Hot Dialed in the City

I was commuting in a vapor cauterizing my skin. It is as if Satan himself launched heated SBDs on the greater Washington Metropolitan area earlier this week. Africa hot. Oppressive heat with weight that slowed me down. I don’t mind it in most circumstances. When I’m working out, fine. Going on a hike, great. Half-baked in a red light district, bring it on. However, I draw the line on hot weather in work clothes.


These pants need more vents for my junk.

For commuting, the trick is to delay perspiration as long as possible. In order to hold the ocean of sweat at bay I lower my core temperature through the max A/C method. While driving to the metro parking garage, I align all vents towards my face and armpits. The temperature is set as low as it will go and the vent is set as high as it will blow. It is of particular importance due to my commute timing.

I am at the right side of the bell curve for the morning commute. Several standard deviations away from the height of the frenzy. Because of this, I end up having to park at the very top of the garage. Four stories up. The “low blow vent combo” technique helps to suppress my body temperature to a reasonable 70 degrees. Once the ice is chipped from my suit, I grab my backpack and head for the metro. The temperature quickly rises upon exit.

Ready to face the work day.

I move with efficiency and do my best to exert minimal amount of energy while gaining maximum ground. I enter the elevator and head down. Upon exit there is a long walkway leading to the main doors of the metro station. A futuristic curved metal canopy provides shade on the walkway. I diligently stay on that path. The heat moves through the epidermis to the dermis. My body thawing like ice from a long Russian winter.

Oh shit, it's starting.

While the tourists fumble with their paper metro cards I hit the hot lane with a metro pass. I successfully circumvent a logjam. I move down the escalator just in time to see the metro rail doors shut. The train moves down the track without me on it. Next train, six minutes away. It would be fine on most days but on a 100+ degree day, six minutes might as well be an hour. The heat moves through the dermis to the hypodermis. My core temperature is officially compromised. The metro arrives and luckily the A/C is on. I must keep minimal movement for the next nine stops until my exit.

My body stabilizes. The melting process grinds to a halt and unfortunately for me, so does the train I am on. Stopped underground. There is an announcement but I don’t speak bull horn metro so I just hope and wait. The heat strips through my hypodermis and hits the core. The reactor disintegrates its own containment structure and begins melting.

This doesn't look good at all.

It takes me awhile to break a sweat, but once I do, the faucet is on. It’s official, I am Frosty the Snowman in the green house. The metro starts running again and the vents kick in but it’s too late. You could place me in a cryogenic chamber designed to freeze a Sherpa and it would not matter. I’m toast.


Professor Hinkle, why are you such a dick?

As I exit metro to head to my building I realize it is even hotter. Body heat and 100% wool are a toxic combination for personal hygiene. That is when I finally give up and give in. It is beyond my ability to control despite best laid plans. It also allows me to lodge my head out of my own ass and realize everyone is in the same predicament. Looking around I see all the commuters and they are a collective hot, sweaty mess. Several of us nod to each other. My brothers in arms from the commute. Today, we all stink, and the leaders of the business world are just going to have to deal with it.

A Tale of Two Weeks

Last week the commute was easy. The office half empty. The roads were clear, the lights were green, Metro was running on time with no one on it. A still office.  Hustle and bustle replaced with stretch and yawn. The last week of summer everyone got their groove on while I held the fort.

Where is everybody?! Also, we are out of creamer in the pantry.

Last week I was reentering the atmosphere of work. Others were leaving it for seven days of greener pastures.  I was on the downside of a double helix that intertwined with an upside for my absent coworkers. I was alone with the hum of fluorescent lights while they rode the ascending crest of sun and fun. We all meet the equalizer next week. Back to the grind. Labor Day is gone and I am already nostalgic for summer.

The masses return for tomorrow’s commute. The rat race is full throttle. And even if you finish first, you are still a rat. Goodbye summer, the commute you provided was a short-lived love affair. Hello fall, the ice-cold feel of a familiar ex.

Last week I had big dreams when the office was mine. No calls, no emails, no distractions. Laser focus for bigger ideas. Forget leadership. They are not here. I am. I reviewed our current stakeholders and their respective pressure points. From there, I cast a wider net to include our stakeholder’s superiors.  Build eminence in my professional circle. A promising future for our project.


Who created that Visio diagram? Me, that's who!
Who do I trust with expense reports? Me!

This week leadership comes back. My machismo swapped out for a plate of milquetoast. Everything I built will be torn apart.

Lovely bridge. Afraid we're blowing it up.

It is as quick as a light switch. Last week I was left alone to my thoughts. Uninhibited business energy flowing through me like a series circuit. Then click. It’s off. People, emails, phone calls. Everyone exits the erosion of summer, sees the work horizon of fall and realizes they are behind. Their hurried actions and flailing arms making up for lost meetings and deliverables they will never catch up to. I’ll join in as I do every year and look at the silver lining. The heat replaced with a cool breeze. The weak sauce light beers replaced with lagers. The motionless sports world injected with football. It’s not all that bad. I can build again. All I need is quiet time. Columbus Day is right around the corner.

In Plenty of Crunch Time

Presentation and demo to the client. Big day. The culmination point of four weeks of work into a one hour meeting. Me and my co-workers have it down pat. Just a little pre-game practice before the big show. Get our bearings straight. I will arrive at the office a few hours in advance. Plenty of time, more than enough.

Traffic sucks. Stand-still on the beltway. Not good. Is that smoke? Is something on fire!?  Here come the sirens. Stop rubber-necking. It’s just a two car fender bender. Okay, a three car pileup. But still, I’m sure everyone is okay.


C'mon people. I got places to be!

I’m here. Lost an hour but still plenty of time. Time to find my co-workers. Not here. Stuck in the same traffic. I’ll start printing the handouts. Run 12 copies to the printer. Click.

Oh, here are my co-workers. All that traffic made everyone hungry. Grab a quick lunch at the deli. It’s only a few blocks away. Stop by the printer. No print job. I just sent 12 copies to another building we work at downtown. Print it out again when I get back.

The Deli is packed. The special of the day is wait your turn with a side of chips. Order based solely on speed not flavor. Chicken salad. Already made. Slap it on the bread. Everyone have food? Good, let’s go.

Yes, I had the chicken salad. Here, in the back. Order number 7,862.

Okay, that took longer than expected. No biggie, several hours to get through this. List of logistics to check off before the big show. Run 12 copies of the presentation to the printer before we get started. Select a printer that is actually in this building.

Phone rings. The client. They invited another person. This person will not be able to make it on-site. Dial-in. Set up a Webex. Delegate the Webex setup and then check the printer. My 12 copies are double-sided. Ugh, the client hates double-sided. I hate double-sided. Sorry, Al Gore, I just killed a small tree. Send another 12 copies through, select the correct printer and make sure it’s one-sided.

Test the display for the demo. Conference room is booked. I had it for the whole day. Leadership needed it. Leadership took it. Another room needed.

Backup conference room. Grab the HDMI cable. My computer connection is VGA. No HDMI hookup. My computer weighs 10 pounds. When I get a new computer they will put my old one in a museum next to a typewriter. Need a dongle. Not a dongle, an adaptor. Pull up the presentation and demo while I run to the printer. Sweet, right printer, 12 copies, single sided and it’s the previous version that contains one misspelled word. Another tree bites the dust. Mother Nature is going to kick my ass.

I know it's a little dated but it just might work.

Run through the presentation for speaker’s notes and transitions. Hold that thought, leadership entered the room. They want slide 7 to now be slide 2 and slide 3 to be slide 8. Sure, no problem. Plenty of…wow, look at the time. We’ll make those changes then I’ll cross my fingers, do my ‘no whammies’ print dance and send the latest version to the printer. What is that smell may I ask? Oh, you ordered kabobs. Awesome.  It smells….great? Bye-bye leadership. We will keep your ideas but please take the kabob funk with you.

Webex is setup. Update Webex info in meeting maker. Check the latest version of the presentation before sending out. Fingers crossed. Correct printer, 12 copies, single sided, latest version. One more time. Correct printer, 12 copies, single sided, latest version. Fifteenth time is a charm. Like a boss.

Okay, let’s run through the slides. Uh-oh, we are arguing about the image on the first page. Sensing panic. Relax. Reassure everyone that WE ARE NOT CHANGING THE IMAGE. No way in hell. I have single-handedly reinvigorated the logging industry with all the printouts I laid to rest today. Shut-up. Next slide. Shut-up. Next slide. Shut-up. Next slide. Good. Slides look awesome.

To the main conference room. Pass by the front desk. Let them know we are taking over. Client is at the front desk. That can’t be right. Meeting is in....meeting is now. They’re here. Time doesn’t even matter anymore. It is a continuum of hurried moments.


My watch is broke. I'm racking my brain here. When's our meeting again?

Quick, to the conference room. Colleague to use stall tactics on client. Restrooms are down the hall, water is here, coffee is there, blah blah blah.

The conference room. The smell. A waft of kabob-apalooza. It smells like the lovechild of special house seasoning and irritable bowel syndrome. Get the fan. Put it in the corner. Set it to high. Crank the A/C. Get these trashcans out of here. Put the trashcans in trashcans. Air this out. Spray Lysol until my index finger cramps. Lemon fresh. Amen.


We were told to wear these before entering the conference room.

Send out the presentation. Three versions: PPT w/ notes, PPT w/o notes and PDF version w/o notes. Attach PDF to meeting maker. Send. Connectivity. Only HDMI here. Get the adapter from the other conference room. Hook it up. Check. Screen looks good. IM co-worker to log into Webex. They can see the screen. Check. Client is entering the room with an empty bladder and a full cup of water. Check. Distribute hard-copies of presentation. Check.

“Thank you so much for joining us today. We appreciate you taking the time to meet us in person. We would like to go over….”

Plenty of time. I don’t know what I was so worried about.

Dude, There's My Car

It’s proposal season, or as my kids call it, “Where’s Daddy?” The proposal writing consists of putting my head down, writing about the promise of deliverables, the qualifications of our team and how we can do it for five dollars in just under six months. The hours are long and the nights are late during proposal season. It burns white hot for several weeks. So hot that you forget things, like where you parked your car.

Where is that tat about P4 parking?

 

After tackling the first draft of the proposal, I walk the empty halls amid the hum of vacuums from the cleaning staff. I exit the building, inhale the city air and make my way to Metro. One of the benefits of late hours is hitting the far right side of the commuting bell curve. An opposite experience to Sting’s poetic “packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes.” There is more room to breathe, an opportunity to decompress from a day’s work. There is also a significant reduction in B.O. This is a blessing any day, but for the summer commute it is a God send.

Don't be stealing my lyrics, bitch.

I am near the heart of the city and heading to a suburb. The metro map resembles a bicycle wheel without a rim. The center is a hub of transit activity in the densely populated portions of the city. The rails diverge outward like spokes on a wheel until they reach the far extension of satellite suburbs. Each stop that moves to the 'burbs thins out the herd of suits. My exit is at the end of a spoke. I hop off Metrorail and move up the steps. Less than eight hours later, this desolate space will be engulfed with very important and busy people. But for right now, it’s just me. Parking garage, car, home…if only it were that easy.

Muscle memory helps me put away my Metro card and security badge and grab the car key. A necessary move that is also symbolic, one that I recognize as the end of my work day. My car is right around the corner on the first floor. Except that it’s not. As a matter of fact, there are not any cars in the entire row. Must be on the opposite side. Except that it’s not there either. Both sides look exactly alike. Actually, every single angle in this parking garage is starting to appear the same in this dimly lit hour. The absence of cars provides no markers for reference. The garage is cosmetically homogeneous. My brain only holds so much. The proposal writing shoved my short-term memory to the side. The piece that remembers where I parked my car and some witty dialogue from Fletch is now gone. No need to panic, yet.

You're pushing me out the door?!

I double click the lock symbol on my key fob waiting for a DEET-DEET reply. It is met with silence. I am not even close to my car. My stomach sinks at the thought of it having been towed. I walk to the front of the garage and call the number. Nope, license plate doesn’t match up with anything in inventory. Awesome! My car is still in the garage…somewhere.

I know it's on one of these levels.

The parking garage is a boxy mass of concrete columns and floors. It is large. Six floors and 5,000 spaces large. Serious ground for my wing tips to cover. I could attack this systematically or try various areas where it might be. I opt for panic and begin an aimless search. My key fob is pressed with each step. It endures the wrath of my frustration through the single digit fury of my thumb. Double-click, silence. Blisters form on my heels. Double-click, silence. My perspiration is equal parts anger and exhaustion. Double-click, silence. The oppressive humidity turns my light blue shirt to dark blue. Double-click, silence. I give up. My desperation turns to a mea culpa of commuter etiquette...

From this day forward, I will not board a rail car while others are trying to step off. I will not sit in the area reserved for the elderly or handicapped. I will not place my laptop bag in an empty seat next to me during rush hour. I will not huff and puff when a tourist asks me to point out their stop.

...double-click, DEET-DEET. A reply! F*ck all those promises. I found my car! Startled at the digital response, I laugh with hysterical glee. I cup my hands over my mouth to suppress the hyena-like sound. Almost home! Don’t get ahead of yourself. Instant karma based on broken promises.

I hear it, but where is it? Double-click, DEET-DEET. Double-click, DEET-DEET. Double-click, DEET-DEET. With each click and response I walk to opposite ends of the garage. I am playing Marco Polo with my car. And my car is not just winning, it is officially kicking my ass. The DEET-DEET response echoes off the concrete of the empty garage. The sound reverberates against multiple walls until I’m convinced it is everywhere. It is the cricket stuck in your room on a summer night. The sound is ubiquitous but the cricket is a ghost. Except all I want to do with this cricket is catch a ride home. I promise I won’t be angry and smash you with a random flip-flop. Pinky promise. To hell with the promises! I just got burned on that. Where are you my beautiful 2006 Altima with bad alignment and limited options? HELP ME!...and that’s when the DEET-DEET was accompanied by a red light bouncing off the wall. My brake lights. Sound and sight. I laughed like a hyena again. Except this time I let it all out.

Dude, found it.

I hobbled to my car with fresh blisters from the junket. My hair was matted with sweat. Beads of perspiration masked my tears of joy. I hugged the car door. I don’t remember parking here. I don’t even remember this level. And I don’t care. This experience has changed me. It has made me a better person. Sometimes things have to be taken away in order to understand how important they are. I can’t wait to tell my family about what I have learned. Merging onto the freeway never felt so good. I just wish this asshole in front of me would move. Time to lay on the horn for this idiot. Some of us have places to be!

Share the Road, Share the Rage

I have noticed a larger number of people commuting to works on their bicycles. I like the idea of this. A solid cardio workout before work. I don’t like when it’s put into practice.

The larger number of people I was referring to also happen to be larger people in general. Biking to work is something these individuals should strive for, not put as the first item on their workout list.

And then there is the gear.

Only two types of athletes can wear tight clothing: boxers training for a fight and outside linebackers working on free weights in the gym. The bikers in the Tour De France can’t even pull off the cycling look, and they are supposed to be wearing it.

The commuter cyclists (CC’s) that I encounter further bastardize this unsporty fashion statement. The weakly styled spandex gear is degraded to a new low by being stretched to a new high. Maximum capacity. Every flaw revealed. Cookie dough shoved in a tube sock.

Perfect, I'll take it! Does it come in XXX small?

Is that a logo on the spandex? I am a runner. That doesn’t give me the right to wear a USA Track and Field tank top and spikes while running a victory lap with an American flag. The only thing these CC’s should be sponsored by is Smuckers Jelly and Pepperidge Farm Snickerdoodles.

And then there is the pace.

I’m all for sharing the road as a commuter. It is unfortunate the CC’s don’t share the same view. Scoot over a little. Don’t pedal harder and then look back at me. You are not keeping pace. You are just in my way and I can’t pass you. The posture is not helping. Head down, back arched, conforming to an aerodynamic frame. Well great, now you’re flying….at the blistering pace of 21 miles per hour.

Cycling to work is fine as long as you don’t have me spinning my own wheels. So move over Chubb Rock and hit the gym before you hit the road.

Underground Garage Banned

Dear Mr. Vandelay,

This letter is to inform you about the parking garage designed by your architectural firm. I have been using this garage on a daily basis for the last five years of my employment. By my calculations, I have parked there approximately 1,180 times. My research comes with a lot of insight into the nuances of P1, P2, and P3. I apologize if this letter is duplicative of other people’s efforts to bring certain items to your attention.

A few concerns:

• You did not use the correct instruments to calibrate the final design. It appears that the underground garage was not built to full scale. Most cars designed for the road today aren’t the size of mopeds with the turning radius of Matchbox cars.
  
  
• There are no road spikes installed for individuals who want to back their cars into a spot. Ideally, this should not be an issue since it is only one extra turn. Unfortunately, the majority of people attempting to back-in their cars suffer from mild hand-eye retardation coordination. One extra turn becomes five extra turns, six brake pumps, and a line of cars waiting to pass. Having spikes for cars backing in would be a helpful deterrent for those who failed Easy Method due to their heads being lodged up their ass.

• The arrows pointing the direction for one-way traffic in the garage are very helpful. However, these arrows might need to be changed from a simple white to a fluorescent blinking green for select individuals with either 1) a poor sense of direction, or 2) the inability to comprehend basic shapes (i.e., the shape of an arrow). Or perhaps a patrolman could monitor the parking lot to find offenders going in the wrong direction. And perhaps that patrolman could have a gun with live ammunition. And he would be fully authorized to use that weapon against violators. And we would fondly call him, “Tackleberry” as he lays waste to the directionally challenged.

"Reloading and heading to Level 2, Sir."

• The lighting lacks light. The Silence of The Lambs appears to have been the inspiration for your garage. I don’t want to have to worry about putting the lotion on my skin in order to not get the hose again. All I want to do is see my parking spot without using my high beams and fog lights in tandem.
  
  

"You were looking for a parking spot? Follow me."

• After successfully avoiding all of the pitfalls listed above, there is one minor obstacle left: avoiding death as a pedestrian. There are no sidewalks or crosswalks. No lights guiding you to the safety of the elevators. Pedestrians are viewed with as much empathy as squirrels trying to make it to the other side of the road. There have been five pedestrian deaths in our garage…this week. Hitting pedestrians is not only viewed as normal, I believe it is encouraged. All that is left for the pedestrian is instincts as they imitate an extra on the set of Death Race 2000. Just thought I’d let you know.
  

I’m sure these items are minor oversights by your firm. If you could research and provide a written report as to how these issues will be addressed, it would be greatly appreciated.

Sincerely,

Corporate Joe

Taxicab Confession

Whether I'm the driver or the passenger, I'm religious about wearing a seat belt. All those Driver's Ed videos from high school (in hi-fi Betamax format) were enough to put the fear of God in me. Images of a body impaled on a telephone pole after being launched from a car, a distorted face blasted through the windshield and frozen in its final breath, a Jedi who had been cut in half by a black knight's light saber.

I am a strong believer in the "Click It or Ticket" mentality. According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, alot of people die in car accidents each year. Furthermore, a large percentage of those alot of people could still be living today if they wore their seat belts. Chilling statistics. Despite being a seat belt nazi, I realized what a hypocrite I am. Because today I called for a cab ride.

The driver promptly showed up and I hopped in the cavernous back seat and that's when it hit me, I never buckle up in taxis. And to highlight the height of hypocrisy, there is no more appropriate time to "Click It" then when you find yourself in a yellow and black checkered vehicle. I try to stay away from sweeping generalizations but taxi drivers are extremely aggressive on the road, and they all smell.

We proceeded out of the parking lot into traffic and I grabbed the "oh shit" handle above the back seat window as the cabbie accelerated into rush hour traffic, switched over four lanes, then slammed on the brakes in disgust when the light turned red. All of these evasive maneuvers transpired over a stretch of approximately 50 yards. I felt like an epileptic break dancer in a bumper car. The back seat strangely began to resemble a coffin. Despite all of this, I was stubborn and firmed my grip, I'm always up for a challenge. It's go time.

The driver anticipated the flow of traffic and jammed the accelerator in perfect synchronicity with the green arrow. Why is he taking this way? What's under this guy's hood? Who wet my pants? I haven't pulled this many G's since Kings Dominion. I'm trying to decipher what they are talking about on NPR but based on our hyperspeed all I hear is a blurb about tighter immigration laws coupled with the wind whistling through the crack in my window. Great, immigration laws. At least it's not a contentious matter for a cab driver. We're cool, right? You're a documented worker and I'm a white male. No problems here. The buzzword "immigration" seems to directly correlate to his speed. Would NPR please stop saying that word. Why are we accelerating through the acceleration?

Oh goodness, a tricky U-turn at a busy light. Through the use of complex breathing techniques which can be mistaken for hyperventilation to the untrained eye, I physically and mentally prepare myself. There's his chance, just a half-mile up, where the light turns red for opposite traffic. Firm grip...check, locked door...check, rock-solid 20 year term life insurance policy for my loved ones...check. My seasoned taxi driver sees another gap which I was unaware of. A gap which measures the approximate length of the car we're in. Sure, we can squeeze in while accelerating to upwards of 40mph in a strip of road that's the size of a suburban driveway. Yeah, no problem. I think I saw this on an episode of "Dukes of Hazzard" where someone was selling moonshine and Boss Hog was eating food. Boss Hog, you slay me.

The cab miraculously fits into the moving target that is our pre-designed space on the road. And no horns! I can see my building now and breathe a sigh of sweaty upper-lip relief. At the very point I begin to drink the Kool-Aid and start to enjoy the ride, we reach the building entrance. I get out knock-kneed and hand the cabbie my voucher, with a cottonmouth voice I manage a crackling "Thank You". The most exciting part of my day speeds away in a yellow and black blur. I'm left nostalgically smelling the fumes of burnt rubber and gas while wafting in a sea of smoke. His driving adventures will continue while my waking hours will consist of staring at my laptop on a morphine drip. Godspeed Mr. Achmed Andretti, you are the most fierce cab driver I never knew.

So remember, always buckle up unless you're in a taxi with a driver speaking Pashto on his cellphone. This has been a public safety announcement.