The Sorrows of Team Building

“So Tire Shop, why don’t you tell the group your soap opera name.”

That’s what he asks me.  It was my very first team building event and the “he” I refer to was the group manager, let’s call him Verne.  So Verne comes up with this bright idea to break the ice.  He says that we all need to come up with our soap opera name.  To do this, you put together your middle name and the name of the street you grew up on.

“Uh,” I stutter, “look Verne are you sure you want us to do this?”

“Of course Tire, it can’t be that bad,” he says lightly chuckling at my embarrassment.

“Okay,” I say unsteadily.  “Well, I mean it’s just that my middle name happens to be Harry and I grew up on Crackenballs Avenue.”

Needless to say, the game kind of went downhill from there. 

Corporate team buildings usually suck.  At least, for us cynical bastards, they suck.  But some people really get excited about team building events.  There’s the really peppy event organizer for instance.  You know the type.  Think of a head cheerleader in high school who can’t register sarcastic remarks.  I can never tell if she’s ultra-religious or just on loads of Prozac. 

Anyway, my team building activities have usually resulted in the aforementioned Pollyanna prancing about trying to get everyone overly excited about having a non-alcoholic picnic in the park on a nintey-seven degree day.  All I can say is thank God I have a flask.

Oh yes, in my days at ”the company” I’ve seen my fair share of team buildings.

I’ve participated in an event coined “The Company Olympics” at a local park in the middle of summer.  This consisted of me sweating like a warthog while competing in events involving menial tasks like dirt shoveling and cinder block stacking.

I’ve wandered bored stiff around an art gallery who was having a special display of Egyptian artifacts that month.  Lots of broken plates and clumps of dirt.  Fascinating.

I’ve participated in a scavenger hunt in a mini-mall parking lot.  Teams of four had to find as many restaurant napkins and karate lesson pamphlets as they could over the course of an hour.  I went into a nearby bar to retrieve both a napkin and a pamphlet and ended up staying for quite some time.  My team was quite perturbed with me when I rushed across the finish line a half an hour late with nothing but a piece of toliet paper sticking to my foot.

I also recall that I was once almost coerced into going to a Build-a-Bear event at the local mall.  Thankfully, I was able to extract myself from that fiasco and attend the Build-a-Beer event at my favorite pub down the street.

Honestly the best team building events I’ve been on have involved just drinking at the bar.  You get to know people that way.  Learn who to stay away from, who to buddy up with, and the like.  There really is nothing like drinking heavily to get to know someone.  I think it was Dean Martin who said “you’re not drunk if you can lay down on the floor without holding on.”

Amen Dino.  Pour the wine brother.

Big Brother Is Watching You Pick Your Nose

He who controls the past controls the future. He who controls the present controls the past.

          – 1984 by George Orwell

A few weeks ago I heard a nasty rumor that one of the illustrious VP’s at “the company” had asked their assistant to roam the halls and report back on anyone rumor mongering in the hallways about our upcoming reorganization and layoff.  No word on what this VP intended to do to people who engag in such behaviour, but I might guess they’ll simply be black balled from being given any important jobs or laid off outright.

It really makes me sad to know that one of our leaders is that insecure and paranoid.  Doesn’t surprise me at all.  But it does make me sad. 

It also makes me want to be mischeivous and exploit this poor VP’s paranoia. 

I want to slide a hand scratched note under the VP’s door that reads “THEY KNOW” without any further explanation. 

I want to leave psychic hot line advertisements on the window of the VP’s car. 

I want to run into the VP in the hallway and say “oh hey, what are you still doing around” in a quizzical manner. 

I want to send them a birthday clown-o-gram nowhere near their actual birthday and congratulate them for being much older than they really are.  ”How nifty to be fifty you relic of antiquity.”

I want to leave the book “The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich” on their desk without explanation.

I want to send them a gross of breath mints in an unmarked package containing a note that says “Try one baboon mouth.”

I want to do all those things and more.  Just for fun.  Just a few little pranks to drive someone insane.  No harm in that.   

Clash of the Titles

Titles are a funny thing.  So very meaningless in reality, and yet so very sought after in behind the walls of “the company.”

I recall once I was perusing a newly distributed organizational chart born out of one of the many many restructurings “the company” has gone through over the years when my eyes fixed on what was to become my very favorite title of all time. 

Chief Scientist.

Keep in mind, I don’t work for a pharmaceutical company or in any industry in which scientific research is required.  “What the hell does the Chief Scientist do,” I thought quizzically conjuring up images of a frizzy haired maniac in a white coat fooling around with glass beacons in his dungeon-like laboratory.

Thinking about it, I’d really enjoy it if my title was Chief Scientist.  Actually, I would enjoy it a little more if my title was Space Adventurer.  But Chief Scientist works really well too.  Wouldn’t that title go over huge at fancy dinner parties?

——————————————————

“Hello there my good man.  I’m Preston Lockwood the third, of the Long Island Lockwoods.”

“Hey there Petercheese, name’s Tire Shop.”

“It’s Preston actually.  Doesn’t Miffy throw the most wonderful parties?  Why I recall the fun we had at the last little soiree she put on down at Folly’s Fair.”

“Couldn’t agree more Pinklepuss.  I do adore the free jello shots.”

“Preston is the name.  So where does your work find you Tire?  I myself am the manager of a two hundred million dollar hedge fund on Wall Street.  Fascinating work really.

“That sounds real keen Prissypants.  I’m a Chief Scientist and all.  You know how it is.”

“Touche my good man, and the name is Preston.  Preston Lockwood.”

————————————————————–

So titles can be a really powerful thing.  The real issue is they usually aren’t that descriptive.  Director of Operations.  Vice President of Marketing.  Those titles just absolutely suck don’t they.  Who the hell knows what those people do for a living.

Here are a few titles I’d like to see that are more descriptive of the person and/or job function:

Director of three non-technical employees who have minimal impact on the business.

Vice President of zero discernible talents who miraculously survives every layoff.

Chief of screaming to make things happen.

Senior Director of mysterious analytical work no one can figure out.

Vice President of head nodding and restating intelligent points that others make during meetings.

Manager of smooching ass to guarantee a promotion.

Director of always looking confused and speaking confusingly.

Vice President of playing tennis with the CEO.

…and so on. 

How To Excel

I touched on this subject in my previous blog but I wanted to expand on it.

Working in and around Microsoft Excel is part of being employed at a large corporation.  Most of us know enough about Excel to make do just fine.  But there are others.  Those freaks of nature that fall into the far tails of the Excel user bell curve.  I group them into two distinct categories.

Group One

Name:  The Spreadsheet Simpletons (SS)

Excel Skills:  Members of the Spreadsheet Simpletons can perform one function with an Excel spreadsheet.  View it.  Correction make that two functions.  Open it and view it.

Members:  A) The really old guy who sits next to you at work and coughs a lot; B) The bubbly girl who has gotten by on her looks till now; C) The panicky older woman who spends all day on the phone with her idiot daughter who can’t cook a meal or drive a car; D) The younger guy who always seems to be wearing two different colored socks to work.

Identifying Spreadsheet Simpletons in the Wild (A User’s Guide):  SS are easily spotted in the wild if you follow this users guide.

• Section One – Sounds:  Know the location of the SS first by the depressed sigh at being sent a spreadsheet via e-mail.  Once you’ve heard the sigh, listen closely for a murmuring of words as the SS attempts to view the spreadsheet.  Normally this murmuring takes the form of the SS talking itself through the steps to open the spreadsheet.  Example: “Now I double right-click on the green thingy and click save-is.  Then I choose the My Documents folder on my front screen and rename the file to Open_File_1547.”  Sometimes these instructions will be repeated several times with intermittent statements of frustration such as “Oh this stupid thing is gonna be the death of me” or “things were much simpler before these durn magic boxes popped up everywhere.”
• Section Two – Sight:  Sighting an SS in the wild is fascinating if one conceals the fact that he or she is watching the SS interact with a spreadsheet.  Notice the SS tends to throw its arms up in the air while expelling a hard sigh from its mouth.  This is the unmistakable sign of irritation.  Do not approach the SS at this point.  Also watch for the SS staring incessantly at the spreadsheet, it’s head drawing ever closer to the screen with each passing minute.  On a rare occasion, one can witness the SS turning the knobs on their computer monitor in a feeble attempt to get the spreadsheet to scroll down.
• Section Three - Interaction:  One must take interaction with SS in the wild very seriously lest ye will take on a burden of Excel explanations you will never escape.  The SS tends to be a bit clingy when it finds out you know a little something about Excel.  Play dumb whenever the SS asks you any questions about Excel.  For example, when asked “hey do you know how make cell A2 turn green” pretend not to have heard the question and walk away quickly.  Remember, if you are captured by an SS, you will become the Excel training guru for this SS for the rest of your natural life.  

Group Two

Name:  The Workbook Wizards (WW)

Excel Skills:  Members of the Workbook Wizards can perform every function that exists in Excel.  Unfortunately, most everything beyond sorting, summing, filters, formulas, and look-up functions is completely useless for analyzing real business problems and coming up with real business solutions.

Members:  A) The fidgety former IT professional who has been laid off nineteen times in the last six years;  B) The young college graduate who doesn’t comb his hair and has warlock looking action figures setup throughout his cubical;  C) The girl with glasses so thick you’re quite positive she can see into other dimensions;  D) The foreign guy at the end of the row who always seems to say the word ”yumtum” in front of and behind every English word he utters. 

Identifying Workbook Wizards in the Wild (A User’s Guide):  WW are easily spotted in the wild if you follow this users guide.

• Section One – Sounds:  Locate a WW in the wild by the lighting fast clicking noises coming from its ergonomic mouse.  Listen also for the slurping sounds of diet cola or Mountain Dew being sucked from a drinking mug the size of an oil drum.  Should two WW’s get together, you’ll hear the distinct sounds of heated conversation in their native language of SQL.
• Section Two – Sight:  Know a WW first by the rigid wrist brace covering its right forearm.  WW’s are normally slovenly dressed, usually in a dirty pair of Doc Martins and pants that are way too large and frayed at the cuffs.  The word dissheveled aptly describes the look of a WW, as if they were hit by a city bus as recently as that morning.
• Section Three – Interaction:  Interaction on business issues with a WW can be quite trying.  You might approach them carefully and ask for a quick table displaying last month’s sales.  An hour later you are sitting in their cube looking at column AF while they explain why each of the cells in the two hundred and five row table are colored differently.  Ask for a mole hill and you will end up scaling a mountain.  Never, and I mean never, ask a WW to send you one of their spreadsheets via e-mail.  If you do so, you will spend the next seven hours cleaning out your Inbox to make room for the three gigabyte monster that is devouring your computer.

I hope this guide helps.  Thank you, goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.   

The Perils of Simplicity

A few months ago I created a spreadsheet for someone who had asked me to help them determine how much money we had spent in each of our markets year to date.  It was a simple spreadsheet, column A filled with the market names and column B filled with the corresponding year to date spend amount.

Minutes after I sent the e-mail with the attached spreadsheet, I got a call from the e-mail recipient.  Let’s call her Helen, shall we.  The conversation went something like this:

“Hello this is Tire Shop,” I answer the phone pleasantly.

“Tire Shop,” a confused voice says, “this is Helen.  I think you just sent me over that market spend spreadsheet,” she says in a half question.

“No Helen,” I think sarcastically, “it must have been the freaking stork who left that spreadsheet in your Inbox.”

“Yes,” I say mustering up all the pep I can.  “Did you have questions?”

“Well, I guess I’m just not understanding a few things,” she says exasperated.

“Right Helen, those two columns with the funny looking numbers and letters and stuff really must be blowing your mind.”

“Ask away,” I say knowing that this could be a long conversation.

 ”Okay,” she begins, “first of all when there is a zero next to the market name, does that mean we haven’t spent anything in that market this year?”

“Actually Helen those zeroes represent your IQ.  I put them in as a nice tribute, you walking dunce cap.”

“That’s right,” I say trying not to sound annoyed.  “A zero means no money has been spent this year.”

“How can that be Tire,” she shoots back with a hint of nastiness.

Unsure what to say to this, I pause for a few seconds to think it over but she jumps back in before I can come up with something.

“I mean,” she continues, “spending zero dollars in these markets just doesn’t seem feasible.”

“Yes Helen, it defies the laws of physics.  But kudos to you on using a three syllable word there.  Not bad for a twit like yourself.”

“I’m looking at the spreadsheet now Helen,” I say holding my patience.  “It looks like three markets have zero spending thus far and those are Upper Idaho, Northeast Iowa, and the South Dakota Badlands.”

“Right,” she says triumphantly, “those are the ones.”

Sighing I try to explain.  “Helen, those markets are pretty small population wise,” I say wondering if anyone even lives in Upper Idaho.  “We wouldn’t be putting much money, if any, into markets where there is little to no population.”

“What about the people who drive through there,” she asks emphatically.

“You mean like the rattle snakes and field mice?  Is that who you’re concerned with Helen?  Or maybe you’re worried about the long haul truckers carrying loads of bio-toxins to desert landfills?  They would be my first concern as well!  We don’t want to lose our dirty trucker contingent!  Can’t piss off the people who help spread head lice and gonorrhea to every highway diner in the western United States!”

“Good point,” I lie.  “But there really aren’t many roads that go through those areas.  A few state highways and that is it.”

“Okay,” she says seemingly satisfied.  “I have another question.”

“Oh Fabulous,” I think.

“How do I tell which market we spent the most money on this year?  Do I have to just search down through this list?”

“You could just sort the YTD spend column,” I say without much hope that this is going to sink in.

“How do I do that?  Would I have to print it off or something?”

“I’ll just bet your mother is real proud of you Helen.  I mean all those years worrying that you’d end up getting a job banging erasers together by day and spending your free time at night talking to your mittens.  Must warm her heart that you made it to one step above the drool stage.”

Over the course of the next ten minutes, I walk Helen through how to do a column sort in Excel.  After some trial and error, she finally gets it right.

“Wow, that is really neat,” she exclaims once she’s figured it out.

“If you think that’s neat, you should really look into using a fork when you eat.  High tech shit!”  

With all her questions answered, we hang up and part ways (forever I hope).  Then I reach down into my bottom drawer, pull out my small bottle of Seagrams 7, and begin my day.  

—————————————————————–

On a sad note, George Carlin, one of my favorite comedians died today of heart failure.  I’ve attached a link to one of his best bits about flying on commercial airlines.  RIP.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DagVklB4VHQ&feature=related

 

The Wrong Man

You know him.  You see him every day.  You’ve talked about him with friends, family, and co-workers.  You talk to him regularly and always leave shaking your head, perplexed by that same question that arises over and over again:

How does that guy keep his job?

There really is no answer to the question.  It’s a mystery inside of a riddle wrapped in a dumbass.  It is not that he’s stupid, it’s just that he can’t really think past his mouth.  It is as if the words that flow from his lips carry the thoughts out of his brain, forestalling any chance of a coherent train of thinking.  It’s all just hot air escaping into the atmosphere unbidden by all the trappings of logic.

The question keeps popping up every time I turn a corner these days.  It takes on various incarnations, but all are in the same vain.  How does that guy keep his job?  No one knows, but these snippets may sound familiar to you:

Did you see that Brantley got named as the new Vice President of financial analytics?  Interesting that he’s the new numbers guy because I don’t think he could count his legs.

From Corp Comm:  We are pleased to announce that Peggy Head will now be heading up our new Customer Service group.  Peggy is going to be a great asset to the team, bringing with her months of experience in her previous job as a retail sales associate for now defunct pharmaceutical firm Prophylactor.  Peggy also comes from great stock.  Many of you may know her father Dick, our long time SVP of Operations.

I heard that Charlie Macgruder got promoted yesterday.  Word is he impressed upper management by creating a new status update report to track the two other status update reports we created last year.  Apparently no one can seem to figure out when the status updates were going to occur, so Charlie created something to give status updates on when we can all expect to receive the status updates.  It’s not a bad idea really.  I mean, I just don’t think it’s fair that people call him names like Mr. Redundant and Turd Sniffer.

From Corp Comm:  As part of our tireless efforts to match skills and competencies with work function, management has decided to move Bart Farmer from his current position as Director of Transconfiguration to a role more suited to his previous work experience as an assistant manager of Chuck-E-Cheese.  Therefore, effective immediately Bart will be taking the role of Director Internal Fun Events and also heading up our Happy Times committee.

Hey June, I just found out I got a knew boss.  Yeah.  Well do you remember that guy we worked with a few years ago who was in the fast track program named Rick Rockendicker?  No, you’re thinking of Chazz Floggenspankem.  Rick was the little guy with the Napolean complex who always wore a sports coat for no good reason.  Remember him?  He would constantly throw “I’m smarter than you” hissy fits in our meetings but always ended up asking us how to wipe his own ass when the time came.  Yeah, him.

 

Come Fly With Me

I always liked going on business trips…that is before our travel budgets got slashed to nothing.  I really enjoy getting out and away from the office in a new city for a few days.  Clears the mind, you know.

The only problem with business travel is the other business travelers.  For instance, I once sat on a plane next to a woman who slurped up a salad through the entire flight.  She kept licking the ranch dressing off of her sausage-like fingers and sucking up lettuce like it was spaghetti.  Thankfully, I had a good book and disturbing thoughts of beating her with a head of Romaine to keep me occupied. 

Have you ever got on the plane early and the seat next to you is empty.  You spend the next thirty minutes praying that no one will sit next to you.  You eyeball each and every person that walks on the plane trying to guess whether they are going to take that seat.  Your heart really starts to race when the nine-hundred pound hyperventilation machine comes aboard and begins waddling his way down to aisle toward your row.  There is no relief in the world like the one that comes when the big bastard passes you by, only to make someone else’s life miserable for the next hour and forty-seven minutes.

I once sat next to a mountain of a man on a flight from Dallas to Sacramento.  He had to take a leak every fifteen minutes or so because he was on water pills.  I know this because he told me seventeen times, explaining in detail his health problems.  He had his little daughter sitting on the window in her car seat, and every time he’d get up to go, she would look at me and ask “where’s daddy?”  ”He’s in the pisser again sweetie,” I would say.  Cute little tyke.

I recall having to take a commuter plane with a propeller from Charlotte, NC to Charlottesville, VA once.  The plane looked very old and rickety.  This was confirmed when a greasy airplane mechanic went to the front of the plane, started spinning the propeller and yelling “CONTACT.”  I usually don’t get nervous on planes but when I noticed Buddy Holly and The Big Bopper getting on board I called my wife to say goodbye.

I do recall the Charlottesville airport being the smallest I’ve ever been in.  I retrieved my luggage and got a rental car at the same counter.  When I flew out the next day, I was just getting through security when a TSA officer asked, “can I help direct you to your gate?”  With all four gates being directly in front of me about twelve feet away, I asked him if he thought I was blind.  He wasn’t amused.

I was flying out on the day of the shampoo and conditioner scare, when they stopped letting you tote liquids in your carry on luggage.  At security, I had to throw away my toothpaste, hair gel, shaving cream, hand lotion, goat’s milk, skin tonic, oil of olay body wash, liquid exfoliator, Jager-bomb, and the little bottle of vodka I was going to snort up soon after take off.

Lots of other flying stories.  We all have them.  But I do miss those business trips nonetheless.  Oh to be a young man on the road, footloose and fancy-free.

 

The Hall Of Vice Presidents

About a week ago I posted a description of the types of meetings that occur at large corporations (http://thetireshop.wordpress.com/2008/06/09/on-meetings-and-manure/).  One of the meetings types I mention is the “Third Stringer” meeting.  This is where you are asked to attend a meeting for your director who was asked to attend by your VP.  This means you’ll be at the table with the bigs.  At the big boy table that is.

I remember my very first third stringer meeting like it was yesterday <sigh>.

(Fade to a much younger and ambitious Tire Shop).

————————————————————————-

There I am, working diligently in my tiny gray cubical when the phone rings.  “This is Tire Shop,” I answer with the appropriate amount of pep.

“Tire Shop, this is The Bane Of Your Existence (my director).  Can you attend a meeting for me this afternoon?”

“Of course chief,” I answer excitedly.  “Wow,” I think to myself!  “When a director asks you to attend a meeting for them it means they have a high degree of trust in you and think a lot of your skills.  No way he is just pushing this off on me because he’s got to pick his kids up from cricket practice or something.  I’m looking up today!”

“Great,” he says, “Denise asked me to attend for her but I’ve got to pick my kids up from cricket practice.  I’ll send you the meeting info in an e-mail.”

We exchange quick goodbyes and hang up.  I sit there astounded.  “I’m going to be attending a meeting for Denise,” I think. 

Denise is the VP of the entire department.  Now I’m giddy. 

“The fact that she’s trusting me to attend this meeting for her means that I’m on my way up.  No way she is just pushing this off because one of her cats had an aneurysm last night or something.”

I get the meeting info as promised and notice that it is being held in the executive wing of the building.  Hallowed ground. 

The time for the meeting arrives and I begin walking excitedly toward the conference room.  I’ve never been in a meeting near the executive offices before.  The executive wing is very mysterious to us commoners.  It’s almost as if it holds itself on another plane of existence.  One with mahogany crown molding, deep red upholstery, and the smell of well oiled leather chairs.  I also hear there are mythical creatures that roam the hallways, like unicorns and zebras and shit.

Approaching the precipice of the executive wing, I pause with trepidation, peering past the threshold into the plush beginnings just beyond.  Smooth tan carpeting stretches out before me disappearing from my sight just a few feet beyond the doorway.  A sly illusion brought on by the recessed mood lighting that lines the hallways.  

I steady my nerves, hold my breath, and step gingerly beyond the entryway into executive heaven.  Another world opens up before me.  The carpet is so soft it’s like walking on dead Panda fur.  For no particular reason, I tiptoe down the hallway like a cat-burglar.  ”I don’t belong in here,” I think half expecting to be tackled by three guys who used to play for the Oakland Raiders and are now security beasts at “the company.”  

I walk up and down the hallways several times looking for my conference room, unable to find it.  It’s like the Minotaur’s labyrinth in here.  With only about four minutes to go before meeting time, I’m starting to get nervous and begin sweating profusely.  My pace quickens as I start a brisk trot back and forth looking for conference room 3G20051B.

I round a corner and find myself in a hallway where massive offices line the far wall.  I notice that outside of each office is a massive secretary’s cubical, each twice the size of my own.  Standing there, I see that all of the secretaries along the entire hallway have their heads turned staring at me with consternation, no doubt each of their perfectly manicured fingers on the red panic button under their desks.

Steeling my nerves I walk up to the nearest secretary’s desk to ask for directions.  Her dragon-like eyes peer at me with growing suspicion as I approach.

“Pardon me ma’am,” I begin with a stutter, “but I wonder if you could help me find my way.”

At that moment, she springs from her chair, pulls a .45 caliber Glock pistol from under her pant suit and yells, “ON THE FLOOR MOTHERF&CKER!”

Not really.  But that would have been awesome.

“Sure honey,” she replies in a pleasant tone.  “Where do you need to go?”

Following her directions I take six left turns (is that even possible) and finally find my conference room.  Seriously it is like the maze from ”The Shining” in there (only without the axe murderer chasing you).

I rush into the conference room and realize I’m the first one to arrive even though I’m two minutes late.  I check the conference room number forty-two times in the next thirty seconds and am satisfied that this is the right place.  I sit down in one of the massive leather chairs, which makes me feel like a small child sitting on an over-sized toilet, and wait for the others to arrive.

As the big boys file in, they ignore me completely.  They discuss racquetball and life at “the club” for a few minutes before kicking things off. 

Roll call is the first order of business.  This, I realize, is my big moment.  The big boys say their names nonchalantly (Rick, Dick, Mick, and such).  Then comes my turn.

“Hi,” my voice cracks severely, “I’m Tire Shop and I’m attending for Denise today.” 

The biggest boy glances my way, nods, and says, “thanks for coming in today Tiger.  I think Denise did say something about her cat having an aneurysm or something last night.”

The meeting begins and I shrink back into anonymity joining the pretty flowers on the wall behind me.

The end.

———————————————————————–

For that meeting anyway.  I’ve been in that situation many times since, but there’s nothing like your first executive third stringer experience.  Frightening, enlightening, and mighty entertaining.

 

There Is No Try

It’s not that I’m lazy, it’s just that I don’t care.

        -  Peter Gibbons in Office Space

What did you do today?  At work I mean.  What did you do?  Did you accomplish something?  Work on a riveting analysis?  Maybe design a new process or improve an old one?  Any of these?

If you did, I admit I’m jealous.  I yearn for the days of being busy and adding value to the business.  Honestly I really do.  This sitting and staring thing is really getting to me.

You might ask, “Tire Shop, if that’s the case, why don’t you do something?  Take on a project?  Analyze some long forgotten data that might help in determining a new action plan?”

Good question.  The answer is simple.  Because I have done that – all of those things.  And each time I did it amounted to absolutely nothing.  Not because I didn’t try mind you.  But because that is the way of things.

I’ve been around, you know.  I’ve been in front of senior executives.  I’ve heeded their advice and been directed by their waving hand.

I’ve presented mountains of data telling them how to move forward for success.  Alas, no decision.

I’ve worked solutions to major issues at ”the company” with cross functional teams comprised of really smart people.  Alas, no decision.

I’ve provided them the wherewithal to win.  Alas, no decision.

You’ve done these things too.  All of you.  And yet, alas, no decision.

I think it was Homer Simpson who said “you tried your best and failed miserably. The lesson is, never try.”

Oh, I like that.  I can run with that one.

Rumors of War

Look at all these rumors, running me everyday.

            – Club Nouveau

That’s right.  I just quoted Club F-ing Nouveau.  Now I know things are getting bad.  I’m chuckling about this as we speak.  You’re probably thinking “hey there Tire Shop, are you the man that time forgot?”  Yes, I’m stuck in an era of bad eighties pop music.  Club Nouveau, Falco, Levert, Spandau Ballet, P.M. Dawn, The Outfield, Talking Heads, Alphaville, The Hooters, Icehouse, When In Rome.  These are the kinds of bands that populate my iPod.  That said, I do throw in a little Megadeth and Pantera just so I’m not labeled a fancy lad.  

Anyway, enough of that.  Now on to the topic.

Rumors can be vicious or harmless.  They can start wars or end oppression.  They can polarize a once happy family or bring people together for a common cause. 

At “the company,” rumors are simply an essential part of the lines of communication from the top to the bottom.  Rumors do the job of communicating “secret” messages from the top shelves of the organization to the kitchen floor of the company.  Without them, I’m positive chaos would ensue.  Think about it.  What is worse than knowing you’re about to be laid off?  How about NOT knowing you’re about to be laid off?

During a time of turmoil (like massive layoffs for instance) rumors run rampant.  Why just the other day someone walked into my cubicle and said “hey Tire Shop…oh…he’s not here today.”  That’s right missy, I was at home on my couch watching the U.S. Open playoff. 

But there are always rumors about layoffs at “the company.”  Some are right on the money, while others are outlandish.  Here are a few rumors that I’ve heard recently.

Hey did you hear that they are planning on laying off the entire IT organization and shipping all of their jobs to Turkemenistan, a nation with literally four computers and one working toilet in the entire country?

I was told by a reliable source that they are giving Judy seven years severance pay if she’ll leave.  Rumor is that they believe she has done so much damage to this company, the severance package will pay back in 2.5 months at an 11% WACC.

William told me that the new company tagline is going to be “You Think You Hate Us Now, But Wait Until You Try Us.”

I heard from Billy that the most recent customer loss data has a trajectory that looks like an airplane in a five hundred mile an hour vertical dive.

The rumor going around the marketing department is that we’re going to change our company color from a bright yellow to one that has more of a pale urine hue.

Ted told me that our whole group is going to be laid off because they say our job function is not needed.  I think that’s ridiculous.  I mean who is going to take the specs to the engineers so the customers don’t have to?  We are people persons!  We are good at dealing with people!  CAN’T THEY UNDERSTAND THAT!  WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH THOSE PEOPLE!

People are saying that Stanley just got fired and walked out of the building by men in white coats.  Apparently he got upset during the VP’s staff meeting and walked out.  Then he went into the VP’s office and pooped on his chair.  Then took some of his own poop and wrote the following on one of the windows: “Lovely View Of The Shitty, Isn’t It Dave?”

 Keep those rumors coming.  They make the world go around you know.