Out of the Office

I'm heading to the beach for the 4th of July holiday to get it away from it all. And by 'getting away from it all' I mean entering the seventh circle of hell. Traffic and the beach are as enjoyable as listening to Yoko Ono Unplugged.

I'm hanging with my wife, my son, and my wife's family which will be great. Seriously, I'm cool with them. But there are things completely out of their control which we'll all have to endure on an east coast beach that's the width of my driveway:

• Fighting for a spot on the beach that would barely fit Karen Carpenter only to have every toe-headed toddler run by you kicking up sand followed by a parent running by you kicking up sand yelling at their kids to stop running by you and kicking up sand.
• Dealing with more birds than Jessica Tandy did in "The Birds". The seagulls have an endless supply of feces to pummel you into submission. Only choice is to run for cover and abandon your curly fries in the sand for them to devour. Savages.
• Seeing older men and women in bathing suits that appear to have been purchased for their five year old grandchildren. Their clothes have pulled a Freaky Friday but the bodies forgot to go with them.
• Shopping at the outlet malls to fully witness the super-sizing of America and wonder if there is an actual whiskey tango weight quota to shop at "Big Dog". Big Dog, you slay me with your overdesigned fashion. Put some more paragraphs on the backs of your t-shirts in five different fonts. That's so funny.

Besides that, it should be pretty fun. Enjoy the 4th and check back into Bunkum Junction on July 6th.

The Fax of Life

I fulfilled my quarterly quota of fax machine usage today. After wiping the blood from my ears from hearing the analog transmission go through I was confused as to how fax machines still exist. They were a common office item starting in the mid-1980’s and have elevated to a spot on the corporate business card. However, the fax machine should be obsolete since email eclipses all of its purposes. Despite this incontrovertible evidence, these machines won’t die and still have a strong enough following to exist, just like Cher.

Today is a perfect example of why I had to reluctantly use the facsimile. The business mind of my client is about as dated as the fax machine itself. The client does not like to use "track changes" in Microsoft Word because they are "too unclear". However, they do like to proofread and edit Word documents using a printout and then send a fax of that edited document. Our toner has diarrhea which places vertical skidmarks down each faxed page. It's like trying to read hieroglyphics off of a tractor trailer's mudflaps. To me, this defines "too unclear".

I tried deciphering the pages character by character using my original document as the map and decoder. Unfortunately, my efforts failed and I had to inevitably call the client who instructed me to "look into" the poor resolution my fax machine emits. Sure, I'll write that down next to my other priority labeled, "drive nails in feet". At the very least, they could jump into the mid-1990's and scan the document into a pdf file then send it via email.

This brings me to my ultimatum. Next time, I'm not budging, no more faxes. I will force the client to adopt more recent technology. If they insist on sending it via fax, then the fax machine will either be broke because it works and I'm lying about it or because I accidentally spilled my Double Big Gulp on it. I refuse to use that outdated piece of plastic that takes up more real estate than Rosie O'Donnell's lunchbox only to create a barely legible image that transmits one page every five minutes. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a purchase to make at 7-11.

Elevator Etiquette

My office is 12 stories tall and has six elevators that service every floor. For a significant amount of the working day, this is a sufficient capacity to accomodate the number of people in the building. When you arrive before 8:45 in the morning, you never have to wait more than 10 seconds for a spacious elevator to welcome you. And it's great service; want me to hold the elevator, no problem, got all the time in the world, I'm early. No stopping in the lobby or hitting another level of the parking garage. A personal expressway to your cubicle. Sounds like such a trivial moment to enjoy. But I'd rather roll around in broken glass than arrive late.

Once you start hitting the peak of the rush hour bell curve, the options for parking and the borders of your personal space dwindle at an incredible rate. You plummet into the depths of the garage where the flourescent lights flicker, exposing the petri-dish puddles. I saw Gollum down there the other day. He kept asking me to help him look for his "precious". Sorry Gollum, I'm f*ckin' late.

At this point, things are more screwed up than Neverland Ranch. The elevators purposely disregard the lower-levels of the parking garage for the 9:00am-9:15am arrivals. The C-level executives collude with the building engineers to punish late arrivals even though the early risers get no props. I have the emails to prove it but I just can't risk the safety of my family. The dwindling number of available elevators is inversely proportional to the explosion of employee arrivals. This chaotic combination destroys the common decencies we enjoy in our everyday lives. The very moral fiber and structure of our society begin to crumble.

The collapse of common courtesy takes shape through body language which appears harmless on the surface but speaks volumes of its true intent. Everyone begins to position themselves for what they believe will be the next elevator. Small groups form and cluster near different doors, all of which are closed. Chips on a roullette table. Six elevators and six possibilities of which one will open next. You've been waiting five minutes, I don't care. You were the first one here, I don't care. You're our CEO, I don't care. It's survival of the luckiest to see who picks the right one. Let's spin the wheel!

"Ding", a light above one of the elevators comes to life and an organized riot ensues. Everyone starts pushing themselves into position and the scene resembles a Tokyo subway. As always, I'm caught right in the middle. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. After pummeling an Amish guy in the face with a cane I stole from a geriatric admin assistant I am safely on board the corporate vessel. Once the dust has settled, there are two worlds staring at each other; the ones who picked the right elevator and the ones in a galaxy four footsteps away, still waiting in the elevator lobby. I'm staring back at the poor souls who fortune did not favor. I've been on both sides of the coin my friend, I feel your pain. Now get your foot out of the way before I have to use my stolen cane again. Ready to breathe a sigh of relief I realize I'm right by the panel. I'm the unofficial elevator operator. Way too much responsibility.

"Floor six please", "Seven", "Twelve", "Lobby", "Mezzanine". Everyone slow down! I'm tempted to light up all the floors just to shut everyone up. First things first, hit the "close door" button I tell myself. Too late, a silver-haired gentleman jams himself into the elevator with luggage that's older than he is. He gives a forced smile to everyone on board in a feeble attempt to relate. His smile is met with sneers of disgust. The elevator gallery gives a collective groan at my slug-like reflexes. Everyone knows this guy shouldn't have made it. I hope no one on board is a fire marshal because we're definitely at maximum density. "Packed like lemmings in shiny metal boxes, contestants in a suicidal race". Ready to hit the button for takeoff, my eyes accidentally lock with a scared girl on the other side of the elevator tracks. So young, so green.

There potentially is one spot left if you're the size of Calista Flockhart on the last season of Ally McBeal. I begin to receive mixed messages from the girl. Her head and feet twitch with indecision. My pupils scream, "Go for it". I don't want to be the one responsible for holding the "Open Door" button because some neophyte doesn't know the rules of rush hour survival. I can't shirk my duties again or I'll have a mutiny on my hands. Do I give her the school of hard knocks or a get out of jail free card? She twitches again, it's borderline OCD. School of hard knocks Ms. Greenyoung. I'm a nice guy, but at this moment I can't afford to be. The elevator door shuts and the silent approval from my fellow elevatorpool is deafening. "One of us, one of us, one of us."

Buy CTXE now, it's hot!

I've been inundated with junk email in addition to the junk email that is my work email. Somehow my company is unable to siphon through the hot stock tips on penis enlargement and give me the genuine work emails that I detest. And we're not just talking about a few, it's as if the National Association of Spammers emerged fully energized from a Tony Robbins seminar. A blitzkrieg of impressively misspelled emails with subject lines such as "Lower Home Payment bye 30 purcent", "HiRollerKasino", "Fawlen low on dough?" and of course, "That report was due yesterday, come see me in my office".

All these emails give me an Arsenio Hall "hmmm" moment, does Spam actually work? Internet service providers hate it, it costs businesses time, and rips grown men away from their porn. Despite these negative impacts it keeps coming like another season of Friends. The fact is it's a numbers game. The hit rate might be 1% but if you email 100,000 people that's like, you know...alot of people.

What is the collective IQ of people responding to Spam? These people must be in the same demographics as those dialing up at 2am to talk to a psychic, sex phone line, or to buy something on QVC. Maybe not the sex phone line people, I'm told they're misunderstood and really nice people if you don't judge and give them a chance.

As for the latest stock Spam, Cantex EnergyCorp (CTXE), it had a volatile day today. Opened at .45 and closed at .44, cue "Rollercoaster" by the Ohio Players. That's shortsighted of me, let's look at its 52 week range. Oh wait, it doesn't have one. According to their website, "natural gas show well within the 2D swath imaging area to image, drill and discover trillion cubic foot (TCF)-potential natural gas". Talk about a slam dunk explanation to buy buy buy. You're going to argue with that?

I'm actually glad the six-figure salary system geeks in our company don't have time to filter Spam from my email. I'm going make my company pay dearly for their mistake by buying an obscene amount of CTXE shares, watching the stock price skyrocket, then dumping my shares at just the right time when it peaks. And dumping my current job with it. That's right, who's going to take the time to change the copier toner now? Don't f*ck with me, fools.

CONFERENCE CALL!

Using the phone seems pretty easy. An enduser picks it up if it is ringing, says hello and converses with person(s) on the other end of the line, then hangs up. Or pulls up their pants and then hangs up, whichever they prefer. Unfortunately, there is a minority of workers in my office building (who tend to be at a higher pay grade) that use speakerphone for all circumstances. These are the same individuals idiotic enough to associate it with a sense of power.

I understand there is a certain time and place for a speakerphone (e.g., multi-tasking while listening, being an actual presenter on the call, posting a resume on Monster.com). However, there are more common and less legitimate reasons that I witness when a speakerphone is in use (e.g., kicking feet up onto a desk and clasping both hands behind head, flicking pencils into a cup, masturbating).

I'm not sure I understand the difficulty in putting the phone to your ear and keeping the business conversation private. I certainly don't need to learn someone else's acronyms, deadlines, and priorities. And why do people feel it's necessary to speak at a volume used only in mosh pits. Nothing captures this scenario better than what I actually experienced today. A fellow co-worker with an office decided to leave the door open for the beginning of the conference call. Multiple beeps in quick succession, each beep representing a person joining the conference call.

"Is everybody on? (beep) Sounds like someone else joined. (beep) That everyone?(pause) (beep) Anyone else? (pause) (beep, beep). OK, my office door is still open (beep). Sounds like we got one more."

The door shuts but somehow the volume level increases to compensate for the closure.

"OK, LET'S GET STARTED!"

Now there's an echo because the person in the office next door has logged into the same conference call and also has decided to use a speakerphone. I can understand the reluctance to sit together on the same call. The office is an excruciating two yards away and there's also that cumbersome HP LaserJet 8100 to walk around, that adds about another yard to the excursion.

"THAT'S A GOOD POINT point point."

Oh goodness, now the person's voice is echoing through both doors and reverberating in my cubicle. Acoustically, I feel like Moses listening to God on Mt. Sinai except this God says "robust" alot and uses more acronyms than a Pentagon employee.

"ANY QUESTIONS questions questions?"

Mental note to self, find out their conference call number, dial-in, and wreak havoc on their next meeting. Ideas such as:

• Call from an animal shelter.

"RUFF RUFF, meow, RUFF!"

"Can you please mute your phone."

"RUFF meow RUFF!"

"Please, will everyone mute their phones."

"RUFF meow RUFF RUFF HEE-HAWW!"

• Consistently dial in and hang-up so listeners are bombarded with beeping noises

"Did someone just log on?"

"Did someone just log off?"

"Did someone just log on?"

• Have a choking episode

"Who is that?"

"Oh dear God!"

"Could you please mute your phone."

• Implement a laugh track every time the word "robust" is used.

I wouldn't resort to such impish measures if co-workers had the common courtesy to use their receiver the way it was engineered. Now if you'll excuse me, my phone is ringing, and I need to physically pick it up and place it against my ear.