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

Share, Bookmark, or E-Mail This Article

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.

And you know what being alone means, don’t you? I can’t have any meetings. Without meetings, how am I supposed to feel smart? It’s not like there’s a constant flow of idiots banging down my apartment door to ask stupid questions or randomly fall asleep while I’m talking to them, you know. Meetings used to guarantee that my sense of humor would stay sharp, and without them, any comic abilities are pretty much shot. I have to resort to knock-knock jokes now. Do you have any idea how low knock-knock jokes are on the humor scale? Do you? Knock knock. See? You’re not even thinking about saying “Who’s there?”

The sadness doesn’t end there, my friend. Because there aren’t any corporate types to deal with, I’m forced to to talk normally to normal people about normal things. No one wears suits to prove they are better than everyone else, making it impossible for anyone to determine whose ass to kiss. It’s like everyone has given up on hierarchy and stopped trying to impress each other. I don’t remember getting into a Delorean with Doc Brown or buying a ticket on the love train, but I’ve somehow been transported back to some hippy age of Aquarius. Do you have any idea what that’s like?

It’s madness.

As if that weren’t enough, I’m finding life outside the mothership to be a health hazard. Without a hierarchy, I’m devoid of lines to read between or double-talk to decipher, so parts of my brain are turning to mush. Most of the time, I have to struggle to keep my blood pressure up enough to keep me awake. Unemployment is no picnic, man. Be thankful that you are not here. Whoops gotta go. Toaster strudel is done.

Have an awesome day in Heaven, you lucky bastard.

-Jon

Share, Bookmark, or E-Mail This Article

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.

It’s not personal, its business. They’re not treating you poorly as a person, they’re utilizing a resource for the sake of satisfying their professional curiosity. It’s the right of the manager to control a resource as he or she sees fit, and if that resource is you, that’s too bad. Since feudal times, this has been the way that the system has worked.

Sometimes, I wonder if people would treat each other differently if the corporate power structure were eliminated. Would that cluster of smartly dressed workers be sitting together if they weren’t in pursuit of favor? Would the guy who wears that tie even wear it if it gained him nothing? And more interestingly, is the kowtowing and deception of those in control simply a byproduct of doing what the job requires, or would the negative qualities exist even in the absence of power to pursue?

The question is, would the assholes still be assholes because that is who they are, or are they merely assholes because of the context of their role? Or more precisely, do we attribute negative qualities to those in control of us not because they have those qualities, but because we resent them for having control over us?

Does authority modify personality, or does authority modify the perception of personality?

In the absence of a hierarchical power structure, would it matter? Would we finally tell a good portion of the folks that we deal with on a daily basis to go fuck themselves, or would we find that there was no longer a need to? Is it the personalities of the people above us that dehumanize us, or are they the ones being dehumanized into a simple symbols of authority?

Is it the structures that corrupt or the corrupt who structure?

Share, Bookmark, or E-Mail This Article

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

Share, Bookmark, or E-Mail This Article

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”.)

Share, Bookmark, or E-Mail This Article

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.

Share, Bookmark, or E-Mail This Article

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.

Share, Bookmark, or E-Mail This Article

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.”

Share, Bookmark, or E-Mail This Article

“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.

Share, Bookmark, or E-Mail This Article

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.

Share, Bookmark, or E-Mail This Article

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.

Share, Bookmark, or E-Mail This Article

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

Share, Bookmark, or E-Mail This Article

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.)

Share, Bookmark, or E-Mail This Article

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?

Share, Bookmark, or E-Mail This Article

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?

Two: Macafuckingrena

I read an e-mail from a guy whose signature not only bestowed upon himself the title of “Guru”, but included a quote from someone named “Evil Overlord”. Although I can’t recall the quote exactly, it was of the “I’m so fucking smart and everyone else is an idiot” nature. Now, I might be wrong, but didn’t adding little quotes to your personal e-mail signature go out of style around the same time people stopped thinking the Macarena was cool and CCMail was hot? If you answered “no”, do yourself a favor and delete your quote because no one thinks it’s clever except you. If you’re that guy who wrote that e-mail, I already know that you’re going to add a second clever and scathing quote to your signature just to prove me wrong. That is assuming that you can climb into your lucky quote-searching Underoos and clean the ho-hos from your fingers before getting distracted by some sort of Japanese cartoon porn and falling asleep on your big, guru pillow.

Three: Levi and the Magic Cards

My sister gave me a Christmas card that she bought from a nine year old in Portland who makes and sells his own greeting cards. I wish the card was available at his website, alienswithafros.com, but it’s not.

Above the hand-drawn picture of a Mr. T. with a Santa hat on, it simply reads, “I Pity the fool that Doesn’t Believe in Santa.”

Four: Ultimate Battle Prep

My sister also gave me a single Hulk Hand that she squirreled away when she found it at work. Despite the plethora of paired hulk hands available six months ago for dirt cheap, I find myself unable to find a reasonably priced pair to send to her. I’m thinking that I’d much rather locate a set of Thing Hands and Thing Feet to send along for the ultimate battle. If I could only find them… HULK SMASH!

Five: Corey Hart

#1GF! and I traveled into Boston on New Year’s Eve Day to see the paltry four ice sculptures and four crappy, weirdo plastic wrap sculptures that the city splurged on. I haven’t been in to town in a couple of years, and couldn’t remember how to get from the Public Garden to Copley Place. I refused to ask for directions under the pretense that I’ve been in there a million fucking times and to ask where it was to admit a full and unconditional suburban surrender.

Share, Bookmark, or E-Mail This Article