A lot of you might not want to hear this, but I’ve finally given up. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to extract enough money from the web, and I find it draining to constantly have to think of things to work on. It has taken almost a year, but I finally want someone else to tell me what to work on for a change. I’m tired of having to work on things all day that are interesting but not profitable. I want to have a slow day, and drink coffee while avoiding the boss. I want to take long lunches and shake hands with people who can advance my career.

Call me a sell out if you want, but I accepted an offer for a mid-level management job at a local institutional investment company.

No more hobo life. No more rebellion. No more avoiding people in nice suits just because they seem as if they’re dead from the neck up. I’m older and I know the rules of the game. You dress nice, you play nice, you get ahead. You work hard, you get more hard work. That’s just the way it is. If kissing ass and wearing a tie is going to get me a better title and a little more money, that’s what’s going to happen.

Unfortunately, this means that this is pretty much the end of the road for this blog. It was a difficult decision, but I have to call it quits because this blogging thing has the potential to come back to bite me in the ass when I least expect it.

Thanks for reading along for the last six years and I wish you all the best of luck.

-Jon

Because I want people to know that I’m still sensitive to the plight of the corporate drone, I sent this e-mail to a former co-worker who is dealing with the realities of corporate life. I wanted him to know that even though it seems pimptastic, life on the outside ain’t all bitches and Hennessey.

Dear XXXXXXX,

I heard things are tough around there, but life within the corporate fortress can’t be as bad as it is out here.

Since I quit, I have absolutely no structure because there’s no one here to tell me what to do. Do you think it’s easy to think of things to do on my own? If it was summer, I’d just go to the beach, but it’s the dead of winter, bro. What do I do inside? Read a book? Write? E-mail people? Surf the web? Sip my coffee and ponder the universe like some unemployed Carl Sagan wannabe?

I have no idea because there’s no one here to tell me.

Continue Reading…

Back when I had a corporate job, even though I enjoyed the benefits of health insurance and being able to afford food that is not Ramen-based, I would sometimes think that the time that I spent filling out duplicate status reports could be better spent on more interesting pursuits.

I used to think that people in the corporate world made me chase my tail for their own personal entertainment, but towards the end, I started entertaining the possibility that they might not even realize what they were doing because their behavior was considered so normal within the corporate structure.

The minute when a lot of people swipe their ID to enter the building, they become resources. They become managers of resources. They leave the informal humanity that makes them normal right in that oversized cup holder in their overpriced BMW.

After a moment of reminiscing about the robotic anonymity of my old grey cube, I felt a little guilty that you had to be in that office while I sat out in my beach chair. Although I can’t join you in fluorescence, I thought I’d join you in spirit.

I wish I had tacked up a TPS report to the wall of my virtual cube, but I just don’t have the skills.

Know what kicks ass? Finding out that a consultant slated to replace you could end up costing the company more per day than you make in a week. Know what kicks more ass? Being asked to write that overpaid person’s requirements.

In my 30 point list, I covered technical skills, soft skills, and regulatory requirements, but I couldn’t resist throwing in a few lines to make sure that the mail wasn’t blindly forwarded up the chain.

Hidden among the real requirements were:

• Genius level IQ, good looks a plus.
• Monkey-driven rocket car a plus.
• Must know the correct pronunciation of Deutsche Bank*

and of course

• Does not own a firearm or cry randomly.

(You’d be surprised at how many people incorrectly opt for “doush-y” over “doich-ah”.)

Last week, while I was standing around talking to Sneezy P, a coworker called him over to his desk. The coworker saw him approaching and turned away to face his monitor. Pete walked up behind him, cracked open the guy’s brand new vitamin water and took a long swig of it. I think I actually saw a glimmer of pride cross his face after the initial swig, because the guy still hadn’t even noticed. He then made the fatal mistake of looking over at a coworker and me who had been watching the whole scenario.

My jaw must’ve been on the floor, because when he caught my expression, he burst out laughing and spit the drink all over the place, erupting into a high pitched laugh that disturbed all conference calls within thirty feet.

The real beauty of the situation was that the guy who owned the drink barely even turned around while saying, “I do not want that back.”

Unless I take up the suggestions of “babysitting” or “volunteering with old people”, I can’t see situations like this ever recurring in my professional life.

And that, my friends, is a damned shame.

Since I announced my resignation, I’ve been pretty surprised by the number of people who seem disappointed that I’m leaving or that have offered to help place me in their groups. Some congratulate me like I’m being paroled. Some asked for a job when I land. Others echo my feelings of having no possibility of advancement.

In general, most seem to be shocked that I’m leaving, and even a little dismayed when they find out that even though there isn’t a person with my particular skill set available in the entire company, there hasn’t been any real attempt to retain me. There are stunned silences or head shakes, which shouldn’t feel good, but do.

That’s not to say that I’m the least bit bitter, though. I resigned in a good space. I liked both my job and the people that I had the opportunity to work with. I worked in the same tight knit area for ten years, which is unheard of in today’s job market. Somehow I’ve been lucky enough to work with bright, hard-working folks who do more with less every day, and I would recommend them in a second. I want them all to succeed, but the opportunity just hasn’t been there for any of us. The guys with the ties get the prize, while the people who work for a living usually end up with more work.

I’m not a class warrior, and I don’t have that “they’ll fail without me” attitude. I’m doing the best I can to ensure that they can absorb my responsibilities because I want them all to succeed after I’m gone. Hell, I hope management throws money and promotions at them to stem the outgoing tide because I think they all deserve it for all the years of unsung effort and inspired solutions that they’ve come up with to keep things secure and running smoothly.

Unfortunately, as much as I will root for the underdog, I just don’t think that there’s a very large chance of that happening.

I’m the fourth person in the last month or so to leave my group, and the word on the street is that I won’t be the last. When considering the talent and high caliber of people that I have had the opportunity to work with, I find myself feeling bad that they can’t all join me on the beach this summer. And I feel worse that any of them should feel the need to leave at all.

Even though I’m excited to move on, I’m finding that there is a little more to leaving behind a group of people that I’ve seen every day for over a decade.

Over the last decade, I built and ran a virus protection system for nearly 20,000 servers and desktops on a global scale for my company. Unfortunately, I just got to the point where no matter how perfect or expansive I made the system, no one cared. And that’s motivationally crippling.

So, I resigned.

Coincidentally, it was also Mr. T’s birthday.

My resignation has been a pretty big shock to everyone, and in two days I’ve gotten two unprompted recommendations, two job offers in foreign countries, and a lot of people worldwide who seem to genuinely think it’s a loss for the company.

And the people here are the reason that I’m going to miss this place.

My favorite quotes in the last couple of days have been:

“You’ll be surprised at how much time doing nothing takes up.”

“Who am I going to race to work now?”

“They should offer you anything you want to get you to stay.”

“Don’t do this to me.”

“Congratulations. Do you have a job for me?”

“You don’t have a full time job lined up? You’re a nut. You did it kamakaze style, and I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“You’re like Jerry Macguire. Inside everyone’s giving you the slow clap, but no one is going with you. You’re just going to walk out of here with your goldfish.”

“Call me and tell me if Vista runs on Nantasket.”

Out of the blue today, someone at work yelled out,

“Mr. Fuji’s got the salt!”

It was such a random, old reference that I wanted keep it alive, but it died on the table. Hopefully you will be able to revive it.

I had a dream that I was in an office sitting at a desk. The second that I finished the thought, “This place is such a joke,” an explosion went off outside the window. Confused, my coworkers and I walked to the window to see what was going on. When we got within a step of the window, the tentative silence was split with bursts of gunfire. A few of my co-workers took off, but I stood for a few seconds trying to process what was happening.

As I backed away from the windows the gunfire started sounding like it was coming from the stairwells. I turned to run, and ducked down a back hall. Instantly, I realized that I was heading into, rather than away from, the gunfire. I looked to the right and saw two executives in a conference room. Knowing that the danger in the stairwell just ahead was close at hand, they looked at me and quietly closed the door. In a split second decision, I hit the ground flat, hoping that whoever came out of the stairwell in front of me wouldn’t notice, and I could run down it once they had turned down the main hall.

It was then that I felt a pistol at the back of my head.

“Not so funny now, is it funny man?”

It was more of a statement than a question.

Before I could get through the thought, “How can I possibly get out of th…”, I heard the shot.

I knew it was at my head. “Oh Shit,” I thought, “this is it.”

And everything went black.

A few moments later, I was approaching my desk, and everyone was asking me how I was. I was a little confused until I heard someone say I that had been in the hospital a long time. I reached up with my right hand and felt the bandages on my head. “Did anyone die?” I asked. “Yes, lots of people. But, you’re here.”

I sat down at my desk confused about how I had survived a shot that should’ve taken my head apart. And why couldn’t I remember anything about the hospital? I reached up with my left hand and touched the soft, round, scar tissue above my left eye. In a fit of anger, and confusion, I screamed, “FUCK!” and threw something stupid like a pencil against the wall and headed for the stairway. I had no idea why I had come back, but I wasn’t about to stay.

Walking down the stairs, I met a strange woman who didn’t seem sympathetic to me getting shot in the head, but her relaxing smile indicated that she liked being around me. She walked with me down to the lobby where I sat with her mixed crowd of friends. One took my bandage off because I wanted to see my head, but no one knew how to get it back on.

It was at that point that I started getting concerned that my head might fall apart.

I woke up touching my temple, relieved that I had a second chance, and concerned that I might be wasting my life.

A couple of weeks ago on a Friday afternoon, a co-worker and I turned down a hallway, just as a young woman approached from the opposite direction. On first glance, I couldn’t say that there was anything unusual enough about her that I’d be able to pick her out of a lineup of young college grads working in the financial industry.

As she approached, she gave me a sideways glance. A few seconds later, another. As a six foot tall, 210 pound guy with an accidentally angry face and a big, sloppy beard, I wish that I could claim this was unusual, but I’d be lying if I say that I was surprised. What did surprise me though, was that when she got within a foot of me, she burst into song. It wasn’t like singing to yourself singing, either.

It was “singing by yourself while vacuuming the living room with a Walkman on” singing.

Yea. There was no Walkman, there was no vacuum, and there certainly was no living room. To add to the insanity, even though there was plenty of volume, I could not figure out if the lyrics of her song were made up of actual words.

You know when you pass by someone who suddenly seems batshit crazy and you want to ask the people you’re with “What the fuck?” but you know that the minute you go once decibel above mouthing the words there is a pretty good possibility that you’ll end up in the middle of a shitstorm of insanity? Because I had made it through the whole week without a shank in the neck, I kept my mouth shut until we were safely out of earshot.

Once safely back within the confines of nerd village, I related the story to several coworkers. None of them could come up with a reasonable explanation for the young woman’s behavior until someone chimed in,

“Maybe she thought that singing was the recommended defense against the Sasquatch.”

Sunufa.

While Macophiles are poking fun at Microsoft’s latest bloatware by posting Apple TV spots that make PC users look like the tucked-in shirt wearing, non-itunes using, “who the fuck is My Chemical Romance” wondering, fashion unconscious, back-office nerds that we are, PC folks like myself are being bestowed with greater powers than the Mac Community can wrap their little iMinds around.

Today, while trying to manage a windows machine, the following message popped up:

“Computer \\Lazarus cannot be managed because the computer was not found on the network. It may be powered down or otherwise not connected. Would you like to manage it anyway? Yes/No”

I sat for a moment staring at the screen before whispering “Yea, fuck logic. Let’s do this thing.” After giving thanks that Windows would deem me worthy of the power to pull this dead, unmanageable machine right out of the ether, I spent a few moments contemplating the plethora of other items I would soon be producing out of thin air.

At some point between “Chai Siu Bau” and “Beard-Loving Strippers”, I decided against clicking “Yes”, and closed the window. If I was going to inherit godlike powers or possibly be possessed by Vinz Clortho, Keymaster of Gozer, it was not going to happen in my tiny cubicle on a Thursday morning. No, I would save this power for a time when it would be most momentous. Like perhaps around Y2k V.2.*

Who’s cool now, Mac-holes?

Ok, Ok, but who gets ahead on his polished corporate charm and finely honed business sense?

Right, fine, but who will soon be surrounded by a plethora of Chinese food and strippers?

Screw you guys, if that window comes up again, I’m clicking “Yes” twice.

All Hail The Keymaster of Gozer.

*Corrected per Peter

When you walk up behind your headphone-wearing coworker and say rather loudly in your best 80’s heavy-metal singer voice, “ARE YOU READY FOR LUNCHAAAAAAA!”, your smile is going to fall away faster than Cinderella’s position on the Billboard charts when he turns around and you realize:

A. The headphones are actually a headset connecting said coworker to a conference call with a large client.
B. The phone is not on mute.

After mouthing an apology, you are then free to mentally blame said coworker for leaving said phone unmuted with certified rockstars like yourself freely roaming the halls.

No, seriously.

(If you suddenly feel the need to hear Cinderella’s cowbell rich “Shake Me”, as featured in Cowbell++ Vol. 3: Rockin’ Without Dokken), the video is presented below.)

You know when you’re really excited about what you think is a great idea and people just look at you with that “And where’s the punchline” look? That’s how I felt getting up today. I spent so much time on my Top 10 Driving Albums post that I expected that it would be more of a hit than it was. I really put about a weeks worth of time into picking that music, and even convinced poor Tankboy to get into the action, and it generated slightly more than no interest.

It was sort of a let down.

I admit that I still haven’t got a clue where traffic comes from on the net, and I honestly don’t know how some sites generate a high number of visitors and commentors. On a basic level, I shrug it off on the premise that you have to network to get readers, and I suck at networking. On a deeper level, though, I know that content is king. And when I think about my content being the problem, I start to feel bad. I’m much more comfortable with the idea of generating gems that no one sees, than I am with generating a bunch of shit that isn’t useful to anyone. The first idea means that I’m simply undiscovered. The second means I’m deservedly ignored.

When someone like Dooce can write about every poop her kid takes and get world famous, and I can spend years putting out post after post without being famous among dozens, I found myself having to consider the less appealing view as a possibility. The numbers don’t lie, and the truth is sometimes a little ugly.

To distract myself, I spent some time looking up average salaries for jobs that had similar descriptions to mine. I really tried to pick job descriptions that were very closely tied to mine while avoiding those that sounded like they were obviously steps above me. Not considering myself an average employee (who does, really?), I was surprised to find that I was pretty average in terms of salary. To prove to myself that I was at least on the high side of average, I took one of my checks and calculated my exact salary. I was hoping to be at least slightly above average, just to feel better about something.

After doing the math on my gross pay for the second time in a row, I confirmed that I was not only below average, but I was actually earning less than I thought I was. Once again the numbers were ruining my happy little illusions.

I started dwelling on my job and finally admitted to myself that after 13 years with the same company, it’s not that I don’t want to play the corporate game to get ahead. The real deal is that I have no fucking idea what game is even being played. While people are steadily moving their pieces around the board, I’ve been setting up a perfect, four move checkmate on the pop-o-matic using only my queen, my bishop, and Cobra commander.

So, there I was, without a clue as to how to excel at my job or my hobbies, faced with the mounting evidence that I’m average, if not below average, on the things that eat most of my waking hours. Everyone wants to feel like they are above average, but if you look at the evidence facing you, and it says otherwise, do you ignore it and cling to your illusions, or face the facts and accept the reality of your situation?

In my haste to avoid any actual writing by cramming this blog full of crappy video links, I failed to mention a few things recently…

One: MABeGroMo

I failed to mention the start of MaBeGroMo on December 1. I started on November 7th to beat the holiday rush. Like women synching their menstrual cycles, Team Beardo at work started around the same time without discussion or provocation. My beard is now two months old. How’s yours?

Co-worker 1: Hey did you see Armed and Famous last night?
Co-worker 2: What’s that?
Co-worker 1: Oh, these TV stars are sworn in as cops in India.
Co-worker 2: Indiana?
Co-worker 1: No. Muncie, India.
Co-worker 2: Are you sure?
Co-worker 1: Yes.
Co-worker 2: Not Indiana?
Co-worker 1: No.
Co-worker 2: The continent? India?*
Co-worker 1: Yes, the continent. IN-D-IA.
Co-worker 2: That’s weird. Were they pulling over elephants or something?
Co-worker 1: No, it was normal.
Co-worker 2: Were there any Indian people on the show?
Co-worker 1: Well, no.
Co-worker 2: So, it’s all white people, but it’s in India.
Co-worker 1: Yea. It said right on the police station ‘India’.
Co-worker 2: Not, Indiana?
Co-worker 1: No. It was India.
Co-worker 2: Oh that’s it. I’m putting a call into Mr. Google.
Co-worker 1: [click tack click tack] Here we go: ‘Armed & Famous: The series follows five celebrities as they train to become reserve police officers for the Muncie, Indiana police department’.
All: Laughter.
Co-worker 1: I thought it was weird when they showed a Trailer park…
All: Laughter.
Co-worker 2: Were you drinking last night?
Co-worker 1: No, not at all.

*It should be also noted that India has not recently been promoted to continent

I feel like I’m plowing through days to get to the next, and then when I get to the next day, I plow through that, too.

I’m playing the same CDs while driving back and forth to my job, and I can’t seem to find anything that is getting through to me except metal. My job is boring the crap out of me, which is pretty typical for employees of financial institutions toward the end of the year when the budgets dry up and annual maintenance tasks loom. At home, I’ve been wasting my time on weird projects like trying to build my own speakers out of magnets and shopping bags, or baking batch after batch of biscotti.

On the web, I have a billion half-written posts that I haven’t been able to really sink my teeth into and get completed.

Maybe it’s the change in season, but I’m restless as hell. I need a good project. I think I have this need to contribute, but not in the “do something meaningful for someone” kind of way. I have a general need to find, fix, or create something that, in essence is fun, and total waste of time.

And I’m stuck. If anyone has the ideas, I have the energy. If anyone needs me, I’ll be the half-bearded guy walking around Lowe’s picking up and staring at seemingly random items.

*While playing with a Fresnel lens I had stashed away, I found 2 bags full of resistors, diodes, a soldering iron, and a laser pointer. For some reason, I think it was part of a project to run sound over laser that I meant to start when this same feeling hit last year.

A couple of weeks ago, we drove by an open house that had been on the market for quite a long time. The first time we came across this particular place, it had been for sale by owner, and the owner happened to be in the yard. I pulled up and asked as politely and unobtrusively as I could how much he was looking to sell it for. He asked me what I wanted to pay. Trying not to press him, I asked him for at least a ballpark figure of what he was looking for. He then actually quoted me “a million dollars”. Because I know the market in my area pretty well, I laughed and drove off, assuming that he either wasn’t really serious about selling or was completely out of his mind.

Months later, when the house hadn’t sold, the guy partnered with a broker to try for $700k, which was just about as ridiculous as asking a million. When I made an appointment to actually see the inside of the house during that period, I found the guy arguing with my broker in the street when I drove up. Because my broker is a sweetheart, it was at that point that I realized that the guy wasn’t crazy. This guy was of the classification “Assholis Majoris”.

As we went through, our suspicions of the asking price being overly inflated for a three bedroom, one bath bungalow were confirmed. We politely held back our chuckles and shared wide-eyed expressions as the seller walked us through pointing out the “features” of the house. When we saw that the seller had pretty much torn apart the kitchen in a failed renovation attempt, he actually told us, very matter-of-factly, “The price is $700 now. You want me to fix all this, the price is going up.”

We did all we could to be polite, but all three of us actually all burst out laughing.

Since then, the house has been sitting on the market and slowly dropping in price. We hadn’t seen it months, and because it was under a new broker, we figured we’d drop in and refresh our memory. When we pulled up, we saw the seller standing on the front porch. It was then that we realized that the guy had merely partnered with a broker and was still trying to sell the house himself. I can tell you that I had to actually spend time convincing #1GF! that going into the house would be worth dealing with its biggest flaw again. She agreed on the condition that we wait for another couple to walk in and distract the seller.

Shortly, another couple caught the seller’s attention, leaving us free to look at the house unmolested. We actually entered the house, looked at the whole thing, and left without the guy even knowing that we were there. Like suburban ninjas, we would just listen for his fat, blathering mouth and quietly move opposite it. And like every good ninja, #1GF! even left a mysterious calling card by taking the time to sign the guest book as “Debbie Doobey” before we made our exit.

While our tactics made what would’ve been a potentially bad experience a little more fun, I did find it a little amazing that a couple of non-criminal types could enter and exit a small house in the middle of the day unseen. When I consider that we weren’t trying all that hard to be stealthy, yet three other people roaming the house had no idea that we were there, I’m seriously considering giving up my technology lifestyle in favor of an investment in smoke bombs and black suits, because how hard could being a ninja be?

While reading another article about dirty keyboards…

“If a researcher puts out an article that claims that something (keyboard, cell phone, etc.) is dirtier than a toilet seat, they should be forced to lick either a toilet seat or the item they claim is dirtier. If they lick the toilet seat, the article gets published. If not, they are told to go back into the lab, suck down a tall beaker of shut the fuck up, and do some real research for a change.”

While doing the daily puzzle…

Co-worker 1: I need a Seven letter word for Satan.
Co-worker 2: J-o-n-D-y-e-r

While Walking down the beach…

Old man: [to woman] Alcohol is like an aphrodisiac to me. Oh, it makes me so Hoahny”

While talking to a 21 yr. old…

34 YO: Yea. All that emo stuff? I can’t get into it. I grew up on SSD, Minor Threat, The Misfits, and Slayer. The whining usually just ends up pissing me off.
21 YO: You know skaters don’t even wear big shorts anymore?
34 YO: What?
21 YO: Yea, they all wear tight pants and have bad haircuts like Emo kids.
34 YO: WHAT?
21 YO: Yup.
34 YO: How do they do tricks in tight pants?
21 YO: I don’t know.
34 YO: Oh, that’s just wrong.

While getting ready for work…

#1GF!: How do you like the new Slayer?
Me: Awesome.
#1GF!: That stuff seems like it’d be easy to play.
Me: (The comment caught me so off guard that all I could do was give a confused, “No,” pretend to play air guitar, and say “fast.”)

While trying to get some work done…

Person 1: Hey, what do those guys say before they die?
Person 2: What are you talking about?
Person 1: Akabaka?
Person 2: [Thinks for a minute] Oh my god. You need to retake diversity training.
Person 1: What?! Nobody knows it!
Person 2: It’s Allahu Akbar. And you need to get to diversity training now.
Person 1: What is it again? Abakaba?
Person 2: Oh man. Allahu Akbar.

While listening to music…

Co-worker 1: I was just listening to a nice death metal song, and the singer ruins it by screaming, “IIIII. IIIIII Flushhh my soooouuul down the draaaiiiin.”
Co-worker 2: Did you say “nice death metal?”
Co-worker 1: Yea. It was going good, too. When I listen to a song, I want enough screaming that I can’t possibly decipher how retarded the lyrics are.
Co-worker 2: I hear that.
Co-worker 1: That line just made me picture some guy in black clothes trying to clean his bathroom with Evil.
Co-worker 2: If he was really evil, he would’ve crapped his soul right on the floor for someone else to clean up.

Co-worker 1: “How was your day off?”
Co-worker 2: “It was good. I didn’t drink at all.”
Co-worker 1: “That’s cool.”
Co-worker 2: “I only had three beers.”
Co-worker 1: “I thought you said you didn’t drink at all?”
Co-worker 2: “I didn’t.”
Co-worker 3: “Wait. Didn’t you just finish saying that you had a couple of bottles of wine last night?”
Co-worker 1: “Oh well, sure, wine, but that’s not drinking.”

Today, I found out that my ultra-kick-ass suggestion of ROCKIN’ STEVE AUSTIN will probably go unused because the woman who I suggested it to is having a girl. Also previously unknown to me, to extend a naming trend, she is trying to pick a name that starts with the letter “M”. Not allowing myself to be beaten, I did a tiny bit of googling for a list of more suitable suggestions. I sent over my list:

• Mavis,
• Meghan,
• Maisie (optional middle name: Doats)
• Madhulika,
• Majondra (”Jon” is hidden right there in the middle like a piece of spyware),
• Marilyn Manson (for double word score),
• Manhattan (probably a career choice limitation name),
• Manjula (optional middle name: Nahasapeemapetilon)
• [The mother's name] v. 2.0,
• And then there’s Maude. (Compromisin’, enterprisin’ anything but traqulizin’ Right on, Maude.)

She was somehow unimpressed with any of my suggestions.

I headed to lunch and found myself staring into space thinking things like “Mango? No. Minty? No. MooMoo? No,” until I realized that my coworkers had noticed that I was randomly staring into space and laughing. I was forced to let them in on the project.

After lunch, I sent my second edition, explaining that even though I had incurred additional cost by outsourcing some of the work, the baby naming service would be free of charge if there wasn’t a clear winner on the list. I even categorized them for easy perusal:

Uncategorized

• Moon unit (not original, but only used once by the Zappas)
• Maxine (virtually guarantees a job as a waitress)
• Massasoit
• Mabaline
• Mila
• Mariah
• Mackenzie
• Mary Jane
• Mandy (you came and you gave without taking, but I sent you away, Oh Mandy…)

Career Limiting Names

• Misty (borderline)
• Monique (borderline)
• Mercedes
• Mocha

Nice, But Almost Guarantee Teasing

• Melanie
• Monica
• Mona

TV Raises Modern Children, Let it Name Them

• Mickey or Minnie
• Markie
• Marsha (optional middle Marshamarsha)
• Marcy
• Maggie or Marge
• Mallory
• Mothra
• Morgan Mindy

I’m not saying that we won the contract, but I will say that there was a very strong reaction to both “Mocha” and “Morgan Mindy”.

If you have your own bids on this contract, post them in the comments…

5. “I’m a little stuck on hype.non-standard.net these days.” (A lot more random than Pandora or Webjay, but still pretty neat. It threw mostly indy at me, but it did give me My Adidas on the Run)

4. “I’ve been meaning to ask if you’ve heard about the ‘National Day of Slayer‘? 06-06-06. Only happens once per century.” (That’s because the world can only handle it once per century. As someone who wears a Slayer T shirt to the gym at least once a week, I was already aware, but I’m glad that the word is spreading.)

3. “It’s good to just be yourself… but it’s better to be Caligula.” (I smell a T-shirt.)

2. “Who the hell thought up Jello? Who was the first person to think, ‘You know what this hot bowl of ground up hoofs and water needs? Sugar.” (Best. Question. Ever.)

1. “When are you going to start a real blog? Too many people know about this one.”

While looking up the most popular names last week, the conversation made it’s way to suggesting baby names for a woman at work. Neither “Frank”, “Charlie” or “Walter” appealed to her, despite absolutely dominating the top 10 names list in the 1880’s.

She was also laughably not interested in my suggestions of “Darth”, “Pepsi”, “(Drawing a seven in the air and wolf whistling)”, nor my personal favorite: “ROCKIN’ STEVE AUSTIN”.

I know. Kick-ass name, right? How could she not go for it? My friends, the only logical thing that I can think of is that she was pretending that the name was a dumb idea to limit the possibility of anyone stealing such a kick-ass name before her kid is born. I mean, I can think of about seventy-eight reasons why ROCKIN’ STEVE AUSTIN is a great idea, and only maybe two against it. And the two against are so embarrassingly lame that they don’t even warrant a mention.

Think of the enhanced quality of school life that little ROCKIN’ STEVE AUSTIN would enjoy. No one would think twice if he wore a red sweatsuit every day, and he could probably even get away with wearing pants with THUMP written across the ass and yelling “OH YEA!” at random intervals for no reason at all. More importantly, if given two equal targets, a bully wouldn’t even think about punching a kid named “ROCKIN’ STEVE AUSTIN” in the face. Bullies aren’t usually the sharpest tools in the shed, and having a name like ROCKIN’ STEVE AUSTIN gives the impression that the kid might be bionic, but will definitely, at a minimum, smash the bully’s face into any available turnbuckle. There is also the chance that he may have dangerous foreign objects hidden in his boot. And that just ain’t worth $1.85 to the average bully.

That’s a measure of safety and comfort that little Jacob, Ethan, and Tyler will have to earn one beating at a time.

And even though I think the hospital gives you a free bionics coupon with every ROCKIN’ STEVE AUSTIN birth certificate, don’t worry about me stealing the name. I don’t have any kids on the way, and even if I did, they’re already to be named Phuc, Dong, Juggernaut, and Mr. SMASH! (complete with exclamation point). If they were girls, I’d obviously name them Porsche, Mercedes, Volva, and “Get Near My Vagina and My Dad Will Fucking Kill You”.

If you want to follow the crowd and search through some less powerful names, you can find them and their relative popularity at the social security administration website. (Don’t bother looking for an entry for ROCKIN’ STEVE AUSTIN, because in the FAQ it says that every time they add it, the ultimate awesomeness of the name corrupts the database.)

Na na na na na na na na na na.

Upon getting a phone call from a coworker in another department…

Me: What’s up, dude?
Him: Um, I don’t think that’s the proper way to answer a business phone.
Me: You’re right. Let me try again… [click]

[Phone rings again]

Me: What’s up, dudeness?
Him: That’s more like it.

Another (belated) birthday, another picture. Despite the semi-obscure Wing Chun reference, I think the novelty might be wearing off.

As is usual for Thursday afternoons, I was sitting around today getting pitied on the PS2 by Mr. T. and taste testing whatever Tiffani Amber Thiessen happened to be baking in the kitchen, when who showed up at my door but Def Leppard’s drummer, Rick Allen.

Seriously. I haven’t seen Rick since probably 1986 when we tried to form a side project called “Jam Band Joey,” which was relatively short-lived when we both admitted that we hated jam bands. And twenty years later, here he was at my door.

After having a couple of Tiffany’s muffins and reminiscing a bit, I happen to mention to Rick that my friend Pete was out of work with a shoulder injury. I told him what a pain it was to channel Lorne Greene to get him to sign something to cheer Pete up, when Rick, the total kick-ass guy that he is, said that he would be glad to sign a picture for Pete. The only thing that I had to promise was not to tell Def Leppard’s singer, Joe Elliot, about Pete’s ailment the next time he called. I promised, and he made me promise again, which I did, and he gave me this picture leaving me and T to finish our championship game…

Don’t ask me how he found out, but within hours, I got an e-mail from Joe Elliot with a picture attached requesting that I forward it to Pete, as well.

So, Pete, If you’re reading, all of your friends and half of Def Leppard wish you a speedy recovery.

While leaving work today, my coworker headed for the elevator and I headed for the stairs.

“Where are you going?” he asked.
While pointing to the stairwell, I managed to get out, “The stairs?”
“All the way down?” he asked.

“Nah, I’ll probably just take the stairs down the first two floors and circle back for the elevator for the last two.”

Proof I’m Getting Old

1. At the gym, when rolling back to do some dumbell bench presses, I heard enough rapid fire, muffled cracking noises that it sounded like someone had lit a whole pack of firecrackers inside my chest cavity. In truth, it sounded like Chinese New Year in there.

2. I don’t have a myspace page, and I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. Further proof: I can’t fucking believe I just used “fuss” in a sentence.

3. When I recently saw the year a person had to be born in to buy cigarettes, I realized that it was the same year that I made out with that fat chick in the 3rd row at the Monsters of Rock Concert. Even after all these years, you still suck, Dan Dokken.

4. On my way out the door this morning, I got frisked by #1GF!.

Me: What are you doing?
#1GF!: [matter of factly] Seeing if you have your phone.
Me: So, you frisk me? Couldn’t you just ask me? When exactly did I cross that age when my answers are suspect enough that you have to pat me down rather than ask?

5. My 34th birthday is in 5 days.

6. When I was assigned seat #69 in a work move, I didn’t high five anyone.

Proof I’m Still Young

1. My sister sent me a birthday card on which she not only changed the “You’re 4!” to “You’re 34!” but she didn’t even attempt to conceal that the card was originally sent to a four year old by someone named “Aunty Dora.” Instead, she just penned in “+ your sister” right below Aunty Dora’s signature. People do not do that sort of thing to their respected elders.

2. I still have a blog, it has a skull on it, and I’m a l33t hax0r with mad sk1llz.

3. I think they should stop trying to raise the driving age, start trying to lower the drinking age, and make shirts illegal.

4. #1GF!’s final response to point #4 to above: “I just pat you down whenever I get the chance.”

5. I’m still hoping to be able to sock away enough to be able to afford the naughty nurse in addition to the skilled one when they put me in the home in 30 years.

6. When I got assigned seat #69 in a work move, I wanted to high five everyone.

The weirdest thing happened today. We got this freak snow storm that caused a total white out for a good portion of the day. Then, it started raining. Then, went back to a white out. Then, it started to thunder.

In the middle of all this, I had to walk to another building on our campus to help out on an after hours project. It was snowing like hell, but it was only a couple of hundred feet, so I didn’t think it would be a big deal.

And once I got out there, I got an instant ice cream headache that I could only stop by taking my hand out of my glove and pressing it against my forehead. By the time I had walked 200 feet, the hair of the woman that I was walking with was a sheet of ice. I can only assume that I looked the same.

And the weird part: I couldn’t breathe. I go to the gym 3 times a week, and I can only describe it like being in high altitude. After about 50 feet, one of the people that I was walking with turned back. I thought that I was imagining things until I talked to other people that walked between buildings who reported the same symptoms.

I can only assume that we must’ve had an unbelievably low pressure system in the area that caused this crazy storm.

While I was working on the project, 2 of our admins took it upon themselves to push cars over the new speed bump in the road outside our building when they looked out the window and saw people getting stuck. After about 15 minutes, one of the managers on the job called security to let them know that LAN admins were out in the cold pushing cars to keep traffic moving (which if I remember correctly, is technically not part of a LAN Admin job description). Security exasperatedly reported that they were working on the problem, but I never saw anyone relieve the admins after they were too cold to continue.

The roads were so frozen on the way home that when I wasn’t driving on a 1 inch thick sheet of ice, my car was vibrating through barely formed ruts like the rally car that it’s modeled after. At least the gym was empty and I got to safely drive sideways through some parking lots on the ride home.

(Netflix: I sent 3 movies out on Monday and got only 2 back by Friday, and I have strong doubts that they were picked from the top of my queue.)

I know that there are privileges to being an executive. I expect that the execs will have real offices (with walls), better furniture, and maybe even some gold monkeys with ruby eyes embossed with the company logo. And that’s fine. That doesn’t bother me at all. People who make it to the upper echelons have either worked hard or made the right contacts and I think that they should try to reap some benefit for that.

But, I think that when “executive only” areas are created in a public spaces it sort of makes an explicit statement that non-execs are a lower class of people that need to be separated from the people that they work for. It sort of makes the people who are busting their asses in those tiny, little cubes feel like the executives must have requested that they be separated. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t.

But, that’s not the culture that I’ve been working in for the last 10 years. Sure, execs got better perks than the rabble, but like I said, that never bothered me. I say put whatever cool stuff you can get in your office. I think workers implicitly expect that you will, and generally don’t care. It’s an understood privilege of rank. Although I have met some execs who can’t be bothered with me, the general rule of thumb is that the upper echelons at my company make themselves appear to be very accessible despite their privilege not to be. If I’ve learned one thing in the corporate world, it’s that perception is king. If a staff thinks their bosses are geniuses, they are. If they perceive them to be approachable, they are.

Accessibility is key. It’s very easy for a staffer to bitch about cigar smoking execs in some private executive lounge making policy decisions that have ruined their day, than for them to bitch about that exec that has been accessible and normally eats lunch 2 tables away.

Good leaders will always give the perception of accessibility, even if they are not. And “executive only” areas, while justifiable, may not be advisable on this point alone.

Then again, what do I know? I’m a veteran peon with an authority problem.