A Toast For The Host With The Most

Here’s to you.  You’ve been a good friend.  So let’s have a drink and a toast to us.

Here’s to you Cubical.  You’re looking much less dreary and lived in these days.  We’ve come along way together haven’t we.  I don’t even mind the fact that you have those useless faux windows and under-cabinet lights that don’t work.  You were my 8X8 home for many years and I sure appreciate that.  Hopefully your next occupant isn’t a gaseous orb who moans when he breathes and sweats like a Great Alaskan Horse Moose Dog.

Here’s to you Computer.  You were slow.  You were old.  You always crashed when I was in the middle of an executive fire drill.  But hey, you tried your best.  You know what, check that.  Actually you were an absolute bastard Computer.  I won’t miss you at all and may God have mercy on your soul.

Here’s to you Monitor.  You and I have been together from the start.  I could have claimed eye strain and traded you in for a slimmer model, but I just couldn’t bring myself to part with you.  All this despite you weighing in at a robust two hundred and eighteen pounds and consistently smashing my finger whenever I tried to move you around to clean my desk.  I decorated you with my Excellence award stickers.  All two of them from six years ago.

Here’s to you Printer.  You dirty son of a bitching absolute piece of crap!  You are like an alcoholic that drinks toner, always thirsty for your next highball.  You are like a compulsive eater who dines on 8X11 paper, there’s never enough to munch on.  You always jammed whenever I had anywhere between two and four minutes to print off an executive presentation and then jog the six miles to my third-stringer meeting with the senior VP’s.  They say that all dogs go to heaven.  I believe that.  I also believe that all printers will burn in hell.

Here’s to you Coffee Machine.  I was always perturbed that none of my coffee mugs ever fit under your four inch tall spout.  I had to transfer coffee from a Styrofoam cup to my mug every morning.  Then we decided to get rid of Styrofoam cups due to excess use.  Root cause – Coffee Machine Design.  I think perhaps you were designed for use in the Corporate Headquarters of the Lollipop Kids over at Munchkin Land Office Park.  “The company” must have gotten a deal on the excess supply after the Lollipop Kids went out of business.

Here’s to you Quiet Room.  More than anyone, I’ll bet you’ve seen some romping activity in your day.  Rumors of lascivious activity run rampant in your neck of the woods.  All because of you Quiet Room.  Add some Bee Gee’s music and a disco ball and it’s Studio 54 all over again.

Here’s to you Weird Art On The Walls.  I’ll bet the cost of displaying you has resulted in at least five hundred to a thousand employees losing their jobs over the years.  I’m especially fond of the giant moldy pickle that dresses up the entryway of my building.  I love modern art.  There’s Mondrian, Jackson Pollock, and The Giant Pickler.

Here’s to you Parking Garage.  I love how your narrow corridors partner with the guys who park their F250 Trucks on the very edge of corner turns.  That way I don’t have to even glance at that lunatic going fifty miles an hour down the ramp until he’s in my lap.  You’ve really made me appreciate living, oh Parking Garage, since I’ve nearly been killed over seventy times driving or walking through your concrete structure during my tenor at “the company.”

Here’s to you co-workers.  Because, as Bill Clinton used to say, “I feel your pain.”  And I know that you feel mine.

Thanks.

Follow The Yellow Brick Road…But Watch Out For Flying Monkeys

Next week will be my last at “the company.”  I wonder what it will be like?  Eight years is a long time to be married to one job.  I’m leaving lots of good friends behind.  I’ll miss them greatly.  But I’m pretty sure I’ll miss Scarecrow most of all.

“The company” is kind of like The Wizard of Oz isn’t it. 

When you first get hired, you find yourself traversing a golden path to the Emerald City.  How grand!

One day, as your euphoria begins to wane, you happen to look around at the people you are counting on to help you see the journey through.  These people fall into three distinct groups.  The first are those who seem to consistently stumble all over the place without purpose because they have no brains.  The second are those who are completely inconsiderate of any outside factors and rigidly go about their daily tasks because they have no heart.  The third group of people are those who roar with fevered passion about how to change the world but can never commit to a decision because they have no courage.

Then, just for grins, multiple times along your journey a wicked witch sends her flying monkeys out to try and off you and your buddies.  Each time the monkeys take out a few of your little troop (usually the smarter ones) and you have to continue on the path with less help and much more confusion and fear.

Finally, you arrive at the Emerald City to see the great and powerful Oz.  The great and powerful Oz claims to have the answers to all of your problems.  He is confident.  He speaks with great authority.  Problem is that behind the curtain Mr. Oz is a crazy old man who smells like moth balls and spends most of his day coming up with dumbass slogans to draw more tourists into the Emerald City (e.g., Emerald City is at least as good as Sapphire City if not better).

Well one of the flying monkeys got me this time.  That’s okay.  There’s no place like home.  For a while anyway.

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

I was let go over voicemail.  I didn’t mind this at all since I wanted to be placed on the death list.  That said, I wonder if there were others, those who weren’t too keen on being cast aside, that were let go via an electronic message:

“Hey Josie this is your boss Cutter.  I just wanted to let you know that we’ve completed our employee selection activities and you’ve been selected…ah…to be on the list…um…to be deselected and separated from employment with us.  Yeah, we just thought your skill set was way too specialized to be of any use to us.  Also, you seem to ask a lot of questions about how our tactics fit in with our strategy so we were thinking you just weren’t right for the Strategic Tactician role.  So if you could be out of here by five-ish, that would be great.  Oh oh, and I almost forgot.  Can you go ahead and pack up all your knick knacks and shit and get them out of here.  We need this cube to store some boxes and things and want to make sure there’s room.  Thanks a million Josie.  And hey, don’t you go changing.”

 Tough.  Yet I think I prefer the anonymous tact rather than suffer the hemming and hawing of a live conversation.  So very uncomfortable.  You just want to say “spit it out already you spineless fancy lad” but good manners normally curtail any such outbursts.

Damn those manners.

 

 

I Wasted Time, And Now Doth Time Waste Me

We’re drinking my friend
To the end of a brief episode
So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road

          – Frank Sinatra

And then we came to an end.  But quite a ride is was.  Quite a ride indeed.

An old VP of mine once gave the entire team of managers a book by one Dr. Seuss entitled “Oh The Places You’ll Go.”  At the time I thought this was kind of stupid.  But now it seems so very fitting.  For today I’ve been informed of my pending separated employment from ”the company.”  So my journey begins. 

What a gas!  More to come of course.  But I can’t help but think about what a time I had while I worked there.  It was a rollercoaster of laughs.  No joke.  I had more fun than I ever thought I would.  But we knew it was coming.  If you didn’t see it, you didn’t look it in the eye, because it was coming right at you.

Things change.  And that’s okay by me…

Conversations With A VP, or The Screwtape Letters

A crowd of people shift about the conference hall having dull conversations with one another.  All this activity creates a low drone inside the dimly lighted space that is in dire need of remodeling.  The room is decked out in decor from the early nineteen-eighties and smells like feet.  The carpet is blood red with a gold diamond design overlay dark stains of coffee creating a polka-dot effect.  A worn out podium and two light blue folding chairs sit at the head of the room, with another forty or so chairs laid out in a symmetrical pattern facing the podium.  In the corner is a small dark brown fold-out table with a half empty coffee machine and stacks of Styrofoam cups on it. 

A group of people, mostly middle aged professionals, mill about discussing their latest job interview or family vacation.  As the conversations begin to tail off, an uber-nerd in a plaid sports coat and thick rimmed glasses walks to the podium and taps on the microphone to signal the start of the meeting.  The lusterless crowd of twenty-five souls slowly find their chairs and the meeting begins.

“I want to thank you all for coming tonight to our seventh installment of our career counseling sessions here at the Looseville County learning annex,” the uber-nerd begins.  “My name is Parker Smithee and I’ll be leading our discussion this evening. 

Parker shuffles his notes, adjusts his glasses, and continues.  “Just one housekeeping item before we dive into tonight’s topic.  Last week someone left a day planner in their chair near the back of the room.  It is black and has a photo of Princess Leah on it firing a photon gun.  We’re not sure who’s this is because all the planner’s day pages are blank and under the name and address section are only the words Sex Droid.  Please find me after tonight’s session to retrieve your belongings.” 

Parker smirks with some annoyance and shuffles his notes again.  “That aside, I’d like to get right to it and introduce to you tonight’s guest.  He is a longtime corporate executive and currently holds the position of Vice President of Strategic Wandering for a Fortune 100 company.  Please give a nice round of applause for Drake Squarejaw.”

The crowd claps weakly as Drake enters.  He’s is a well formed man, tall, althlectic, and tan.  His dark gray suit is impeccable and glimmers brilliantly along with his perfect smile as he makes his way to the podium to shake hands with Parker.  Their hands embracing, Parker falls to his knees in pain as Drake’s powerful grip crushes the other man’s hand.  Drake takes no notice of this as he immediately turns, gives the crowd a little salute, and takes a seat in one of the blue folding chairs next to the podium.  Parker stumbles to follow Drake’s lead, his crushed hand held gingerly at his waist.

“Mr. Squarejaw,” Parker begins half out of breath from the pain, “first I just want to thank you so much for sharing your knowledge with us here tonight.”

Drake shrugs his wide shoulders and flashes his winning smile, “no problem at all Pecker.  I hope to learn as much from you people as you do from me.”

“Great,” Parker gleams.  “Let’s get started, shall we.  Per our usual way of doing things, we’ll take questions directly from our students and let Mr. Squarejaw respond in kind.  Who’d like to begin?”

A fat man eating cheese whiz from a can in the front row raises his hand.

“Yes, Mr. Chunkle,” Parker says pointing to the man, “go right ahead.”

“Can you tell us how you got your first executive job,” Chunkle says in between mouthfuls of cheese whiz.

“Good question Mr. Chunky,” Drake says with a razor sharp smile.  “At the time I was playing a lot of golf with the CEO of the company I was working for.”

Drake leans back, satisfied.

“And then what Mr. Squarejaw,” Parker says carefully.

“Oh,” Drake says a bit surprised.  “That’s pretty much it I guess.  We hit it off and he made me the new Vice President of Service that following year.”

Mr. Chunkle sits down slowly with a confused look on his face.  In the back row, another hand shoots up.  Parker nods for him to proceed.

“Hi Mr. Squarejaw.  My name is Sam Buck.  I used to work for you at Mahpeter and Sons.  Not sure if you remember me?”

“Not a clue Scum Bag,” Drake says confidently.

“Uh,” Sam hesitates, “it’s Sam Buck sir.”

“I know,” Drake says, “you just look kind of like a scumbag that’s all.”

“Oh,” Sam says dejected and sinks back down into his chair.

A few more questions come from the crowd, most of which Drake either answers with golf stories or brushes off altogether.  Finally, a young man in the front row raises his hand and speaks.

“I have a question,” says the young man.  “Mr. Squarejaw,” he continues, “I was just wondering why you are here tonight.  I mean, this doesn’t seem like the sort of conference you would normally speak at.”

Drake gives a slight chuckle and nods his head.  “Actually, that’s a very astute observation my friend.  You see, I’m down here at the Loserville County learning annex tonight because Judge Reilly, an old family friend by the way, sentenced me to one hundred hours of community service for a little mishap I had a few months ago.”

Drake stops and looks at his watch.  “Look Porker, that’s really all I have time for tonight.  Got a midnight rendevous with some very important people down at the Silver Slipper.”

Drake rises from his chair and gently brushes off his suit.  As he turns to leave, the young man in the front row speaks up again.

“Mr. Squarejaw,” he says, “before you leave would you mind telling us what your little mishap was that caused you to be with us – check that - sentenced to us tonight.”

Checking his pockets for his car keys Drake starts for the door and idly mumbles, “oh yeah, well they found a dead hooker in my office.  See you guys.” 

He disappears out the door and, after about thirty seconds of frozen silence, the crowd begins to disperse.  Parker is still sitting in his chair at the front of the room massaging his battered hand and staring blankly at the floor.  The fat man, Mr. Chunkle, saunters up to Parker and clears his throat.  Parker snaps out of his trance and looks up at the man’s bulbous face.

“Yes Mr. Chunkle, what can I do for you,” he says with a sigh.

Chunkle shuffles his feet and replies, “I believe you have my day planner.”

Demotion Notion

Imagine a lowly junior analyst working your way up the corporate food chain.  This analyst, let’s call her Trudy, does all she can to get promotions to higher job grades.  She works late.  She works smart.  She impresses the appropriate individuals.

One day Trudy is promoted to manager.  Since this is such a big leap in job grade, she gets a massive raise.  Like a thirty or forty percent lift to put her in the salary band of her new manager grade level. 

Trudy is obviously very happy by this financial windfall.  It truly does change the quality of her life.

About six months later, Trudy’s group goes through a huge reorganization.  Her responsibilities shift.  She’s now reporting to a new boss who doesn’t seem to like her much.  Trudy is distraught by this new development.  Being a manager is no longer fun and rewarding like it was at first.

Then, out of the blue, Trudy has an idea.

Trudy applies for a junior analyst role in another group.  She gets offered the job and accepts.  The best part is that Trudy’s compensation does not change.  Trudy retains her thirty to forty percent bump in pay and now no longer has a manager’s responsibilities nor has to work for the boss she hates.

Problem solved.

———————————————————————–

Now you might find Trudy’s story funny or sad or a bit of both.  It actually happens at “the company.”  Maybe some folks get a salary adjustment when they downgrade like this.  But most don’t. 

So you can call Trudy unambitious or a schemer and swindler.  But she is playing by the rules.  Screwy rules, but rules nonetheless.

Fall Days At The Cannery

Last week I was digging through all the junk in my cube, organizing it into “take with” and “leave behind” piles in preparation for the impending layoff.  In the interest of brevity, I’ve included an abridged list of items that found themselves in each pile.

Leave Behind Pile

• Hard copies of my performance reviews from past years.  Looking through these was really fun.  In 2004, I was branded “an effective change agent for procedures and processes.”  I love that!  A change agent is just like a secret agent, only not as glamorous or important.  I could be double-oh-zero.  “The name is Shop, Tire Shop.  License to be inefficient.”
• A broken calculator that says “EBITDA Positive” on it.  If I remember correctly, this was a gift from “the company” to all finance employee’s at the time.  I should probably return since we’re about to head back the other way.
• A dusty Al Jarreau CD (damn I’ve been at “the company” a long time).
• Three copies of an old strategy deck called Second To None.  We later revised the strategy several times.  It became Second From The Top for a spell and then moved from Third From The Bottom to Everybody Loves An Underdog.  I believe the last iteration was something like From The Cellar I Can See Uranus.
• One pair of Red Chuck Taylor Converse (don’t ask).
• Five computer mice, over three hundred feet of Cat-5 cable, two keyboards, four AC power adapters for long retired laptops, three surge protectors, four ancient mobile phones, and a small porcelain kitchen sink.
• A whole stack of old boarding passes from when I was traveling a lot.  Weird looking through them because I have no recollection of ever traveling to Hartford, Connecticut.  I always knew I had a doppleganger.  Now I have the proof!
• A few really good books from my MBA days that proved absolutely useless during my years at “the company.”  One you’re likely familiar with, The Goal by E.M. Goldratt, is a very good parable about quality management and process improvement.  Over the years, whenever I wanted to get an executive out of my cubical, I would whip this book out and brandish it in front of their face.  Seriously, it’s like showing a vampire a Holy Bible that the Pope first blessed and then smeared with garlic sauce.
• The original offer letter for my first job at “the company.”  Feeling somewhat nostalgic, I might have put this in the “take with” pile but it burst into flames when I picked it up.
• My Hogan Personality Profile results.  Looking through it, I noticed that my Interpersonal Sensitivity score is 11 out of a possible 100 (no joke).  This is the quote under that dimension’s findings, “Tire Shop’s score on the Interpersonal Sensitivity scale suggests that he tends to be independent and self-contained.  Others may find him unresponsive.  He might tend to be rigid and unconcerned for the welfare of people around him, particularly in the event of a fire.  If you’ve ever spent time conversing with a cement statue or fence post, you have some idea of what it is going to be like dealing with this bastard.”  Yeah, so I made those last two sentences up.  But the first two are quoted exactly as written in the report.  Apparently I’m a stone-faced son of a bitch.  Well thanks Mr. Hogan and fuck you to!

Take With Pile

• Car keys.
• Half a pack of chewing gum.
• Forty-two cents in pennies.

After over eight years, I’m taking almost nothing with me.  A testament to my efficiency in avoiding any binding materials over the years.  No family photos.  No knicknacks.  No small plants, cacti or otherwise.  No fans, heaters, coffee machines, or other assorted fire hazards. 

Just me, most of my dignity, and a lot of good experiences and great friends.  How f-ing sappy is that?  Very sappy!  Sappy but true.

Chaos Theory

This week at “the company” has been just absolute chaos.  The tail end of a reorg is always such a fun time.  Half the people have been named in jobs, the other half are waiting in hopeful anxiety to be offered the same crap job they’ve been doing for the last three years.  You can imagine the conversations that will be taking place over the next few days:

“Hello Jerry.  Look we’ve got the organization built up and are prepared to offer you a position.”

“Oh, that’s great news Victor.  What am I going to be doing?”

“Well we looked long and hard at your particular skill set and have decided to offer you the job of Manager of Strategic Analytical Planning Strategies & Functional Hispanic Process Perspectives.  You’ll also be heading up both the FAST team and the STOP THE PRESSES team.”

“So the position is a manager role?  I’m being promoted?”

“Nope.  We’re demoting you to double junior analyst.  It’s nothing personal or anything.  We just don’t like the look of you.  But HR is requiring us to call everyone by the Manager title now.  Even in everyday conversation.”

“Oh.  But Victor, those responsibilities are exactly what I’m doing today.  Nothing new at all.”

“Right Manager Jerry.  We looked at your resume and thought that we could really utilize your spelling ability in this role.  Not a word misspelled in the whole two pages.  Also, we believe your fluency in early Mesopotamian dialect will help tremendously.”

“But I don’t speak Mesopotamian.”

“Sure you do.  And may I be the first to say, Oshkoshbgosh.  As you know, that’s Mesopotamian for may you live well good sir.”

“I really don’t speak Mesopotamian Victor.  But I’m pretty sure that word you just used is not Mesopotamian.  It’s a Wisconsin based clothing company.”

“You’re the expert Manager Jerry.  Now go forth and conquer like the much revered Mesopotamian general Alexander The Great.”

“He was Macedonian.”

“Whatever Manager Jerry.  Just get to it and stop showing off.”

“Okay.”

Do You Have A Box?

“Do you have a box,” they ask? 

Meaning a job. 

Meaning sustenance for your long suffering family, four people living in a paltry home with only four bedrooms and a two car garage.  Talkin’ bout the ghetto.

A box is a colloquialism for the rectangular end point jutting from a tree branch on an organizational chart.  This rectangular end point may or may not have your name in it.

“So,” they ask, “do you have a box?”

“Why yes,” you answer.  “I’ve got this cardboard box to pack up all my personal items.  Like my Sears family photo album, my excellence award that I received for creating a process no one ever used, my trapper keeper with a picture of a kitten on it, my Precious Moment figurine of a little blond girl cleaning a toilet, my flattened stress ball, my astronaut’s application form, and of course my massive collection of Nazi memorabilia.  Oh, and my seventeen bottles of white-out.  I’ve worked here so long that I actually made use of white-out at one point in my career, before these fancy computers turned me into a relic of the old world.”

“Yes,” they say, “but do you have a box?”

“Why yes,” you answer.  “I’ve got a huge box of wine and I’m currently drinking straight from the tap.  I’ve also got a big wooden box, some call it a liquor cabinet, that I intend to empty out tonight.  I think I’ll start with highballs of Cutty Sark and Seagrams and make my way to the back of the cabinet where there is some sort of banana flavored liquor left over from New Year’s Eve 1999.  God I was hoping Y2K was going to end the world.  Not to be though.”

“Oh,” they say, “but you do have a box, don’t you?”

“Why yes,” you answer.  “I’ve got a very nice newspaper lined box that sits right underneath old Lexington Bridge.  I also brought along my family photo album, trapper keeper, Precious Moments, etc., to decorate my new place.  I must say, I never really like the taste of rubbing alcohol, but damned if it doesn’t go really well with nail polish.  You also get a hint of tropical flavor since I mix this cunning brew in the bottle that once held that banana flavored liquor I talked about earlier.  I tip my head back, taking a huge swig of my banana rubbing polish cocktail, and look longingly at the stars.  Once in a while, I see a UFO pass overhead.  But I always think of those heady days at the company.  Heady days indeed.”

Tulip Bulbs

Be aware that I’m just getting home from having about six black and tans at a nice Irish top deck bar.  I wonder if they have top deck bars in Dublin.  You could sit out all night and watch the clouds go by whilst drinking your lukewarm Guinness.

Anyway, financial advice is just awful these days don’t you think?  Oil will be at two hundred dollars a barrel by winter they say.  Oil will be at sixty dollars a barrel by next year they say.  Short on commodities.  Long on international. 

Invest in China they say, so I bought some firecrackers.  You know, bottle rockets, whistlers, M-80’s, and snakes.  Shit like that.  What the hell are snakes anyway?  Like some kind of compressed wombat poop that expands when you light it?  Sick. 

I always liked the sparklers.  Nothing like a small stick of magnesium that burns at over one thousand degrees less then six inches from your child’s retina.  Smart.

I was watching Jim Cramer Mad Money yesterday.  He’s got to be on crack.  I’m fairly confident that I could have a TV show where I scream the names of seventy-five different securities you should invest in and hit on at least a few.  That way four weeks later I can say “see folks, you should have purchased the drug development company Anusfudge like I said.  The stock has tripled in the last two weeks due to recent FDA approval of their newest drug, Torquemadal.  If you have nothing but sissy in your pants, take one pill a day and you will be extremely inquisitive and hard to deal with.  Incredible!”

I think most of the execs at “the company” are taking Torquemadal.  They seem to be extremely agitated these days.  I think it’s the stress.  People without brains don’t like stress.  Makes them realize they don’t have brains.