always associated ulcers with stress.
In recent years, I have often boasted that I had all but eliminated stress from my life - mainly by reducing my commute time and also being more proactive in avoiding toxic work venues and the assholes who dominated them. So the ulcers are a puzzle to me.
Not so much of a puzzle to my doctor who blames alcohol all of my health problems, including the psoriasis. Fuck him, what does he know?
Anyhow - just to keep the peace around here, I am not drinking (nor taking Aleve) for the foreseeable future. They consider me in a detoxification stage, and are prescribing me a nice cocktail of tranquilizers and nap-inducers. I wait until late in the day to take these; otherwise, my thought processes are like sausage.
My wife and I have discussed the very real possibility that it may be too dangerous for me to continue in retirement. Left to my own devices, I tend to thrash. I am prone to getting into trouble, hanging around bars, going to casinos and racetracks. Running with a disreputable crowd. Having impure thoughts. Lunches, beers with the gang, fishing and not catching. Not that these things are morally bad, but they seem to be bad for my health.
It seems that I need external structure, agenda and a place to go. In other words, I need a job. This is a profoundly disappointing thing to discover about oneself. But, what is one to do, but face up to the truth?
My last slaying was a fat chipmunk about two weeks ago who went for my tomato-baited rat trap. I was hoping to exterminate the marauding squirrels but they are too quick for the traps. I felt bad about the chipmunk, so I put the traps away.
I may have found a new solution: at the take-and-leave section of the dump I found a discarded (never opened) motion sensor alarm. It was one of those electronic gimmicks from Sharper Image that plays the sound of a dog barking and growling when it senses movement nearby.
I'm sure there is an interesting story behind it: eg, Somebody probably bought it for their poor widowed mother to make her feel safe living alone in that run-down apartment in a bad section of the city, rather than having her moving-in with the family in the toney suburbs, like she's been begging to. But, before she could get out to the drugstore to buy the 4 "D" cell batteries (not included) she was probably strangled by some pervert.
I loaded it up with fresh Duracells and it worked fine. The contraption seems to keep the squirrels away from the tomatoes - for now. Funny how one person's loss can be another's gain.
As I look out on the garden this morning, I realize that we are less than two weeks from Labor Day, which is considered the potential First Frost Date here in new England. And I am just now picking the Early Girls. The Jet Stars are still the size of eggs and green. Naturally, we will be in Europe when the Jet Stars ripen. Feel free to come over and pick some for your dinner salad.
The old e-mailbag has been overflowing with at least one inquiry about my health.
Thanks - you know who you are. I hope the rest of you do not feel guilty. My courageous battle against ulcers has been tough and lonely, but it has been a journey of hope and inspiration.
Ok. That was a lie. I never knew I had ulcers. I have been taking 2 Aleve on a daily basis for jillions of years (at least 5), for my arthritic and old age pains. I just noticed that there is a warning on the label on a bottle of ALEVE in the smallest typefont known to modern man, it warns that if you drink 3 or more beers a day it could result in stomach bleeding. Which leads to "pernicious anemia."
Perhaps the Aleve (Naproxen) served to dampen any ulcer pain. It should also be noted that I have a cast iron stomach and have only been sick enough to regurgitate twice in the past 40 years. Once in 1972 when I ate too many hot dogs for dinner the night before passing papers on our first house (nervous, no doubt, at the burden of amassing a staggering debt of $22,000). The other time was in 1999 when I got food poisoning. I have always associated ulcers with stress.
In recent years, I have often boasted that I had all but eliminated stress from my life - mainly by reducing my commute time and also being more proactive in avoiding toxic work venues and the assholes who dominated them. So the ulcers are a puzzle to me.
Not so much of a puzzle to my doctor who blames alcohol all of my health problems, including the psoriasis. Fuck him, what does he know?
Anyhow - just to keep the peace around here, I am not drinking (nor taking Aleve) for the foreseeable future. They consider me in a detoxification stage, and are prescribing me a nice cocktail of tranquilizers and nap-inducers. I wait until late in the day to take these; otherwise, my thought processes are like sausage.
My wife and I have discussed the very real possibility that it may be too dangerous for me to continue in retirement. Left to my own devices, I tend to thrash. I am prone to getting into trouble, hanging around bars, going to casinos and racetracks. Running with a disreputable crowd. Having impure thoughts. Lunches, beers with the gang, fishing and not catching. Not that these things are morally bad, but they seem to be bad for my health.
It seems that I need external structure, agenda and a place to go. In other words, I need a job. This is a profoundly disappointing thing to discover about oneself. But, what is one to do, but face up to the truth?
8/20/2006
Blackout
The sound of the fan stopping woke me up this morning. The swishing blades were still barely moving when I looked at my bedside clock and saw that the power had gone off. How magnified are my senses these days with the boutique chemicals rambling around my medula oblongata. Sounds do not awaken me. The silence is what lassoed my attention.
I sit on the edge of the bed and look out the open window. It is raining. The Sunday paper is lying in the driveway, too close to the gutter. It is double wrapped in plastic, but history has proven that it will get soaked if left to sit as the water rises. I hate trying to read a wet newspaper, so I put my pants and socks on and pad downstairs in the semi darkness. My wife is still asleep, but the cats - who have been waiting impatiently for someone to arise and feed them - follow me down the stairs. The battery-powered clock in the kitchen says that it is 7:53.
I retrieve the paper and then divide a jar of the expensive strained turkey baby food that the cats have come to expect for breakfast. We pamper them and in return they do not puke on the rug.
Everything we have is electric, so I cannot make coffee or read the paper inside. I take my morning mix of pills with cranberry juice and take the paper out to the porch where the light is better. I turn the overhead fan switch on, so I will know when the power comes back on.
We live in perilous times. Any moment, life as we know it may suddenly change because of terrorists or exploding volcanoes or raging atmospheric storms. We are on high alert. The brain is beginning to plan for an extended power outage: This time, I will eat all the Edie's lime-flavored fruit bars before they melt!
Shortly, the fan starts up. Crisis averted. I trundle around, resetting the digital timepieces on the microwave, oven and radio. Then, Coffee!
What caused the blackout? Probably we shall never know. I like to think it was Homer Simpson getting donut jelly stuck in one of the keys at the municipal light plant, but more than likely it was a burnt-out transformer. Somebody got some extra OT pay, the Edie's Fruit bars are intact and our cease-fire with disaster seems to be holding.
I sit on the edge of the bed and look out the open window. It is raining. The Sunday paper is lying in the driveway, too close to the gutter. It is double wrapped in plastic, but history has proven that it will get soaked if left to sit as the water rises. I hate trying to read a wet newspaper, so I put my pants and socks on and pad downstairs in the semi darkness. My wife is still asleep, but the cats - who have been waiting impatiently for someone to arise and feed them - follow me down the stairs. The battery-powered clock in the kitchen says that it is 7:53.
I retrieve the paper and then divide a jar of the expensive strained turkey baby food that the cats have come to expect for breakfast. We pamper them and in return they do not puke on the rug.
Everything we have is electric, so I cannot make coffee or read the paper inside. I take my morning mix of pills with cranberry juice and take the paper out to the porch where the light is better. I turn the overhead fan switch on, so I will know when the power comes back on.
We live in perilous times. Any moment, life as we know it may suddenly change because of terrorists or exploding volcanoes or raging atmospheric storms. We are on high alert. The brain is beginning to plan for an extended power outage: This time, I will eat all the Edie's lime-flavored fruit bars before they melt!
Shortly, the fan starts up. Crisis averted. I trundle around, resetting the digital timepieces on the microwave, oven and radio. Then, Coffee!
What caused the blackout? Probably we shall never know. I like to think it was Homer Simpson getting donut jelly stuck in one of the keys at the municipal light plant, but more than likely it was a burnt-out transformer. Somebody got some extra OT pay, the Edie's Fruit bars are intact and our cease-fire with disaster seems to be holding.
8/17/2006
The Healing Process
Day by day we heal ever so gradually, even as we acknowledge the road to dusty death lies visible before us. And we must steel ourselves to pack-up and set-out to begin again on tomorrow's long journey into night.
Entropy, thou witch, has cursed our bones and flesh. We crawl to the edge of the oasis of good feeling and then the mecacah toss us rudely back on the stinging sand, laughing at our pitious moans. They tell me it's the drugs; but I know evil spirits when I feel them gnawing on my soul! The real question; Were they really Doctors or intergalactic Aliens intent upon harvesting my essences?
I lie in bed with my eyes shut against the pain, wondering when the rude experiments they are performing will end. The probes, the tubes, the suction machines and I open my eyes to recognize that it is our Brazilian cleaning ladies who are violating me as I lay helpless. They seem to be talking to each other in a language I cannot understand. They are giving me a sponge bath. The young one with long dark eyelashes is unsure how to procede. They point at my privates and tell her "pretend he is your boyfriend." She completes the hygiene in a most satisfying way. I want her for my nurse.
But once again, it is likely just one of the thousands of daily drug-induced screenplays that occupy my mental viewing screen. Don't get me wrong, it beats working, but I am not sure it beats drinking.
Entropy, thou witch, has cursed our bones and flesh. We crawl to the edge of the oasis of good feeling and then the mecacah toss us rudely back on the stinging sand, laughing at our pitious moans. They tell me it's the drugs; but I know evil spirits when I feel them gnawing on my soul! The real question; Were they really Doctors or intergalactic Aliens intent upon harvesting my essences?
I lie in bed with my eyes shut against the pain, wondering when the rude experiments they are performing will end. The probes, the tubes, the suction machines and I open my eyes to recognize that it is our Brazilian cleaning ladies who are violating me as I lay helpless. They seem to be talking to each other in a language I cannot understand. They are giving me a sponge bath. The young one with long dark eyelashes is unsure how to procede. They point at my privates and tell her "pretend he is your boyfriend." She completes the hygiene in a most satisfying way. I want her for my nurse.
But once again, it is likely just one of the thousands of daily drug-induced screenplays that occupy my mental viewing screen. Don't get me wrong, it beats working, but I am not sure it beats drinking.
8/16/2006
A True Story, Honest
The other day I got an email from the library telling me that I had two books that were seriously overdue and generating fines. If I did not return the books I would be remanded to a maximum security prison where the guards are hired because they score above the 98th percentile of the DeSade profile. (Many of them had been rejected by administrators Abu Grhaib because they were too violent). The notice assured me that no one had ever escaped and no one was ever released. There were no visitors except for mean little children who came to throw rotten eggs and bags of dog feces at the inmates as they whooped down the halls.
The note told me that I could avoid this hassle by simply bringing the books back and paying the fine. I decided upon this course of action and presented myself at the "Miscreant Borrower" desk at the main branch. A stern uniformed woman looked me over, as if wondering what size orange jumpsuit I would be wearing when I was convicted. "Double XXL, I should imagine."
"What?" I asked.
"Pay no mind, patron, I was just thinking out loud. Now, then. What are we trying to pull?"
"Pull?"
"Yes, PULL! Keeping these books overdue! Certainly you are aware that we have RULES..."
"Well, actually, it was an error." She rolled her eyes dramatically as if to say I've never heard this one before... "I was actually in the hospital for a few days and..."
"In the Hospital for a few days, were you?" she clarified
"Yes, Mam, and the meds they sort of got me confused about the days..."
"These books are six days overdue!" She glared at me like where the fuck have I been? Didn't I understand priorities? How can we run an efficient library if people are going to keep books out overdue?
I felt pretty bad about it all. Inconsiderate. Bad citizen.
Then her face seemed to melt into a friendly, forgiving, almost motherly smile.
"Drugs, did you say? They have you on meds?"
"Yeah, I'm in a fog half the day with this Ativan." A barely perceptible brightening of the smile. "Yah, 2mg 3 times a day - I'm like a zombie."
"Oh poor dear. Sometimes they over prescribe those tranqs. We have a program where we distribute them to needy nervous people you know." I noticed a mild tremor in her hand which she disguised by tapping her pencil on the counter.
"Ok, let's deal." I said.
I walked out of the library with a clean record and a receipt for fine paid. The librarian was probably in the back room popping at least one of the half dozen pills of Ativan. Good, she needed to chill out a bit.
The note told me that I could avoid this hassle by simply bringing the books back and paying the fine. I decided upon this course of action and presented myself at the "Miscreant Borrower" desk at the main branch. A stern uniformed woman looked me over, as if wondering what size orange jumpsuit I would be wearing when I was convicted. "Double XXL, I should imagine."
"What?" I asked.
"Pay no mind, patron, I was just thinking out loud. Now, then. What are we trying to pull?"
"Pull?"
"Yes, PULL! Keeping these books overdue! Certainly you are aware that we have RULES..."
"Well, actually, it was an error." She rolled her eyes dramatically as if to say I've never heard this one before... "I was actually in the hospital for a few days and..."
"In the Hospital for a few days, were you?" she clarified
"Yes, Mam, and the meds they sort of got me confused about the days..."
"These books are six days overdue!" She glared at me like where the fuck have I been? Didn't I understand priorities? How can we run an efficient library if people are going to keep books out overdue?
I felt pretty bad about it all. Inconsiderate. Bad citizen.
Then her face seemed to melt into a friendly, forgiving, almost motherly smile.
"Drugs, did you say? They have you on meds?"
"Yeah, I'm in a fog half the day with this Ativan." A barely perceptible brightening of the smile. "Yah, 2mg 3 times a day - I'm like a zombie."
"Oh poor dear. Sometimes they over prescribe those tranqs. We have a program where we distribute them to needy nervous people you know." I noticed a mild tremor in her hand which she disguised by tapping her pencil on the counter.
"Ok, let's deal." I said.
I walked out of the library with a clean record and a receipt for fine paid. The librarian was probably in the back room popping at least one of the half dozen pills of Ativan. Good, she needed to chill out a bit.
8/06/2006
Two versions of last week
Version 1 : I have a great excuse for not getting the blog updated.
On Tuesday I was forced by my wife to get checked-out for some minor health issues.
The Local Animal Dr/HMO surgeon recomended that we go to the ER for faster test results. Obediently, we go to the hospital but before I can explain that this is no big deal, I feel fine, this is just a test. . I am wearing one of those assless pajama tops with tubes and wires up into everything. People sticking things everywhere, intimately, and without so much as an introduction.
You start to worry when you look down at the foot of your gurney to see a youngish looking black Doctor - i swear the kid looked younger than Doogy Hauser - and he is looking at my chart through thick plastic rimmed glasses and yelling "Holy shit! Code Blue! Sombody get the difribbukator! Where are my paddles?"
I'm panicked by then - just as one zaftic black lady appears and grabs him by
the arm and says, "Com'on, Leroy! You not sposed to be bodderin' the sick
mens..." She smiles at me like 'he was just funnun ya'.
Fucking hospitals. Then another kid in a green doctor suit wants to
stick his purple gloved finger up my ass ostensibly to check my prostate.
"You won't like this" he says. But the drugs are dulling my rapier wit.
"How can you tell I might be gay?" I smile agreeably. He grimmaces at my bad sense of humor.
He says that my prostate isn't "all that big", Then confirms the worst diagnosis:
most definitely "blood in stool". Enough discussion on how this is determined. eh? I cannot think of a worse sounding symptom.
>
So internal bleeding. The best case is bleeding ulcers; the worst case is bullet to the abdomen, middle case is colon cancer. With no reason to suspect bullet holes we have a tossup which I am rooting for theulcer. A literal army of people come in and out of my "room" in the ER. Some are just looking for supplies which are stored on the shelves. The pull back the curtain look at me, look around and close the curtain. i am like a Panda in the zoo, viewing is available for all who pay the price of a ticket,
Apparently, I am being examined in a part time storage room. Still it looks a lot like the exam room on the TV set. I am wired to a heart machine that beeps encouragingly and displays my life line om a small monitor; my temp and pulse rate are being tracked by a wired clothespin on my index finger. An automatic blood pressure cuff is attached to my upper arm. Periodically it inflates and deflates to record the vital measures of my blood pressure - which is probably hitting the roof because I am convinced this is the Hotel California (You can check out but you can never leave...) , and I am most certainly doomed.
As I try to write this I am under the influence of too many drugs to recall what has transpired in detail since Tuesday. Spent two nights being monitored and getting (probably contaminated) several blood transfusions. I was released on Thursday and when I saw my doc on Friday he said I was going to be fine, but that I should never to take Aleve or - drink anything alcoholic again (ever) - he has me on an alcohol withdrawal drug - probably the same one they are giving to Mel Gibson. I hope he doesn't have as much tyops as I do.
Version two - cleaned up
Anyhow, it's been a hard week. On monday, I was not feeling so good. Not to be indiscrete but my bowels were not behaving "normally"; I was feeling lightheaded as I worked around the yard. it was hot, so I attrinuted the lightheadedness to heat exhaustuion.
On Tuesday, My wife pursueded me to call our HMO for a looksee. They thought I sounded anemic and that I needed a test that could best be done as an outpatient, so I endup at Brigham and womens ER. Long story short: I am bleeding from ulcers. The give me two units of blood to raise my blood count. I stayed there tues and wed night (this was the first time I had been in the hospital overnight since my birth.)
I am now on a coctail of drugs that makes typing werds almost impossible. One of the drugs is attipan which seems to simulate the effects of drinking a qt of vodka. They (The young fellows dressed in green clothese who call themselvbes DR seem to think that my bleeding ulers are caused by a combination of too mucn naproxin (ALEVE) too mutch scotch and Gin. Maybe caused by bargain priced no name tonic water.
Today - Saturday (what happened to Friday?) I am feeling fine and beck to my normal routine - except for the Alevel and alcohol both of which I am on an indefinit prohibition from. This thursday I am checking my self into the mel gibson rehab clinic, sounds like fun.
more news when i can tyoe bettr
On Tuesday I was forced by my wife to get checked-out for some minor health issues.
The Local Animal Dr/HMO surgeon recomended that we go to the ER for faster test results. Obediently, we go to the hospital but before I can explain that this is no big deal, I feel fine, this is just a test. . I am wearing one of those assless pajama tops with tubes and wires up into everything. People sticking things everywhere, intimately, and without so much as an introduction.
You start to worry when you look down at the foot of your gurney to see a youngish looking black Doctor - i swear the kid looked younger than Doogy Hauser - and he is looking at my chart through thick plastic rimmed glasses and yelling "Holy shit! Code Blue! Sombody get the difribbukator! Where are my paddles?"
I'm panicked by then - just as one zaftic black lady appears and grabs him by
the arm and says, "Com'on, Leroy! You not sposed to be bodderin' the sick
mens..." She smiles at me like 'he was just funnun ya'.
Fucking hospitals. Then another kid in a green doctor suit wants to
stick his purple gloved finger up my ass ostensibly to check my prostate.
"You won't like this" he says. But the drugs are dulling my rapier wit.
"How can you tell I might be gay?" I smile agreeably. He grimmaces at my bad sense of humor.
He says that my prostate isn't "all that big", Then confirms the worst diagnosis:
most definitely "blood in stool". Enough discussion on how this is determined. eh? I cannot think of a worse sounding symptom.
>
So internal bleeding. The best case is bleeding ulcers; the worst case is bullet to the abdomen, middle case is colon cancer. With no reason to suspect bullet holes we have a tossup which I am rooting for theulcer. A literal army of people come in and out of my "room" in the ER. Some are just looking for supplies which are stored on the shelves. The pull back the curtain look at me, look around and close the curtain. i am like a Panda in the zoo, viewing is available for all who pay the price of a ticket,
Apparently, I am being examined in a part time storage room. Still it looks a lot like the exam room on the TV set. I am wired to a heart machine that beeps encouragingly and displays my life line om a small monitor; my temp and pulse rate are being tracked by a wired clothespin on my index finger. An automatic blood pressure cuff is attached to my upper arm. Periodically it inflates and deflates to record the vital measures of my blood pressure - which is probably hitting the roof because I am convinced this is the Hotel California (You can check out but you can never leave...) , and I am most certainly doomed.
As I try to write this I am under the influence of too many drugs to recall what has transpired in detail since Tuesday. Spent two nights being monitored and getting (probably contaminated) several blood transfusions. I was released on Thursday and when I saw my doc on Friday he said I was going to be fine, but that I should never to take Aleve or - drink anything alcoholic again (ever) - he has me on an alcohol withdrawal drug - probably the same one they are giving to Mel Gibson. I hope he doesn't have as much tyops as I do.
Version two - cleaned up
Anyhow, it's been a hard week. On monday, I was not feeling so good. Not to be indiscrete but my bowels were not behaving "normally"; I was feeling lightheaded as I worked around the yard. it was hot, so I attrinuted the lightheadedness to heat exhaustuion.
On Tuesday, My wife pursueded me to call our HMO for a looksee. They thought I sounded anemic and that I needed a test that could best be done as an outpatient, so I endup at Brigham and womens ER. Long story short: I am bleeding from ulcers. The give me two units of blood to raise my blood count. I stayed there tues and wed night (this was the first time I had been in the hospital overnight since my birth.)
I am now on a coctail of drugs that makes typing werds almost impossible. One of the drugs is attipan which seems to simulate the effects of drinking a qt of vodka. They (The young fellows dressed in green clothese who call themselvbes DR seem to think that my bleeding ulers are caused by a combination of too mucn naproxin (ALEVE) too mutch scotch and Gin. Maybe caused by bargain priced no name tonic water.
Today - Saturday (what happened to Friday?) I am feeling fine and beck to my normal routine - except for the Alevel and alcohol both of which I am on an indefinit prohibition from. This thursday I am checking my self into the mel gibson rehab clinic, sounds like fun.
more news when i can tyoe bettr
7/25/2006
NCE* Update
I was up at 8:30am today. You would not believe how many people are out and about at this ungodly hour! The streets are already filled with cars and trucks. Runners and walkers on the sidewalks, sweating and listening to their i-pods.
It was a revelation. Since I have joined the ranks of the NCE, (*Not Currently Employed) I have been in the habit of sleeping until at least 9:00, sipping coffee and reading the papers on the porch before getting myself together for a mid-day stroll. Okay. I'm kidding. Just trying to rub-it-in to you poor SOBs have to get up and drag your ass to work everyday at some hellhole. :-)
In all honesty, I hardly ever get to sleep late. I do try to stay out of the way during my wife's daily multi-hour long preparations to make herself presentable for her co-workers. I usually get out of bed when she calls up to say that she is leaving for work.
She seems to think that if the coffee maker is left unattended, it will burst into flames. So, if I am not up and about, she unplugs the Mr. Coffee as she departs for the day. (Probably, she is happy to be in the relative safety of her car and out of the hazardous environment of our domicile.)
So I get up and make awake noises; otherwise, by the time I go down stairs to the kitchen I am greeted with 2 hungry cats and tepid coffee. In the cats' opinion, my wife doesn't feed them enough to get them through the next 12 hours of napping, so they hang around yowling for more food. She doesn't over feed them for a good reason. Someone, we are not sure which one, has been gobbling up breakfast, and then barfing it up on the rug. I am sternly informed that whoever feeds the cats is responsible for puke-patrol. I feed them anyway; I'd rather deal with the puke than the yowling while I'm trying to read the news.
So I get up and feed the cats (again), wash 2 Aleves down with hot coffee and read the papers. If it's cool enough I go out on the screen porch. Sometimes I go for an early morning walk. I know what you are thinking: why not just sleep until 9 and reheat the coffee in the microwave? Maybe I am too fussy, but I don't think coffee tastes as good when it has been reheated. But it certainly is a viable option.
People often ask me "What have you been up to lately?" as if I should be doing something exciting with my free time, or at least accomplishing something worthwhile. Most of my NCE friends are constantly working on projects, improving their properties and working on to-do lists.
Most of us have CE (working) wives, who draw up the to-do lists and check on the progress of said lists each night - usually while sipping their evening cocktail, waiting to be served dinner.
"So did you call the A/C guy today?"
"Yeah, I left a message."
"You left a message last week."
"Yeah, this is a new guy. I think they are pretty busy with this heat wave."
"Well how about the Fence guy?"
"Ah, I forgot."
"Plumber?"
"Left message..."
"How about the bedroom shades?"
"Yes, I went to Home Depot, they are out of shades."
"Home depot is 'out of shades'?" she asks in that mocking tone they all use.
"How the blazes can Home Depot be out of shades?"
"The guy who orders shades died the other day. He was crushed in an accident."
The real answer is, of course, that Home Depot has decided to change their provider for shades. Levellor is out and Bali is in. Two weeks wait before the new stock is in. Besides, I try to remind her that it is dangerous to shop there. But the CE wives are not interested in flimsy excuses.
I have been describing the last six months as a "Sabbatical" to justify the life of someone who is not expected to be anywhere other than meeting friends for lunch or beers. It is true that I have increased my time reading and working on outdoors projects, but I am disappointed that I have not been possessed of an urge to WRITE more. It was always my dream to be freed from the earthly bounds of a workaday job so I could bestow upon the world the jeweled gift of creative storytelling.
All I needed was a few months to recharge my batteries and then my Muse would visit, perhaps even take up residence. Oh, the short stories, the published articles, pithy observations, clever dialogue, witty repartee, the novels, the plays, the TV interviews, the fame, the new friends, the house on the Vineyard, the boat - no, the Yacht!
But, alas, my muse seems also to be on sabbatical. And, how could one with such majestic expectations be expected to spend even a fraction of the precious remaining days of his brief candle doing mundane tasks - like painting the bedroom, or getting the plumber to fix a leak in the toilet - just because he seems to the uninformed observer to have nothing better to do?
So, here I am. Much of my To-Do list remains affixed (uncrossed-off) by a magnet to the refrigerator, where I can clearly see it as a reproach each time I reach for a frosty Sierra Nevada.
It was a revelation. Since I have joined the ranks of the NCE, (*Not Currently Employed) I have been in the habit of sleeping until at least 9:00, sipping coffee and reading the papers on the porch before getting myself together for a mid-day stroll. Okay. I'm kidding. Just trying to rub-it-in to you poor SOBs have to get up and drag your ass to work everyday at some hellhole. :-)
In all honesty, I hardly ever get to sleep late. I do try to stay out of the way during my wife's daily multi-hour long preparations to make herself presentable for her co-workers. I usually get out of bed when she calls up to say that she is leaving for work.
She seems to think that if the coffee maker is left unattended, it will burst into flames. So, if I am not up and about, she unplugs the Mr. Coffee as she departs for the day. (Probably, she is happy to be in the relative safety of her car and out of the hazardous environment of our domicile.)
So I get up and make awake noises; otherwise, by the time I go down stairs to the kitchen I am greeted with 2 hungry cats and tepid coffee. In the cats' opinion, my wife doesn't feed them enough to get them through the next 12 hours of napping, so they hang around yowling for more food. She doesn't over feed them for a good reason. Someone, we are not sure which one, has been gobbling up breakfast, and then barfing it up on the rug. I am sternly informed that whoever feeds the cats is responsible for puke-patrol. I feed them anyway; I'd rather deal with the puke than the yowling while I'm trying to read the news.
So I get up and feed the cats (again), wash 2 Aleves down with hot coffee and read the papers. If it's cool enough I go out on the screen porch. Sometimes I go for an early morning walk. I know what you are thinking: why not just sleep until 9 and reheat the coffee in the microwave? Maybe I am too fussy, but I don't think coffee tastes as good when it has been reheated. But it certainly is a viable option.
People often ask me "What have you been up to lately?" as if I should be doing something exciting with my free time, or at least accomplishing something worthwhile. Most of my NCE friends are constantly working on projects, improving their properties and working on to-do lists.
Most of us have CE (working) wives, who draw up the to-do lists and check on the progress of said lists each night - usually while sipping their evening cocktail, waiting to be served dinner.
"So did you call the A/C guy today?"
"Yeah, I left a message."
"You left a message last week."
"Yeah, this is a new guy. I think they are pretty busy with this heat wave."
"Well how about the Fence guy?"
"Ah, I forgot."
"Plumber?"
"Left message..."
"How about the bedroom shades?"
"Yes, I went to Home Depot, they are out of shades."
"Home depot is 'out of shades'?" she asks in that mocking tone they all use.
"How the blazes can Home Depot be out of shades?"
"The guy who orders shades died the other day. He was crushed in an accident."
The real answer is, of course, that Home Depot has decided to change their provider for shades. Levellor is out and Bali is in. Two weeks wait before the new stock is in. Besides, I try to remind her that it is dangerous to shop there. But the CE wives are not interested in flimsy excuses.
I have been describing the last six months as a "Sabbatical" to justify the life of someone who is not expected to be anywhere other than meeting friends for lunch or beers. It is true that I have increased my time reading and working on outdoors projects, but I am disappointed that I have not been possessed of an urge to WRITE more. It was always my dream to be freed from the earthly bounds of a workaday job so I could bestow upon the world the jeweled gift of creative storytelling.
All I needed was a few months to recharge my batteries and then my Muse would visit, perhaps even take up residence. Oh, the short stories, the published articles, pithy observations, clever dialogue, witty repartee, the novels, the plays, the TV interviews, the fame, the new friends, the house on the Vineyard, the boat - no, the Yacht!
But, alas, my muse seems also to be on sabbatical. And, how could one with such majestic expectations be expected to spend even a fraction of the precious remaining days of his brief candle doing mundane tasks - like painting the bedroom, or getting the plumber to fix a leak in the toilet - just because he seems to the uninformed observer to have nothing better to do?
So, here I am. Much of my To-Do list remains affixed (uncrossed-off) by a magnet to the refrigerator, where I can clearly see it as a reproach each time I reach for a frosty Sierra Nevada.
7/17/2006
World Cup Yawn
Ok, so maybe the world will not light candles and hold a vigil to protest my retirement.
Perhaps I shall best be remembered as "the well-fed white haired guy who used to sit in that cubicle over by the window (what the *bleep* did he do anyway?)"
Let's face it: For most of us, a working career is like a walk on the beach. Despite our furious dedication and excellence in our chosen field, our footprints in the sand will remain just until the next high tide. The morning after we are gone, little trace of us exists on the shores of commerce.
If you were a decent chap who treated your coworkers well and earned their trust, the memory of you will fade quickly. But if you were a backbiting, brown-nosing mean bastard who regularly screwed peers and subordinates, you might be remembered a bit longer. But, alas, all of these memories fade over time.
We end up with the realization that the results of all of our striving, persuading, earnestness and worry were at best temporary.
I was reading a book I got from the public library titled “Goal-Free Living” The author, Stephen M. Shapiro, believes that most of us are blindly pursuing goals, and driven by our goal-orientation to the point that we never experience exhuberance in our lives. He asserts that modern Americans are so wrapped-up in the accomplishment of plans and outcomes, that we tend to forego the feelings of joy and happiness that comes with a sense of adventure, of living for the moment.
About seven pages into the book, I fell asleep. I tell you, it was the best nap I have experienced since watching two minutes of the world cup soccer match between Italy and France.
I am not alone in my puzzlement at the popularity of soccer around the world. It seems to me that it is one of those sports (like Golf, Fishing, Curling that is exciting to be a participant as opposed to a spectator. Perhaps the fans in countries like Italy and France -where baseball and football are not national sports - are re-living their own youthful experiences as players.
Certainly, Soccer is not a good sport for tv coverage. The field is too big. People are all over the place, mostly kicking the ball to and fro somewhere in the middle or along the sidelines. The matches usually end in a 1-0 or 2-1 after hours of running back and forth. Where's the excitement in that?
The French guy, Zidane, says he headbutted the Italian guy for calling his mother a terrorist . After 18 years of playing soccer, this is how this guy will be remembered by most of us. Fodder for the late night comics: "The annual G8 summit of the wealthiest nations gets underway tomorrow. Officials say this year the hardest part will be keeping the leader of France from head butting the leader of Italy." --Conan O'Brien
Most of my fans and detractors alike are probably snickering at the thought that I would be reading a book on goal-free living. I have often been accused of having a low sense of urgency and no apparent plans to accomplish anything important. I deny this of course. I am planning to read another chapter of the book this afternoon. Within a few minutes I shall be blissfully asleep, perhaps dreaming about tomorrow's blog entry, where Bush calls the French soccer star to ask his mother to "get Hezbollah to stop doing this shit."
Perhaps I shall best be remembered as "the well-fed white haired guy who used to sit in that cubicle over by the window (what the *bleep* did he do anyway?)"
Let's face it: For most of us, a working career is like a walk on the beach. Despite our furious dedication and excellence in our chosen field, our footprints in the sand will remain just until the next high tide. The morning after we are gone, little trace of us exists on the shores of commerce.
If you were a decent chap who treated your coworkers well and earned their trust, the memory of you will fade quickly. But if you were a backbiting, brown-nosing mean bastard who regularly screwed peers and subordinates, you might be remembered a bit longer. But, alas, all of these memories fade over time.
We end up with the realization that the results of all of our striving, persuading, earnestness and worry were at best temporary.
I was reading a book I got from the public library titled “Goal-Free Living” The author, Stephen M. Shapiro, believes that most of us are blindly pursuing goals, and driven by our goal-orientation to the point that we never experience exhuberance in our lives. He asserts that modern Americans are so wrapped-up in the accomplishment of plans and outcomes, that we tend to forego the feelings of joy and happiness that comes with a sense of adventure, of living for the moment.
About seven pages into the book, I fell asleep. I tell you, it was the best nap I have experienced since watching two minutes of the world cup soccer match between Italy and France.
I am not alone in my puzzlement at the popularity of soccer around the world. It seems to me that it is one of those sports (like Golf, Fishing, Curling that is exciting to be a participant as opposed to a spectator. Perhaps the fans in countries like Italy and France -where baseball and football are not national sports - are re-living their own youthful experiences as players.
Certainly, Soccer is not a good sport for tv coverage. The field is too big. People are all over the place, mostly kicking the ball to and fro somewhere in the middle or along the sidelines. The matches usually end in a 1-0 or 2-1 after hours of running back and forth. Where's the excitement in that?
The French guy, Zidane, says he headbutted the Italian guy for calling his mother a terrorist . After 18 years of playing soccer, this is how this guy will be remembered by most of us. Fodder for the late night comics: "The annual G8 summit of the wealthiest nations gets underway tomorrow. Officials say this year the hardest part will be keeping the leader of France from head butting the leader of Italy." --Conan O'Brien
Most of my fans and detractors alike are probably snickering at the thought that I would be reading a book on goal-free living. I have often been accused of having a low sense of urgency and no apparent plans to accomplish anything important. I deny this of course. I am planning to read another chapter of the book this afternoon. Within a few minutes I shall be blissfully asleep, perhaps dreaming about tomorrow's blog entry, where Bush calls the French soccer star to ask his mother to "get Hezbollah to stop doing this shit."
7/05/2006
Who Mourns For Ken?
I wonder how many hearts were gladdened this morning upon hearing the news that Ken Lay died of a heart attack yesterday. He was 64. Having been convicted of his ENRON sins, Lay was looking at a pretty hefty stretch of minimum security prison. Not the Gulag treatment he deserved, but still confinement. Most of the people he and his cohorts screwed out of their life savings probably did not feel this mild punishment would be sufficient justice for ruining so many lives. Today, I'll bet a lot of them are feeling a little more cheerful.
I know I would not feel sorry to read of the death of some of my former bosses and/or backbiting coworkers. Since no one reads this blog anyway, I can confess that I check the obituary pages of the paper every day hoping to find at least one of the names on my shit list. The list isn't very long. It contains maybe a dozen people who have played a material part in thwarting my career objectives or otherwise endangered my net worth.
I regard forgiveness as a gift that you only bestow upon your friends, unworthy as they may be, and some relatives. Not very Christian of me, but there you have it.
If I had been directly affected by the outrages at Enron, I would be gleefully dancing a jig this morning. The world is better off without Mr. Lay and his ilk.
I know I would not feel sorry to read of the death of some of my former bosses and/or backbiting coworkers. Since no one reads this blog anyway, I can confess that I check the obituary pages of the paper every day hoping to find at least one of the names on my shit list. The list isn't very long. It contains maybe a dozen people who have played a material part in thwarting my career objectives or otherwise endangered my net worth.
I regard forgiveness as a gift that you only bestow upon your friends, unworthy as they may be, and some relatives. Not very Christian of me, but there you have it.
If I had been directly affected by the outrages at Enron, I would be gleefully dancing a jig this morning. The world is better off without Mr. Lay and his ilk.
6/27/2006
Giving Back
I have another birthday coming up in a few days. No, this is not a cheap reminder that you forgot to send me a nice gift or even a crummy card; no - it merely a recognition that the hands of time turn inexorably forward.
I am the same age as Paul McCartney. My wife thinks I should keep working until he quits. But, I think that my own rock star days are just about over. Where the long and winding road ultimately leads is not clear at this moment, but I can see that the next stop is the local Social Security office.
Just like Bill Gates, I have decided to withdraw from the workaday world of work-and-worry. Henceforth, I plan to spend my time figuring-out how to best use my acquired wealth.
Here is my draft wish list of personal Philanthropy:
- A 25 foot Boston Whaler. I would use this vessel only for peaceful purposes to spread good will throughout the northern shores of greater Boston. I would help to purge the ocean of excess Striped Bass and Haddock. I would kill any crustaceans that
I found in my traps in a humane manner.
- A new lawn. My current lawn is an eyesore. During recent years it has been overrun by grubs and crabgrass. No one has actually said anything, but - judging by the worried looks on their faces - I feel certain that it is distressing for my neighbors to have to look at my sorry brown patch of sod as they trudge by on their way to and from the commuter train. A new lawn will just make everyone happier.
- Upgrade the Central Air Conditioning. This is a no brainer. The funds expended on this project will help the local economy. The HVAC guys will have a little extra in their pockets to spend at the mall and at the local eateries. A newer, quieter, more energy efficient unit will provide the soothing cool air that our adorable Siamese cats prefer on these hot humid dog days. This will result in less puking on the oriental carpet, which will lower the stress level of myself and the designated puke patrol foreperson - my wife. The quieter operation of the modern A/C unit will be less annoying to our neighbors who are trying to sit outside and have a quiet cookout in their yard. Also, we will not be wasting so much electricity, and that means less carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. The ice caps will eventually start to re-freeze. Polar Bears will return to the Arctic. The world will be saved from the effects of global warming. Trust me, everything will be better.
These are just a few items. I think a person should start giving back when he has been so abundantly blessed. Don't you?
I am the same age as Paul McCartney. My wife thinks I should keep working until he quits. But, I think that my own rock star days are just about over. Where the long and winding road ultimately leads is not clear at this moment, but I can see that the next stop is the local Social Security office.
Just like Bill Gates, I have decided to withdraw from the workaday world of work-and-worry. Henceforth, I plan to spend my time figuring-out how to best use my acquired wealth.
Here is my draft wish list of personal Philanthropy:
- A 25 foot Boston Whaler. I would use this vessel only for peaceful purposes to spread good will throughout the northern shores of greater Boston. I would help to purge the ocean of excess Striped Bass and Haddock. I would kill any crustaceans that
I found in my traps in a humane manner.
- A new lawn. My current lawn is an eyesore. During recent years it has been overrun by grubs and crabgrass. No one has actually said anything, but - judging by the worried looks on their faces - I feel certain that it is distressing for my neighbors to have to look at my sorry brown patch of sod as they trudge by on their way to and from the commuter train. A new lawn will just make everyone happier.
- Upgrade the Central Air Conditioning. This is a no brainer. The funds expended on this project will help the local economy. The HVAC guys will have a little extra in their pockets to spend at the mall and at the local eateries. A newer, quieter, more energy efficient unit will provide the soothing cool air that our adorable Siamese cats prefer on these hot humid dog days. This will result in less puking on the oriental carpet, which will lower the stress level of myself and the designated puke patrol foreperson - my wife. The quieter operation of the modern A/C unit will be less annoying to our neighbors who are trying to sit outside and have a quiet cookout in their yard. Also, we will not be wasting so much electricity, and that means less carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. The ice caps will eventually start to re-freeze. Polar Bears will return to the Arctic. The world will be saved from the effects of global warming. Trust me, everything will be better.
These are just a few items. I think a person should start giving back when he has been so abundantly blessed. Don't you?
6/10/2006
The Grass is always Greener
One of the benefits of a regular job is the simplicity of routine. You do not have a lot of time in the morning to ruminate about how to spend your time. Since the boss wants your corpus to be at “the office” by a certain time, you need to jump out of bed, get abluted and dressed, grab some toast and coffee and be on the road – with all the other happy commuters.
This obligatory routine is denied to those of us who are characterized as: not-working.
You would think that I would be thrilled with the indolence of it all. The lack of demands on my time and physical location - which are normally dictated by one’s work - should be liberating. But, I have to admit, sometimes the sheer freedom of it all is a bit intimidating.
Choices are easy when you have to decide between two or three alternatives. But, we are not equipped by training, or habit of mind, or societal rule, to inform us how to make choices about what to do when you can do virtually anything (within the bounds of law and budget).
For example, I have before me a hastily scribbled list of things I could do right now:
Take a walk
Go fishing
Cook something
Go to the market
Work in the garden
Sweep-up pine pollen in the screen porch
Take the trash to the RDF (dump)
Read (newspapers or magazines or book)
Listen to the radio
Feed the cats (why are they always hungry?)
Watch TV
Check the help-wanted job boards
Go to the movies
Write (something more pithy that a weblog entry)
Mow the lawn (look at how well-manicured our neighbors' yards are.)
Prune the hedge
Call someone (Network)
Get in the van and drive around, go to the carwash or Jiffy Lube
Check stocks and IRA accounts
Put on my Johnny Winter’s greatest hits CD (Or Paul McCartney singing "When I'm 64")
Re-string the line on my fishing reel
Refurbish the gas grill
Get new eyeglasses
Go back to bed
I could go on for another 10 minutes but, I think you get the idea. None of the things on this list are dictated by any one telling me what to do and how to do it.
So. You are asking, “What’s your big problem?”
Well, actually, I am not really complaining. I just thought it might me interesting to those of you who are still schlepping every morning to some hellhole, where you never have to make a decision beyond choosing the type of bread you want with your tuna sandwich at lunch . You might realize how lucky you are not to have all these options to agonize over. The grass is always greener in the other fellow's yard.
It requires a certain toughness of spirit to work your way through such an intimidating (and if I say so, exhausting) list and to select one activity - at the exclusion of all others. After all, Life is short, and, especially at my age, one wants to optimize every minute. That’s a lot of pressure, my friend. It makes you sleepy...very sleepy......zzzzz.
This obligatory routine is denied to those of us who are characterized as: not-working.
You would think that I would be thrilled with the indolence of it all. The lack of demands on my time and physical location - which are normally dictated by one’s work - should be liberating. But, I have to admit, sometimes the sheer freedom of it all is a bit intimidating.
Choices are easy when you have to decide between two or three alternatives. But, we are not equipped by training, or habit of mind, or societal rule, to inform us how to make choices about what to do when you can do virtually anything (within the bounds of law and budget).
For example, I have before me a hastily scribbled list of things I could do right now:
Take a walk
Go fishing
Cook something
Go to the market
Work in the garden
Sweep-up pine pollen in the screen porch
Take the trash to the RDF (dump)
Read (newspapers or magazines or book)
Listen to the radio
Feed the cats (why are they always hungry?)
Watch TV
Check the help-wanted job boards
Go to the movies
Write (something more pithy that a weblog entry)
Mow the lawn (look at how well-manicured our neighbors' yards are.)
Prune the hedge
Call someone (Network)
Get in the van and drive around, go to the carwash or Jiffy Lube
Check stocks and IRA accounts
Put on my Johnny Winter’s greatest hits CD (Or Paul McCartney singing "When I'm 64")
Re-string the line on my fishing reel
Refurbish the gas grill
Get new eyeglasses
Go back to bed
I could go on for another 10 minutes but, I think you get the idea. None of the things on this list are dictated by any one telling me what to do and how to do it.
So. You are asking, “What’s your big
Well, actually, I am not really complaining. I just thought it might me interesting to those of you who are still schlepping every morning to some hellhole, where you never have to make a decision beyond choosing the type of bread you want with your tuna sandwich at lunch . You might realize how lucky you are not to have all these options to agonize over. The grass is always greener in the other fellow's yard.
It requires a certain toughness of spirit to work your way through such an intimidating (and if I say so, exhausting) list and to select one activity - at the exclusion of all others. After all, Life is short, and, especially at my age, one wants to optimize every minute. That’s a lot of pressure, my friend. It makes you sleepy...very sleepy......zzzzz.
5/24/2006
I Can't Hear You
It’s been a frustrating morning.
Now, I know that you people many of whom are reading this at work are thinking to yourselves, “How can someone who is not working at some dead-end, crap-laden occupation, where you have to endure a commute that is characterized by miles of tedium punctuated by moments of terror, and then a series of mind-numbing status meetings, garnished with the snide comments of a nitpicking micromanager or the bloviation of the ego-in-charge, having to eat your peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a dingy basement café in your building, listening to the inane chit-chat of your office mates whose main topic of interest is American Idol - how can such a person talk about a “frustrating morning” ?
Well, fans, the cause of my frustration is Verizon. You know them - the company that advertises a huge network of support in their TV ads. Well, just try and get some of that support when you need it.
Since the heavy rains of last week, the phone lines have been almost impossible to use. The static on the line is so noisy that you cannot have a conversation. Not only the voice line, but the DSL service is also spotty at best. So I have been isolated without decent phone service, and locked out of internet service as well.
Calling for service is one of the most frustrating exercises I have experienced since that time last year when the DSL modem went on the fritz. First of all, Verizon has cleverly shielded themselves from the public by a series of automated IVR systems. IVR stands for Interactive Voice Response. You cannot get an operator by dialing “0” anymore. What you get is a menu of potential reason why you might have dialed “0”. Then you are subjected to what is commonly known as “IVR Hell” where you find yourself talking to a fairly dumb computer.
Now IVR seemed like an advanced concept back in the 70’s, when techies were all aflutter about designing computer interactions to mimic human responses. I confess that in those days I had a positive impression that this type of technology could contribute to the efficiency of business communications and free some people (operators for example) of the tedium of repetition. (May I help you? Who should I say is calling? )
I do applaud some communication technologies, such as caller id, call waiting, and, of course, voice mail. But I am seriously losing my enthusiasm for the over use of IVR as a replacement for a human on the other end of the line. I would rather talk to a live nitwit than to hold a “conversation” with an automated perky voice that is nothing more than an audio representation of a line of code.
The other day, I got a phone message from a text-to-voice system. It sounded like the computer voice from Star Trek. Thanks to caller-id I recognized the name of the caller as Asian Indian. I have worked with quite a few Indians in recent years. Many of the have come to the US to work on technology projects. They are a smart, hard-working group. Although they read, write and understand English, many of them still have a strong accent that makes them hard to understand in conversation. This enterprising recruiter had overcome the accent problem by using technology.
The designers of the Verizon IVR system are probably pleased with themselves with their cleverness and conversational tone. They have reduce the human interaction to a series of choices on a menu. They have replaced thousands of operators and created a buffer for the remaining humans so that they do not have to actually talk to the rabble. The only entertainment of the whole experience was that they actually wanted the caller to get a screwdriver and bring the phone down to the basement to run a line check. ( I did not make this up).
It was at this point that I hit the 0 key a few more times – and miraculously a person came on the line. “What seems to be the trouble?” she asked through the static.
“Sorry, I cannot hear you. I have a lot of static on the line.” I said.
“What seems to be the trouble?” she said more loudly.
I had to grin at the irony of the situation.
Now, I know that you people many of whom are reading this at work are thinking to yourselves, “How can someone who is not working at some dead-end, crap-laden occupation, where you have to endure a commute that is characterized by miles of tedium punctuated by moments of terror, and then a series of mind-numbing status meetings, garnished with the snide comments of a nitpicking micromanager or the bloviation of the ego-in-charge, having to eat your peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a dingy basement café in your building, listening to the inane chit-chat of your office mates whose main topic of interest is American Idol - how can such a person talk about a “frustrating morning” ?
Well, fans, the cause of my frustration is Verizon. You know them - the company that advertises a huge network of support in their TV ads. Well, just try and get some of that support when you need it.
Since the heavy rains of last week, the phone lines have been almost impossible to use. The static on the line is so noisy that you cannot have a conversation. Not only the voice line, but the DSL service is also spotty at best. So I have been isolated without decent phone service, and locked out of internet service as well.
Calling for service is one of the most frustrating exercises I have experienced since that time last year when the DSL modem went on the fritz. First of all, Verizon has cleverly shielded themselves from the public by a series of automated IVR systems. IVR stands for Interactive Voice Response. You cannot get an operator by dialing “0” anymore. What you get is a menu of potential reason why you might have dialed “0”. Then you are subjected to what is commonly known as “IVR Hell” where you find yourself talking to a fairly dumb computer.
Now IVR seemed like an advanced concept back in the 70’s, when techies were all aflutter about designing computer interactions to mimic human responses. I confess that in those days I had a positive impression that this type of technology could contribute to the efficiency of business communications and free some people (operators for example) of the tedium of repetition. (May I help you? Who should I say is calling? )
I do applaud some communication technologies, such as caller id, call waiting, and, of course, voice mail. But I am seriously losing my enthusiasm for the over use of IVR as a replacement for a human on the other end of the line. I would rather talk to a live nitwit than to hold a “conversation” with an automated perky voice that is nothing more than an audio representation of a line of code.
The other day, I got a phone message from a text-to-voice system. It sounded like the computer voice from Star Trek. Thanks to caller-id I recognized the name of the caller as Asian Indian. I have worked with quite a few Indians in recent years. Many of the have come to the US to work on technology projects. They are a smart, hard-working group. Although they read, write and understand English, many of them still have a strong accent that makes them hard to understand in conversation. This enterprising recruiter had overcome the accent problem by using technology.
The designers of the Verizon IVR system are probably pleased with themselves with their cleverness and conversational tone. They have reduce the human interaction to a series of choices on a menu. They have replaced thousands of operators and created a buffer for the remaining humans so that they do not have to actually talk to the rabble. The only entertainment of the whole experience was that they actually wanted the caller to get a screwdriver and bring the phone down to the basement to run a line check. ( I did not make this up).
It was at this point that I hit the 0 key a few more times – and miraculously a person came on the line. “What seems to be the trouble?” she asked through the static.
“Sorry, I cannot hear you. I have a lot of static on the line.” I said.
“What seems to be the trouble?” she said more loudly.
I had to grin at the irony of the situation.
5/16/2006
Epiphany de Jour
Despite my previous negative response to the question about why I don't write for a living, I have recently been giving the matter considerable serious thought. Aside from the simple fact that writing well takes a lot of BS&T, nearly all the reasons I gave for not writing for money are related to my attitude toward those who would presumably pay me for my work. Also, I noted that, relative to the pay of a systems analyst, the expected remuneration from writing would be on the same level as whale feces.
However, I have recently experienced a sort of Epiphany.
As you may have gleaned from recent blog entries, my attitude towards work has been dominated by the question "Am I getting paid for this?" So, much like a prostitute, I would dutifully show up at the client's place of business and perform acts that might be likened to those of a common whore in exchange for money. It was an impersonal business deal.
They needed a warm body and I needed to get paid. They wanted someone to talk to users, go to meetings, write business requirements, work with developers to solve problems, test solutions and make the users happy. This was fine and interesting work.
But they also wanted the ego gratification associated with demanding status reports, attendance at boring and interminable planning meetings (where they told you the weekly change in plans), and painful, inane conference calls with a cast total idiots. I complied with these acts of virtual fellatio and justified it with an affirmative to the question, "Am I getting paid for this?" I began to focus on the odious 20 mile commute which was costing me an hour and one half each day. Gasoline prices were rising sharply. Traffic seemed unbearable.
I was getting well paid, but still I could not wait for the project to end. When it finally did, I left without so much as a pang of loss. (For the record, they did not seem to miss me either. I was unable to elicit any feedback from them - no praise, no criticism. They simply saw me as an interchangeable part who did his job. No more; no less.)
After a few months of non-employment, and with the specter of going back on a dreaded fixed income, I began to look for another "gig." Out of habit, I sought out the same sort of work. I even contacted the same folks who hired me last time, with the restriction that I would only consider situations where I could work locally (within 10 miles of home).
There has been a good response from pimps - er I mean 'recruiters' who saw me as an employable commodity.
Yet, the more I thought of going back, the less agreeable I felt about "just doing it for money." Most of the recruiters have stopped calling me. One said my restrictions were, "Not realistic." I tend to agree.
This is the Epiphany: Time is running out. Life is too short to be a whore. If I am going to do something, I will do it for the pleasure of it, not just for the money. I need to do something that is so enjoyable that I will get up early to do it, and show up even if I have to drive for two hours to get there. So far, the only thing that fits the bill is saltwater fishing, but I am actively thinking of other activities that might generate some income as well. Writing does come to mind. Maybe writing about fishing. Hmmn
However, I have recently experienced a sort of Epiphany.
As you may have gleaned from recent blog entries, my attitude towards work has been dominated by the question "Am I getting paid for this?" So, much like a prostitute, I would dutifully show up at the client's place of business and perform acts that might be likened to those of a common whore in exchange for money. It was an impersonal business deal.
They needed a warm body and I needed to get paid. They wanted someone to talk to users, go to meetings, write business requirements, work with developers to solve problems, test solutions and make the users happy. This was fine and interesting work.
But they also wanted the ego gratification associated with demanding status reports, attendance at boring and interminable planning meetings (where they told you the weekly change in plans), and painful, inane conference calls with a cast total idiots. I complied with these acts of virtual fellatio and justified it with an affirmative to the question, "Am I getting paid for this?" I began to focus on the odious 20 mile commute which was costing me an hour and one half each day. Gasoline prices were rising sharply. Traffic seemed unbearable.
I was getting well paid, but still I could not wait for the project to end. When it finally did, I left without so much as a pang of loss. (For the record, they did not seem to miss me either. I was unable to elicit any feedback from them - no praise, no criticism. They simply saw me as an interchangeable part who did his job. No more; no less.)
After a few months of non-employment, and with the specter of going back on a dreaded fixed income, I began to look for another "gig." Out of habit, I sought out the same sort of work. I even contacted the same folks who hired me last time, with the restriction that I would only consider situations where I could work locally (within 10 miles of home).
There has been a good response from pimps - er I mean 'recruiters' who saw me as an employable commodity.
Yet, the more I thought of going back, the less agreeable I felt about "just doing it for money." Most of the recruiters have stopped calling me. One said my restrictions were, "Not realistic." I tend to agree.
This is the Epiphany: Time is running out. Life is too short to be a whore. If I am going to do something, I will do it for the pleasure of it, not just for the money. I need to do something that is so enjoyable that I will get up early to do it, and show up even if I have to drive for two hours to get there. So far, the only thing that fits the bill is saltwater fishing, but I am actively thinking of other activities that might generate some income as well. Writing does come to mind. Maybe writing about fishing. Hmmn
5/14/2006
Weighing the Options
The only time I miss having a job is on rainy days, when there is nothing to do outside. And we have had a 6-day string of rainy days lately.
I have a lot of time talking to headhunters. There are a number of lines in the water. I guess time will tell if there are any lunkers out there that will rise to the bait. The popular press says that the job scene is rife with opportunity. The economy is strong and unemployment is at the lowest % since the full-employment days of 2000.
I am still conflicted about my options, and what I want to do at this point:
1) Accept the idea that I am done with work forever
or
2) Take advantage of the current opportunities to work and earn money.
I keep flipping back and forth. When I am in the mood for the Retirement option, I begin to think about a future consisting of stress-free relationships, reading, gardening, fishing, wandering around, writing, socializing, and napping. Being non-employed is never having to say, "I hate this *bleep*ing job!"
Sometimes I even consider altruistic activities such as volunteering to help old people - then I realize I am practically an old person myself. Then I start to panic because I don't really know how long I have left to live. On one hand I imagine myself as an frail 80 year old living in an assisted mode, who has depleted our life savings on a liver transplant. Or, worse, being run over by a bus at age 66, just as I am starting to enjoy the fruits of full-retirement benefits.
I used to laugh about the prospect of getting my puny $130/month pension from Bull when I reached the age of 65 and 10 months. "That won't even cover my bar bill." I used to joke. I don't think it's so funny now. I don't rack up much of a bar bill these days anyhow. But at current gas pump prices the pension will just about cover my monthly tab at the local filling station.
The thought of being on a fixed-income in a non-fixed-cost world is a bit scary. So the fear of being forced to subsist on food stamps and cheap liquor leads me to flip back to the Keep-Working option.
After all, let's admit it: I still have my marbles. My health is pretty good. I can still learn any data base structure in a few days and I can communicate with business users. They like working with me, too. I have a good sense of humor, I bathe regularly and speak English. I am calm and professional, and I solve problems. They trust me, and every now and then I come up with an absolutely brilliant idea. I like the sociability of working with people - even the weirdos. The regular structure of a job appeals to me and frankly it keeps me from wasting my time and fortunes at places like Mohegan Sun and Suffolk Downs.
On the other hand....
I have a lot of time talking to headhunters. There are a number of lines in the water. I guess time will tell if there are any lunkers out there that will rise to the bait. The popular press says that the job scene is rife with opportunity. The economy is strong and unemployment is at the lowest % since the full-employment days of 2000.
I am still conflicted about my options, and what I want to do at this point:
1) Accept the idea that I am done with work forever
or
2) Take advantage of the current opportunities to work and earn money.
I keep flipping back and forth. When I am in the mood for the Retirement option, I begin to think about a future consisting of stress-free relationships, reading, gardening, fishing, wandering around, writing, socializing, and napping. Being non-employed is never having to say, "I hate this *bleep*ing job!"
Sometimes I even consider altruistic activities such as volunteering to help old people - then I realize I am practically an old person myself. Then I start to panic because I don't really know how long I have left to live. On one hand I imagine myself as an frail 80 year old living in an assisted mode, who has depleted our life savings on a liver transplant. Or, worse, being run over by a bus at age 66, just as I am starting to enjoy the fruits of full-retirement benefits.
I used to laugh about the prospect of getting my puny $130/month pension from Bull when I reached the age of 65 and 10 months. "That won't even cover my bar bill." I used to joke. I don't think it's so funny now. I don't rack up much of a bar bill these days anyhow. But at current gas pump prices the pension will just about cover my monthly tab at the local filling station.
The thought of being on a fixed-income in a non-fixed-cost world is a bit scary. So the fear of being forced to subsist on food stamps and cheap liquor leads me to flip back to the Keep-Working option.
After all, let's admit it: I still have my marbles. My health is pretty good. I can still learn any data base structure in a few days and I can communicate with business users. They like working with me, too. I have a good sense of humor, I bathe regularly and speak English. I am calm and professional, and I solve problems. They trust me, and every now and then I come up with an absolutely brilliant idea. I like the sociability of working with people - even the weirdos. The regular structure of a job appeals to me and frankly it keeps me from wasting my time and fortunes at places like Mohegan Sun and Suffolk Downs.
On the other hand....
5/01/2006
Mayday, Mayday
I will not be going to work today. This (non-attendance) is merely an aspect of my ongoing non-employment. This is not a political statement to show my solidarity with the planned “Day without illegal immigrants” boycott.
As I have previously stated, I do not support any activity that threatens to disrupt traffic. I do not care what your cause is; you have no constitutional right to inconvenience me and others. Just as your right to swing your arm ends at my jaw, so should your right to demonstrate end at the curb of the public thoroughfare.
It seems to me that the most idiotic method of getting attention is gathering in numbers, marching in the streets jamming-up traffic. It pisses people who are trying to get somewhere off. It causes secondary problems because fire trucks and ambulances cannot get through. It makes commuters late. It ignites ire in the otherwise apathetic majority.
It has always mystified me that organizers of events choose to clog-up streets as opposed to gathering in a big open field where they will not bother anyone. I do not care if you are walking for hunger, breast cancer research, world peace or immigrants’ rights. Stay out of the streets!
The demonstrations for immigrants' rights have already caught our attention. They say that there are 12 million illegals in the country today - plus or minus a few million. I am not so concerned by the one's who came here to work and assimilate. I think we can figure out a fair way to get them on the taxpayer rolls and put most of them on the path to earning citizenship.
But I am very concerned about the bad guys among them - the crooks, killers and predators who snuck in with them. We need a way to identify these bad guys and get them out of our midst.
I am not in the conspiracy theory business, but it seems odd to me that suddenly we have an gasoline price crisis to catch the attention of the public just when the immigration issue threatens to reveal the gross ineptitude of the government to manage the borders and to ensure the protection of the citizenry.
As I have previously stated, I do not support any activity that threatens to disrupt traffic. I do not care what your cause is; you have no constitutional right to inconvenience me and others. Just as your right to swing your arm ends at my jaw, so should your right to demonstrate end at the curb of the public thoroughfare.
It seems to me that the most idiotic method of getting attention is gathering in numbers, marching in the streets jamming-up traffic. It pisses people who are trying to get somewhere off. It causes secondary problems because fire trucks and ambulances cannot get through. It makes commuters late. It ignites ire in the otherwise apathetic majority.
It has always mystified me that organizers of events choose to clog-up streets as opposed to gathering in a big open field where they will not bother anyone. I do not care if you are walking for hunger, breast cancer research, world peace or immigrants’ rights. Stay out of the streets!
The demonstrations for immigrants' rights have already caught our attention. They say that there are 12 million illegals in the country today - plus or minus a few million. I am not so concerned by the one's who came here to work and assimilate. I think we can figure out a fair way to get them on the taxpayer rolls and put most of them on the path to earning citizenship.
But I am very concerned about the bad guys among them - the crooks, killers and predators who snuck in with them. We need a way to identify these bad guys and get them out of our midst.
I am not in the conspiracy theory business, but it seems odd to me that suddenly we have an gasoline price crisis to catch the attention of the public just when the immigration issue threatens to reveal the gross ineptitude of the government to manage the borders and to ensure the protection of the citizenry.
4/29/2006
Reminders
There was a small news item in the paper last week announcing that construction work on the new World Trade Center in New York City had begun. Strangely enough, this coincided with the opening of the movie "United 93." I am not ready to see this flick, yet, and I object to someone making capital on this event.
Does anyone need this movie as a reminder of the horrific events of September 11th 2001? Maybe the leaders of the country will be jolted into finally doing something about securing our borders and ports.
As for the WTC, why would anyone want to work in the rebuilt towers? Isn't that just asking for trouble?
One of the criteria of any future job for me is "nothing in an office higher than the fourth floor."
Does anyone need this movie as a reminder of the horrific events of September 11th 2001? Maybe the leaders of the country will be jolted into finally doing something about securing our borders and ports.
As for the WTC, why would anyone want to work in the rebuilt towers? Isn't that just asking for trouble?
One of the criteria of any future job for me is "nothing in an office higher than the fourth floor."
4/20/2006
A Bad day Fishing
They say that a bad day fishing is better than a good day at work. I'm not so sure about that. Recently, I went deep sea fishing with some pals. I know what you are thinking: Isn't it rushing the season? But, the weather forecast was Sunny 55 degrees 15 knot wind.
As it turned out, this might have been the correct forecast for Miami. But off the coast of Boston's North Shore the conditions were slightly less balmy. It was more like 38 degrees, cloudy and 25 knot wind.
We left the dock at 7am. Hoping for warm, calm seas. But the seas outside the harbor were as rough as I have ever experienced. Rough indeed - as attested to by the numbers of experienced fishermen leaning over the side tossing their breakfast donuts into the roiling waves. "We have chum!" yelled one guy as his buddy lurched to the rail and launched his breakfast into the 4 foot swells. A lot of people - who had paid $70 to come on this trip - were sitting or lying on benches in the cabin, sincerely regretting that decision. I felt compassion for them - sick as a dog on the way out. There is no turning back, so they had a miserable day to look forward to.
After plowing through the gray water for an hour or so, we - those of us who were not heaving our guts - finally got our gear - thick deep sea rods with 60 pound line and 3lb sinkers to hold the bait down on the swirling ocean floor. There is no casting involved. Thirty or forty guys arrange themselves around the rail and wait for the captian to yell "Ok, drop your lines."
The bait is sea clams. The crew hands out small buckets of the raw clam pieces that have been cut up. On this particular morning the bait was still frozen. Some guys had the foresight to wear fishing gloves. I was unprepared and had to bait my hook with bare hands. Funny how you can stick the hook into your freezing thumb and not realize it until you notice your own blood dripping on the deck. You start to lose consciousness as your life force squirts into the scuppers. Your childhood passes by in your mind's eye. Death by rusty hook and clam guts is imminent. Then someone gives you a band-aid and you pull yourself together and keep fishing.
Something nibbles on your line. You reel-in 200 feet of nylon to discover a very small cod fish, who looks annoyed. Some of the guys laugh and want to take you picture with the minnow before you throw him back to whence he (or she) came. You ignore the jeers and mockery. You bait-up (carefully this time) and drop your line, again.
The day proceeds in this manner. Others nearby catch fish. Keepers. But you seem to have chosen a "dead spot" on the boat. Nothing nibbles again. And the sea remains cold and rough. From time to time no one is catching anything. The Captain orders everyone to reel-in, and he cranks up the engines and plows to a new spot. During these breaks we find time to quaff a few brewskies and eat lunch. Eating and drinking is important to keep from getting seasick with all the rolling around in the giant seas. We all admitted to feeling queasy, but the antidote is food and beer. Still, it is less than a cullinary delight to be munching your sandwich while one of the other pale and unhappy fisherman is spewing into a nearby garbage can.
Finally, around 3pm, the Captain declared that it was time to go in. Music to my ears. I had not caught anything, and in fact had given up the further pursuit of fish, and instead bobbed for beers in the cooler. I was much more successful in the beer department, and by the time we were again in sight of land, a comforting buzz had descended upon me. I think I napped during the return trip.
On the way home in the car, fishless, starting to worry about tetnus in my throbbing thumb, I summed up the day: I think I would rather have been sitting in a warm cube, documenting database attributes, not rocking the boat, on a project headed-up by a micromanaging nitpicker, getting paid.
As it turned out, this might have been the correct forecast for Miami. But off the coast of Boston's North Shore the conditions were slightly less balmy. It was more like 38 degrees, cloudy and 25 knot wind.
We left the dock at 7am. Hoping for warm, calm seas. But the seas outside the harbor were as rough as I have ever experienced. Rough indeed - as attested to by the numbers of experienced fishermen leaning over the side tossing their breakfast donuts into the roiling waves. "We have chum!" yelled one guy as his buddy lurched to the rail and launched his breakfast into the 4 foot swells. A lot of people - who had paid $70 to come on this trip - were sitting or lying on benches in the cabin, sincerely regretting that decision. I felt compassion for them - sick as a dog on the way out. There is no turning back, so they had a miserable day to look forward to.
After plowing through the gray water for an hour or so, we - those of us who were not heaving our guts - finally got our gear - thick deep sea rods with 60 pound line and 3lb sinkers to hold the bait down on the swirling ocean floor. There is no casting involved. Thirty or forty guys arrange themselves around the rail and wait for the captian to yell "Ok, drop your lines."
The bait is sea clams. The crew hands out small buckets of the raw clam pieces that have been cut up. On this particular morning the bait was still frozen. Some guys had the foresight to wear fishing gloves. I was unprepared and had to bait my hook with bare hands. Funny how you can stick the hook into your freezing thumb and not realize it until you notice your own blood dripping on the deck. You start to lose consciousness as your life force squirts into the scuppers. Your childhood passes by in your mind's eye. Death by rusty hook and clam guts is imminent. Then someone gives you a band-aid and you pull yourself together and keep fishing.
Something nibbles on your line. You reel-in 200 feet of nylon to discover a very small cod fish, who looks annoyed. Some of the guys laugh and want to take you picture with the minnow before you throw him back to whence he (or she) came. You ignore the jeers and mockery. You bait-up (carefully this time) and drop your line, again.
The day proceeds in this manner. Others nearby catch fish. Keepers. But you seem to have chosen a "dead spot" on the boat. Nothing nibbles again. And the sea remains cold and rough. From time to time no one is catching anything. The Captain orders everyone to reel-in, and he cranks up the engines and plows to a new spot. During these breaks we find time to quaff a few brewskies and eat lunch. Eating and drinking is important to keep from getting seasick with all the rolling around in the giant seas. We all admitted to feeling queasy, but the antidote is food and beer. Still, it is less than a cullinary delight to be munching your sandwich while one of the other pale and unhappy fisherman is spewing into a nearby garbage can.
Finally, around 3pm, the Captain declared that it was time to go in. Music to my ears. I had not caught anything, and in fact had given up the further pursuit of fish, and instead bobbed for beers in the cooler. I was much more successful in the beer department, and by the time we were again in sight of land, a comforting buzz had descended upon me. I think I napped during the return trip.
On the way home in the car, fishless, starting to worry about tetnus in my throbbing thumb, I summed up the day: I think I would rather have been sitting in a warm cube, documenting database attributes, not rocking the boat, on a project headed-up by a micromanaging nitpicker, getting paid.
4/13/2006
The Road Not Taken
I was cleaning out the basement the other day, trying to cross items off my indoor "honey-do" list before the Spring weather outside calls me to the garden – or someone makes me a job offer that I cannot refuse. I came across a folder of work-related stuff that I had saved from the 80's and 90's.
In one folder were some performance reviews from the 80's when I had my first management job working at a now defunct minicomputer company. I was struck by the fact that the reviews of my management style were mediocre. My "superiors" were unanimous in labeling me a nice guy, good writer and pretty good analyst. No one really liked me as a manager. I was "too soft" on subordinates. I was a procrastinator, and not a good role model. I was either too collaborative or not collaborative enough. Some managers thought I was stubborn and had a low sense of urgency.
In all honesty I have to agree with these opinions, even though I thought most my superiors at that place were shitheads. This is not to say that they were stupid or lazy. No, they were mostly very smart, ambitious, competitive and – unfortunately for me (and the company) - wrongheaded. They sucked at management, too. They had gotten ahead by shooting guys like me in the foot and sucking-up. The company had started out in the mid 70’s as an engineering-driven company producing a great product. By the mid 80’s the company had evolved into a classic “command and control” organization, dominated by financial types – much like Enron.
The financial management network was strong, insular and always certain of their leadership. I thought they were mostly shitheads, because they systematically (if not intentionally) de-motivated people who were creative, interesting and even productive - in the name of leadership. They were micromanaging nitpickers, not the visionaries that they saw in the mirror. By the way, they drove the company off a cliff in 1988. They all moved on to bigger and better positions, sort of like the way a virus spreads to new host environments.
But, back to me. During the 90’s, I decided that being an individual contributor was the best path for me. As an IC I no longer had to deal with being a middle manager – trying to insulate the subordinates from the madness of upper management.
I confess that non-management career track was the easy way out of my performance predicament. My performance reviews for that period reflected the wise decision not to be in a supervisory capacity. The glowing reports of my exceptional interpersonal skills and ability to advocate the business requirements of my department almost make me blush to this day.
So, there you have it. I guess Management is not for everyone. I was never really comfortable telling others what to do or how to do it. (Although I warrant that many of my peers would assert that I was pretty free with unsolicited advice.)
I admit it: I was born without a sense of urgency. This is a fatal flaw for someone who is in charge. Someone – the boss – needs to tell people what to do. The boss needs to decide when the thing needs to be done. And he or she must be willing to scream and yell or chop people’s fingers off if necessary.
I was unequipped for such a role. Even if I had read the Machiavelli book earlier in my career, I fear would have been too compassionate and tentative. Subordinates, sensing this weakness, would have taken credit for their own work, remained creative and productive, and would generally have made my life a living hell. My bosses would have chided me for the unwillingness to get blood on my hands, and to thump the hive randomly, just for the fun of watching the worker bees buzzing around.
So, I tossed the folder full of reviews into the trash. Ancient history now. And without the historical documents to prove me wrong, I can return to the comfort of faded memories of the 80’s and my fictitious life as a successful corporate manager.
In one folder were some performance reviews from the 80's when I had my first management job working at a now defunct minicomputer company. I was struck by the fact that the reviews of my management style were mediocre. My "superiors" were unanimous in labeling me a nice guy, good writer and pretty good analyst. No one really liked me as a manager. I was "too soft" on subordinates. I was a procrastinator, and not a good role model. I was either too collaborative or not collaborative enough. Some managers thought I was stubborn and had a low sense of urgency.
In all honesty I have to agree with these opinions, even though I thought most my superiors at that place were shitheads. This is not to say that they were stupid or lazy. No, they were mostly very smart, ambitious, competitive and – unfortunately for me (and the company) - wrongheaded. They sucked at management, too. They had gotten ahead by shooting guys like me in the foot and sucking-up. The company had started out in the mid 70’s as an engineering-driven company producing a great product. By the mid 80’s the company had evolved into a classic “command and control” organization, dominated by financial types – much like Enron.
The financial management network was strong, insular and always certain of their leadership. I thought they were mostly shitheads, because they systematically (if not intentionally) de-motivated people who were creative, interesting and even productive - in the name of leadership. They were micromanaging nitpickers, not the visionaries that they saw in the mirror. By the way, they drove the company off a cliff in 1988. They all moved on to bigger and better positions, sort of like the way a virus spreads to new host environments.
But, back to me. During the 90’s, I decided that being an individual contributor was the best path for me. As an IC I no longer had to deal with being a middle manager – trying to insulate the subordinates from the madness of upper management.
I confess that non-management career track was the easy way out of my performance predicament. My performance reviews for that period reflected the wise decision not to be in a supervisory capacity. The glowing reports of my exceptional interpersonal skills and ability to advocate the business requirements of my department almost make me blush to this day.
So, there you have it. I guess Management is not for everyone. I was never really comfortable telling others what to do or how to do it. (Although I warrant that many of my peers would assert that I was pretty free with unsolicited advice.)
I admit it: I was born without a sense of urgency. This is a fatal flaw for someone who is in charge. Someone – the boss – needs to tell people what to do. The boss needs to decide when the thing needs to be done. And he or she must be willing to scream and yell or chop people’s fingers off if necessary.
I was unequipped for such a role. Even if I had read the Machiavelli book earlier in my career, I fear would have been too compassionate and tentative. Subordinates, sensing this weakness, would have taken credit for their own work, remained creative and productive, and would generally have made my life a living hell. My bosses would have chided me for the unwillingness to get blood on my hands, and to thump the hive randomly, just for the fun of watching the worker bees buzzing around.
So, I tossed the folder full of reviews into the trash. Ancient history now. And without the historical documents to prove me wrong, I can return to the comfort of faded memories of the 80’s and my fictitious life as a successful corporate manager.
4/05/2006
Postscript
A few blogs back, I was opining on the merits of being mean and powerful (i.e., rich).
I implied that there were basically two groups of people in the workforce: Nice Guys and Mean Bastards. I should correct the record:
There is a gamut of other people with whom one comes in contact whose dominant characteristic is neither mean nor nice. This includes the inept, stupid, lazy, unimaginative, people with no sense of humor, sheep, people who take a job because it has a good pension plan, and chickens.
All the people who match these descriptions can be expected to behave badly when the chips are down. You cannot count on any of them, because they will sacrifice your friendship if they believe that the relationship jeopardizes their own job security. Not all of them are nasty brutish and short, but it seems to help.
The tragedy of this story is, of course, that most of us spend the majority of our waking existence working at some sort of job. Day in and day out we go to the office or plant. We spend our energies trying to get something done as a group, despite the divisive tactics employed by weak or wrongheaded management.
Loyalty, once considered a premium attribute, has fallen into disrepute. Hellhole management does not want your loyalty these days, just your obeisance. Management's loyalty to the workforce does not exist. That edge of the loyalty sword disappeared during the massive layoffs and outsourcings of the past decade, plus the restructuring of pension guarantees. In the extreme cases - such as Enron and Worldcomm - we see the dark side of capitalism, where a few greedy and powerful princes can ruin the fortunes and disrupt the lives of millions of people.
This is not to say that we - the rank and file worker types - are perfect. No, we have plenty of foibles, frauds, secrets and schemes up our collective bargaining sleeves. We steal office supplies, take long lunch breaks, fudge our expense reports, surf the net while we are on the clock, and some of us even take naps during bathroom breaks.
I suppose these are merely the whinings of an idealist, who thinks he would have become richer and more powerful if the key factors for success in business included being a mensch instead of a schmuck.
I implied that there were basically two groups of people in the workforce: Nice Guys and Mean Bastards. I should correct the record:
There is a gamut of other people with whom one comes in contact whose dominant characteristic is neither mean nor nice. This includes the inept, stupid, lazy, unimaginative, people with no sense of humor, sheep, people who take a job because it has a good pension plan, and chickens.
All the people who match these descriptions can be expected to behave badly when the chips are down. You cannot count on any of them, because they will sacrifice your friendship if they believe that the relationship jeopardizes their own job security. Not all of them are nasty brutish and short, but it seems to help.
The tragedy of this story is, of course, that most of us spend the majority of our waking existence working at some sort of job. Day in and day out we go to the office or plant. We spend our energies trying to get something done as a group, despite the divisive tactics employed by weak or wrongheaded management.
Loyalty, once considered a premium attribute, has fallen into disrepute. Hellhole management does not want your loyalty these days, just your obeisance. Management's loyalty to the workforce does not exist. That edge of the loyalty sword disappeared during the massive layoffs and outsourcings of the past decade, plus the restructuring of pension guarantees. In the extreme cases - such as Enron and Worldcomm - we see the dark side of capitalism, where a few greedy and powerful princes can ruin the fortunes and disrupt the lives of millions of people.
This is not to say that we - the rank and file worker types - are perfect. No, we have plenty of foibles, frauds, secrets and schemes up our collective bargaining sleeves. We steal office supplies, take long lunch breaks, fudge our expense reports, surf the net while we are on the clock, and some of us even take naps during bathroom breaks.
I suppose these are merely the whinings of an idealist, who thinks he would have become richer and more powerful if the key factors for success in business included being a mensch instead of a schmuck.
4/01/2006
3/27/2006
Not All Fun and Games
Recently I got an email from a former colleague who is also an avid gardener. She expressed some envy that I did not have to drag my ass into a stuffy office to endure status meetings and the other annoying distractions of having a job during this coming week - when the temperatures outside will be warm enough for outdoor work. I responded thusly:
"Hey it's not all fun and games here. My wife has been making me do things - you know - chores. Last week I painted on of the bedrooms that she uses as her studio. In the coming weeks I am expected to paint the porch, our bedroom and the North side of the house. (It is peeling so bad that I keep getting flyers stuck in the mailbox from total strangers offering painting services. Kinda insulting if you ask me...)
Last friday I spent the day in the yard burning fallen limbs from the pine trees that infest my yard and other twiggy debris. It is my annual sacrifice to the gods. I am purified by the cleansing smoke and forgiven all my sins. (Yes, I have a permit).
Lately I am getting serious interest from staffing companies looking to find me a gig. Boy, nothing like a recent successful contract to make them want you. I am interested in returning to the world of a regular paycheck and the sociability of a project team. I need some spending money for the Scotland trip in September.
I got on the train last week to go into Boston to meet with a recruiter who had spotted my resume and probably didn't realize that I was old enough to be her grandfather. My purpose was to assess the commute - to see if I would tolerate a rail commute into the city - should a promising opportunity arise. She was cute and charming, but I don't think she understood most of the stuff I was talking about. If you are 22 years old, and your first job out of college is being a headhunter, you cannot appreciate the complexities of working with diabolically designed Enterprise Applications and ancient thinkers who reject any new processes and systems.
She thinks she has the perfect gig for me at a local university. Hey, do the math: I worked at another university a few years ago. They both have PeopleSoft databases. The biggest no-brainer of Earth. Perfect match! I did not share with her my opinion that college campuses are the last refuge where people with observable mental illness are tolerated and even extolled. (After all, who am I to point fingers.)
Anyhow, I have a couple more interviews/sceens next week. I find it flattering that my wife is jealous that all the recruiters are young females, leaving voice messages for me and wondering if I would like to meet over coffee. "That doesn't sound very professional," she comments, "Don't these trollops have offices?" :-) In her heart she knows that they just want to eyeball the old geezer to make sure I don't drool or look like death-warmed-over. Her jealousy it is a game we play.
The positive thing about working these days is that I experience zero stress, because I simply do not give a shit. This has been the most liberating aspect of my life! This is not to say that I don't take the work seriously. I really try to do the best I can to earn the money that they are paying. But if the boss is a turdbrain or my coworkers are psychotic, I do not waste a minute of time fretting. I keep focused on the key question that every contractor must keep in mind at all times: "Am I getting paid for this?"
If only I could find a way to not give a shit about everything, I would be totally free."
"Hey it's not all fun and games here. My wife has been making me do things - you know - chores. Last week I painted on of the bedrooms that she uses as her studio. In the coming weeks I am expected to paint the porch, our bedroom and the North side of the house. (It is peeling so bad that I keep getting flyers stuck in the mailbox from total strangers offering painting services. Kinda insulting if you ask me...)
Last friday I spent the day in the yard burning fallen limbs from the pine trees that infest my yard and other twiggy debris. It is my annual sacrifice to the gods. I am purified by the cleansing smoke and forgiven all my sins. (Yes, I have a permit).
Lately I am getting serious interest from staffing companies looking to find me a gig. Boy, nothing like a recent successful contract to make them want you. I am interested in returning to the world of a regular paycheck and the sociability of a project team. I need some spending money for the Scotland trip in September.
I got on the train last week to go into Boston to meet with a recruiter who had spotted my resume and probably didn't realize that I was old enough to be her grandfather. My purpose was to assess the commute - to see if I would tolerate a rail commute into the city - should a promising opportunity arise. She was cute and charming, but I don't think she understood most of the stuff I was talking about. If you are 22 years old, and your first job out of college is being a headhunter, you cannot appreciate the complexities of working with diabolically designed Enterprise Applications and ancient thinkers who reject any new processes and systems.
She thinks she has the perfect gig for me at a local university. Hey, do the math: I worked at another university a few years ago. They both have PeopleSoft databases. The biggest no-brainer of Earth. Perfect match! I did not share with her my opinion that college campuses are the last refuge where people with observable mental illness are tolerated and even extolled. (After all, who am I to point fingers.)
Anyhow, I have a couple more interviews/sceens next week. I find it flattering that my wife is jealous that all the recruiters are young females, leaving voice messages for me and wondering if I would like to meet over coffee. "That doesn't sound very professional," she comments, "Don't these trollops have offices?" :-) In her heart she knows that they just want to eyeball the old geezer to make sure I don't drool or look like death-warmed-over. Her jealousy it is a game we play.
The positive thing about working these days is that I experience zero stress, because I simply do not give a shit. This has been the most liberating aspect of my life! This is not to say that I don't take the work seriously. I really try to do the best I can to earn the money that they are paying. But if the boss is a turdbrain or my coworkers are psychotic, I do not waste a minute of time fretting. I keep focused on the key question that every contractor must keep in mind at all times: "Am I getting paid for this?"
If only I could find a way to not give a shit about everything, I would be totally free."
3/18/2006
How to Be Mean and Powerful
I just finished reading a book written by Fortune Magazine columnist, Stanley Bing. As an insightful student of American business potentates, Bing has planted his tongue in his cheek and written a very readable, tell-all handbook for the would-be power-monger/prince.
“What would Machiavelli Do?” is the title and refrain of the book. Bing encapsulates the habits of mind and behavior that characterize the powerful (and therefore wealthy) leaders who the rest of us adore and/or fear.
To get the right answer, one must ask the right question, he says, and the right question to guide the prince-in–training is always, “What would Machiavelli Do?”
The answer: Whatever is necessary to get your own way.
This is exactly why most of us nice guys are left in the dust. We are hampered with an adolescent desire to be liked. We care about people - not just to find out how they can help us get our own way – but we tend to see others as ordinary flesh-and-blood human beings like ourselves with feelings and hopes of their own. We have difficulty with Machiavellian concepts like justifying a multimillion dollar bonus for ourselves as a reward for cutting thousands of jobs and throwing good workers out on the street as you would toss out yesterday’s newspaper into the trash bin.
We have all met these men and women – who did whatever was necessary to get their own way – in our personal and career lives. We used to call them names like egomaniacs, narcissists, and pompous assholes. We could not fathom why they were successful. We acknowledged that they were smart and hard working people. But, we thought of them as ruthless, self-serving manipulators. Who would be foolish enough to trust such people with increased power? Answer: Those in power who are just like them.
So, when we were laid-off or harassed until we left on our own, these princes were rewarded with promotions and bonuses. Our enmity and loss did not bother them in the least. They grew in power and mean-ness. That’s the way Machiavelli would have done it too.
Being the nice guy has been moderately successful. I have a nice family and a nice home located in a nice neighborhood. I have sufficient means to live in moderation for the remainder of my nice little life. I have my garden and my books to entertain me. I have friends and relatives for social intercourse. Nice. Nice. Nice.
But, think of all the things I don’t have! A boat! A seaside villa in Italy! A new Hummer! Cosmetic surgery! These are all things that mean bastards already have. I wonder if it too late for me to change my stripes.
“What would Machiavelli Do?” is the title and refrain of the book. Bing encapsulates the habits of mind and behavior that characterize the powerful (and therefore wealthy) leaders who the rest of us adore and/or fear.
To get the right answer, one must ask the right question, he says, and the right question to guide the prince-in–training is always, “What would Machiavelli Do?”
The answer: Whatever is necessary to get your own way.
This is exactly why most of us nice guys are left in the dust. We are hampered with an adolescent desire to be liked. We care about people - not just to find out how they can help us get our own way – but we tend to see others as ordinary flesh-and-blood human beings like ourselves with feelings and hopes of their own. We have difficulty with Machiavellian concepts like justifying a multimillion dollar bonus for ourselves as a reward for cutting thousands of jobs and throwing good workers out on the street as you would toss out yesterday’s newspaper into the trash bin.
We have all met these men and women – who did whatever was necessary to get their own way – in our personal and career lives. We used to call them names like egomaniacs, narcissists, and pompous assholes. We could not fathom why they were successful. We acknowledged that they were smart and hard working people. But, we thought of them as ruthless, self-serving manipulators. Who would be foolish enough to trust such people with increased power? Answer: Those in power who are just like them.
So, when we were laid-off or harassed until we left on our own, these princes were rewarded with promotions and bonuses. Our enmity and loss did not bother them in the least. They grew in power and mean-ness. That’s the way Machiavelli would have done it too.
Being the nice guy has been moderately successful. I have a nice family and a nice home located in a nice neighborhood. I have sufficient means to live in moderation for the remainder of my nice little life. I have my garden and my books to entertain me. I have friends and relatives for social intercourse. Nice. Nice. Nice.
But, think of all the things I don’t have! A boat! A seaside villa in Italy! A new Hummer! Cosmetic surgery! These are all things that mean bastards already have. I wonder if it too late for me to change my stripes.
3/13/2006
Why I Will Never Eat Again at McDonalds
I am back from vacation. One of the lowlights of the trip was McDonalds. Once upon a time, McDonalds was a brand where you could get a predictable product at a low price when you were in a hurry. It wasn't necessarily great, but it was filling and always tasted the same whether you ordered your Big Mac in Augusta, Maine or Sacramento, California.
But, things have been changing over the years. And not in a good way. The once spotless stores are now dingy and tired looking. The adult workers who used to flash a big sincere welcoming smile and a hello - who would eagerly ask for your order - have been replaced by poorly trained kids who barely speak English and who could give a crap if you had a nice day or not.
The term "Fast Food" once held the promise of a rapidly-filled order. In and Out. The Drive thru was a way to have it even faster - you did not even have to leave the comfort of your vehicle to get the luscuous cookin's from the famous grill.
Now, if you go through the Open 24 hours a day Drive Thru (Winona Judd's favorite eating venue) you are lucky if they can fill your order when you get to the delivery window. You must check the bag to make certain they got the order right. And you need to ask for napkins unless you prefer to wipe ketchup on your shirtsleeve.
Recently, there have been a lot of radio ads touting the new improved dark roast coffee. I thought I would try it. On two separate occasions, I was disappointed. The first time at the counter when I ordered, there was only 1/2 cup left in the pot. They asked me to wait while they brewed a fresh pot. Sure, I said, fresh coffee is worth waiting a few minutes for. When I got it, it tasted like mud. I surmized that they added the "fresh" coffee to the 1/2 cup of old coffee. I threw it in the trash. A few days later, we were rushing to get to the airport at 5am and we decided to stop for a cup of fresh, hot coffee. I went through the 24 drive thru. When the gave us the coffee, it was cold. The kid said he would start another pot. I said we are in a hurry thanks for nothing and we drove off. Never to return.
I have four calls on voicemail from headhunters wondering what my current status is.
That's a very good question. I have a long list of promised "honey-dos" to do. There is painting to be done, and cleaning of the garage, and staining the outdoor furniture.
And, it is getting to feel like Spring. The yard beckens.
But the lure of easy money, the fact that someone is interested in my "skills" and the sociability of working on a project calls to me like a siren to a sailer ...
But, things have been changing over the years. And not in a good way. The once spotless stores are now dingy and tired looking. The adult workers who used to flash a big sincere welcoming smile and a hello - who would eagerly ask for your order - have been replaced by poorly trained kids who barely speak English and who could give a crap if you had a nice day or not.
The term "Fast Food" once held the promise of a rapidly-filled order. In and Out. The Drive thru was a way to have it even faster - you did not even have to leave the comfort of your vehicle to get the luscuous cookin's from the famous grill.
Now, if you go through the Open 24 hours a day Drive Thru (Winona Judd's favorite eating venue) you are lucky if they can fill your order when you get to the delivery window. You must check the bag to make certain they got the order right. And you need to ask for napkins unless you prefer to wipe ketchup on your shirtsleeve.
Recently, there have been a lot of radio ads touting the new improved dark roast coffee. I thought I would try it. On two separate occasions, I was disappointed. The first time at the counter when I ordered, there was only 1/2 cup left in the pot. They asked me to wait while they brewed a fresh pot. Sure, I said, fresh coffee is worth waiting a few minutes for. When I got it, it tasted like mud. I surmized that they added the "fresh" coffee to the 1/2 cup of old coffee. I threw it in the trash. A few days later, we were rushing to get to the airport at 5am and we decided to stop for a cup of fresh, hot coffee. I went through the 24 drive thru. When the gave us the coffee, it was cold. The kid said he would start another pot. I said we are in a hurry thanks for nothing and we drove off. Never to return.
I have four calls on voicemail from headhunters wondering what my current status is.
That's a very good question. I have a long list of promised "honey-dos" to do. There is painting to be done, and cleaning of the garage, and staining the outdoor furniture.
And, it is getting to feel like Spring. The yard beckens.
But the lure of easy money, the fact that someone is interested in my "skills" and the sociability of working on a project calls to me like a siren to a sailer ...
3/07/2006
Why I don't update this Blog
I'm on Vacation. Basking in Sun and surf. Drinking coctails on the balcony and watching the sun set on the Gulf of Mexico. Blackened fried grouper for lunch.
Long romantic walks on the beach. Catching up on my reading of action suspense novels. Guys with guns and silencers. A lot of people here bring dogs on vacation with them, and into th restaurants. We only stop at the places with "No Dogs" signs.
I am in the Sarasota public Library. They want to throw me out because I don't have a library card and my cell phone ringtone plays "Fat Bottomed Girls". I don't have a card, but I do have this Glock special. I have a silencer on it. It should be ok to use in a library. Here comes the librarian again. Let's see where this gets me!
[a commotion ensures and PC is logged off, maybe plug is pulled or ...]
Long romantic walks on the beach. Catching up on my reading of action suspense novels. Guys with guns and silencers. A lot of people here bring dogs on vacation with them, and into th restaurants. We only stop at the places with "No Dogs" signs.
I am in the Sarasota public Library. They want to throw me out because I don't have a library card and my cell phone ringtone plays "Fat Bottomed Girls". I don't have a card, but I do have this Glock special. I have a silencer on it. It should be ok to use in a library. Here comes the librarian again. Let's see where this gets me!
[a commotion ensures and PC is logged off, maybe plug is pulled or ...]
3/02/2006
Why I Don’t Write for a Living
On more than one occasion, folks who have read my stuff have flattered me by asking why I do not write professionally.
It may look easy, but real writing is much harder than going into an office, sitting in a cube, researching entity relationship diagrams, analyzing database attributes, designing user reports and pretending that the boss in an intelligent person who does not deserve a twice daily bitch-slapping.
Also, it is virtually impossible to make a living as a writer (Fewer than 20% of "professional" fiction writers manage to make more than $20k per year from their writing). The exception is writing marketing ad copy for Publisher’s Clearinghouse - which can be very remunerative.
So, I prefer the relative anonymity of the web log, where I am the sole editor and publisher, where I can say almost anything I want without getting fired or poked in the nose.
I am not disciplined enough to get any work done unless my workplace is in a place where someone is watching me. If I am "working at home" I inevitably become distracted by the radio, the cat, the desperate housewives in the neighborhood, a yard that needs work, peeling paint, a falling down fence, the phone, noise from the building project down the street, Jehovah’s Witnesses – you name it. If I need to look-up a word in the thesaurus I often spend hours searching for the bon mot.
I cannot meet deadlines. My energy to write usually lasts about the time it takes to consume two Sierra Nevada’s. Then I nap.
Writing as a job has no allure for me. As soon as I begin to think of it as work - i.e. doing what someone else tells you to do - I find it tedious.
Writing is much harder than rocket science. Think about it. Rocket science is simply applying known laws of physics. Make accurate detailed calculations and presto you've got a man on the moon. On the other hand, writing a humorous piece starts with a blank page, a half-baked idea, a literary license and some grammatical rules that would curl your hair. You write a draft. You rewrite the piece four of five times. Finally, you just give-up on it and call it done. Now, if you show it to someone, they feel perfectly comfortable criticizing your work. Some people even get-off on it. (e.g., "That last piece on midgets was not as funny as the one on hunting accidents.") Perhaps I am too thin-skinned to be a professional writer. But you don't see these dolts going around pretending they know something about rocket science.
I do not seek fame. The downside of fame is that it makes you an easy target.
Who needs it? During my last under-employed period (1989), when the local newspaper would publish my essays, I often felt like a minor celebrity, when someone would recognize me in the supermarket (often to say how much they liked the midget piece but that I should do more on wildlife sightings in the police notes). One fan even said I was better and funnier than Dave Barry (thanks, Mom).
After one not-so-humorous piece lampooning the pro-life demonstrator tactics at clinics, I got phone calls from a pro-life lady who quoted scripture and urged me to do more research. My wife got freaked-out at this veiled attempt at intimidation and she made me promise not to write about touchy subjects in the future. That nipped my career as a famous opinionator of current news events in the bud.
The other day I was metaphorically pulled over by a word police officer for failing to properly punctuate a sentence. Instead of a full period stop, I had typed a comma. Then he cited me for a dangling participle and writing while under the influence of my muse and malt beverages.
"I'm innocent, I tell you," I told him. "I've only had two Sierra Nevada's. OK, I did split an infinitive back there a few paragraphs ago, but I have a license that allows me to violate certain rules of grammar."
The officer sneered, “Where’d you get your license – Sears?”
Ok, time for my nap.
It may look easy, but real writing is much harder than going into an office, sitting in a cube, researching entity relationship diagrams, analyzing database attributes, designing user reports and pretending that the boss in an intelligent person who does not deserve a twice daily bitch-slapping.
Also, it is virtually impossible to make a living as a writer (Fewer than 20% of "professional" fiction writers manage to make more than $20k per year from their writing). The exception is writing marketing ad copy for Publisher’s Clearinghouse - which can be very remunerative.
So, I prefer the relative anonymity of the web log, where I am the sole editor and publisher, where I can say almost anything I want without getting fired or poked in the nose.
I am not disciplined enough to get any work done unless my workplace is in a place where someone is watching me. If I am "working at home" I inevitably become distracted by the radio, the cat, the desperate housewives in the neighborhood, a yard that needs work, peeling paint, a falling down fence, the phone, noise from the building project down the street, Jehovah’s Witnesses – you name it. If I need to look-up a word in the thesaurus I often spend hours searching for the bon mot.
I cannot meet deadlines. My energy to write usually lasts about the time it takes to consume two Sierra Nevada’s. Then I nap.
Writing as a job has no allure for me. As soon as I begin to think of it as work - i.e. doing what someone else tells you to do - I find it tedious.
Writing is much harder than rocket science. Think about it. Rocket science is simply applying known laws of physics. Make accurate detailed calculations and presto you've got a man on the moon. On the other hand, writing a humorous piece starts with a blank page, a half-baked idea, a literary license and some grammatical rules that would curl your hair. You write a draft. You rewrite the piece four of five times. Finally, you just give-up on it and call it done. Now, if you show it to someone, they feel perfectly comfortable criticizing your work. Some people even get-off on it. (e.g., "That last piece on midgets was not as funny as the one on hunting accidents.") Perhaps I am too thin-skinned to be a professional writer. But you don't see these dolts going around pretending they know something about rocket science.
I do not seek fame. The downside of fame is that it makes you an easy target.
Who needs it? During my last under-employed period (1989), when the local newspaper would publish my essays, I often felt like a minor celebrity, when someone would recognize me in the supermarket (often to say how much they liked the midget piece but that I should do more on wildlife sightings in the police notes). One fan even said I was better and funnier than Dave Barry (thanks, Mom).
After one not-so-humorous piece lampooning the pro-life demonstrator tactics at clinics, I got phone calls from a pro-life lady who quoted scripture and urged me to do more research. My wife got freaked-out at this veiled attempt at intimidation and she made me promise not to write about touchy subjects in the future. That nipped my career as a famous opinionator of current news events in the bud.
The other day I was metaphorically pulled over by a word police officer for failing to properly punctuate a sentence. Instead of a full period stop, I had typed a comma. Then he cited me for a dangling participle and writing while under the influence of my muse and malt beverages.
"I'm innocent, I tell you," I told him. "I've only had two Sierra Nevada's. OK, I did split an infinitive back there a few paragraphs ago, but I have a license that allows me to violate certain rules of grammar."
The officer sneered, “Where’d you get your license – Sears?”
Ok, time for my nap.
2/18/2006
Est la barre ouverte?
Thoughts on Non-Employment
I have decided to describe my current status as “non-employment” as opposed to unemployment or retirement. “Unemployment” connotes a lack of success in a job search. “Retirement” implies a decision to stop looking for work. Non-employment means that I am not presently looking for a job, but not sure that I am permanently done with work. When asked, I simply say I am “on the bench.”
"On the bench" is standard jargon for consultants and contractors who are "between" assignments. I especially use this terminology around my wife. She is nervous at the thought that I have actually begun an unannounced de facto retirement. Not having "work" to occupy my time, and without her being home to keep an eye on me, she fears that my evening cocktail hour will commence closer to noontime.
I assure her that I have plenty to do, and hardly any of my cohorts are drinking these days (primarily due to the unfortunate fact that alcohol disagrees with their meds.) Besides, I have come to the point in life where two beers is about all I can handle before I start mumbling. How much trouble can you get into after only two beers?
Other than the predictable domestic demands on my free time (mainly meals preparation, shopping, doing laundry and going to the dump), I am enjoying non-employment. The main problem with this status is the steady encroachment of fearful thoughts that tend to dominate the thinking of people who subsist on a (limited) fixed income. We begin to worry about living too long or getting sick and running out of money. At the same time, we dread the thought that we are squandering our healthy years by continuing to work and save, rather than using some of the hard-earned cash to buy some well deserved fun.
A job is an opiate. By accepting the constraints of a job, we allow someone else to make all the big decisions about Time in our lives. Indirectly, the working hours of our job dictate when we go to bed, when we wake-up, how much time we have for breakfast. The job description may even decide where we work how much travel we must do.
Job related deadlines and overtime demands determine whether we are able to squeeze-in some entertainment and/or family time on weekends. The paradox of business life is the devil’s bargain where we trade our personal autonomy for attaining more money and power. The higher we are in the management hierarchy of an organization the less “free time” is available to us. Those days when the execs sneak off early for a round of golf are more than paid for by weekends and nights of overtime. It is commonly known that many of the most successful executives have disastrous personal lives.
Well, the idea is that time is precious. One must spend it like gold – and certainly not give away the control of it to by people who think of us as “resources” not as human beings who need some personal time to think about life’s unanswered questions.
One of the ways we are planning to spend precious time this year is to travel beyond the local boundries of the interstate. We think we will have more fun seeing more of the world. In anticipation of said travel I am brushing up on my language skills. The new MS word2003 has a language translator and I have been spending my precious time learning some handy phrases in different languages.
Hey, it's almost noontime. (Is the bar open?)
É a barra aberta
Ist der geöffnete Stab
I have decided to describe my current status as “non-employment” as opposed to unemployment or retirement. “Unemployment” connotes a lack of success in a job search. “Retirement” implies a decision to stop looking for work. Non-employment means that I am not presently looking for a job, but not sure that I am permanently done with work. When asked, I simply say I am “on the bench.”
"On the bench" is standard jargon for consultants and contractors who are "between" assignments. I especially use this terminology around my wife. She is nervous at the thought that I have actually begun an unannounced de facto retirement. Not having "work" to occupy my time, and without her being home to keep an eye on me, she fears that my evening cocktail hour will commence closer to noontime.
I assure her that I have plenty to do, and hardly any of my cohorts are drinking these days (primarily due to the unfortunate fact that alcohol disagrees with their meds.) Besides, I have come to the point in life where two beers is about all I can handle before I start mumbling. How much trouble can you get into after only two beers?
Other than the predictable domestic demands on my free time (mainly meals preparation, shopping, doing laundry and going to the dump), I am enjoying non-employment. The main problem with this status is the steady encroachment of fearful thoughts that tend to dominate the thinking of people who subsist on a (limited) fixed income. We begin to worry about living too long or getting sick and running out of money. At the same time, we dread the thought that we are squandering our healthy years by continuing to work and save, rather than using some of the hard-earned cash to buy some well deserved fun.
A job is an opiate. By accepting the constraints of a job, we allow someone else to make all the big decisions about Time in our lives. Indirectly, the working hours of our job dictate when we go to bed, when we wake-up, how much time we have for breakfast. The job description may even decide where we work how much travel we must do.
Job related deadlines and overtime demands determine whether we are able to squeeze-in some entertainment and/or family time on weekends. The paradox of business life is the devil’s bargain where we trade our personal autonomy for attaining more money and power. The higher we are in the management hierarchy of an organization the less “free time” is available to us. Those days when the execs sneak off early for a round of golf are more than paid for by weekends and nights of overtime. It is commonly known that many of the most successful executives have disastrous personal lives.
Well, the idea is that time is precious. One must spend it like gold – and certainly not give away the control of it to by people who think of us as “resources” not as human beings who need some personal time to think about life’s unanswered questions.
One of the ways we are planning to spend precious time this year is to travel beyond the local boundries of the interstate. We think we will have more fun seeing more of the world. In anticipation of said travel I am brushing up on my language skills. The new MS word2003 has a language translator and I have been spending my precious time learning some handy phrases in different languages.
Hey, it's almost noontime. (Is the bar open?)
É a barra aberta
Ist der geöffnete Stab
2/04/2006
State of the Yard
I’m looking out the window into the back yard. Yesterday’s warm rains have wiped out any residue of recent snows. The neighbor’s home-made skating rink looks more like a swimming pool. The thaw has encouraged a distinct greening of the lawn and patches of bright new growth can be seen in the clay pots of chives and parsley.
Spring is in play.
The WSJ reports that there were 193,000 new American jobs in January. Today’s editorial touts the “lowest employment rate” in four years as clear evidence that the 2003 tax cuts are working. I’ll let you know whether I agree or not after I am finished doing my taxes.
I use Turbo-Tax so the hardest part is gathering all the pertinent documents.
I know what you organized people are thinking: Why not just keep all the tax-related papers in one folder so you can find everything you need easily? Yes, that might be an efficient way of doing things, but it is not my way.
My way is to keep every bill, receipt, statement, form, notice, credit card offers, correspondence, acknowledgement, confirmation, insert, fax, note, stub, check and any other document that is not an advertisement – in a big cardboard box.
Traditionally, during the NFL Wildcard weekend, usually in mid-January, while watching the games on TV, I sort through the box and toss the stuff that needs tossing and pile the stuff that needs shredding into a big brown grocery bag for later attention.
Usually this process is lubricated by repetitive ingestion of malt beverages. Now, I don’t know about you, but after a few frosty Sierra Nevada’s, my inclination to sort paper erodes very quickly and without warning. Thus, I typically end-up with a half-sorted box of papers, a bag of shred-able documents - which – like as not, will just get chucked into the trash along with the wet garbage (Go ahead, identity thieves, burrow through the rotten cantaloupe, eggshells, coffee grinds and banana skins. Bring it on !)
But it is good to know that the economy remains strong, with all that job growth. I was comforted the other night by Pres. Bush’s rosy picture of things, weren’t you?
He needs a new speech writer. He reminded me of a CEO at the annual Kickoff meeting. Rah-Rah, we are the greatest! We need to foster more Teamwork and we need to work harder to out-compete the competition! Empty feel good phrases.
Funny how companies give all the perks and rewards to the greedy egomaniacs who create dissention and distrust among the workforce instead of trying to get the people to work as teams.
Not that it matters to me anymore. I am officially back among the ranks of unemployed and NOT looking. At least not for the moment.
I do not have time for a regular job.
Stop sending me leads.
Spring is in play.
The WSJ reports that there were 193,000 new American jobs in January. Today’s editorial touts the “lowest employment rate” in four years as clear evidence that the 2003 tax cuts are working. I’ll let you know whether I agree or not after I am finished doing my taxes.
I use Turbo-Tax so the hardest part is gathering all the pertinent documents.
I know what you organized people are thinking: Why not just keep all the tax-related papers in one folder so you can find everything you need easily? Yes, that might be an efficient way of doing things, but it is not my way.
My way is to keep every bill, receipt, statement, form, notice, credit card offers, correspondence, acknowledgement, confirmation, insert, fax, note, stub, check and any other document that is not an advertisement – in a big cardboard box.
Traditionally, during the NFL Wildcard weekend, usually in mid-January, while watching the games on TV, I sort through the box and toss the stuff that needs tossing and pile the stuff that needs shredding into a big brown grocery bag for later attention.
Usually this process is lubricated by repetitive ingestion of malt beverages. Now, I don’t know about you, but after a few frosty Sierra Nevada’s, my inclination to sort paper erodes very quickly and without warning. Thus, I typically end-up with a half-sorted box of papers, a bag of shred-able documents - which – like as not, will just get chucked into the trash along with the wet garbage (Go ahead, identity thieves, burrow through the rotten cantaloupe, eggshells, coffee grinds and banana skins. Bring it on !)
But it is good to know that the economy remains strong, with all that job growth. I was comforted the other night by Pres. Bush’s rosy picture of things, weren’t you?
He needs a new speech writer. He reminded me of a CEO at the annual Kickoff meeting. Rah-Rah, we are the greatest! We need to foster more Teamwork and we need to work harder to out-compete the competition! Empty feel good phrases.
Funny how companies give all the perks and rewards to the greedy egomaniacs who create dissention and distrust among the workforce instead of trying to get the people to work as teams.
Not that it matters to me anymore. I am officially back among the ranks of unemployed and NOT looking. At least not for the moment.
I do not have time for a regular job.
Stop sending me leads.
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