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."
3/27/2006
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.
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