Conference Room Forecast: Cold with a Chance of Hot

Temperatures begin in a deep freeze. It is cold enough to trigger hypothermia in a thick blooded Eskimo. Without notice, degrees will skyrocket to the point of dehydrating a camel. Welcome to the most uninhabitable area on earth, welcome to our conference room.


Could I trouble you for a cup of hot cocoa from the pantry?

The extreme variation in temperature involves two variables. In nature, these variables would be meteorologically based and somewhat intuitive to the novice weatherman. An advancing mass of cold air in a low pressure system or an advancing mass of warm air in a high pressure system. In our conference room, the variables in constant battle are an Epson projector and an air conditioning unit. Cold as shit with a 100% chance of hot.


Heading in now for the 3 o'clock status meeting.

The projector is a must have. It is fixed to the ceiling and has been used for countless presentations. The hookup is easy and the picture is clear. What is unique about our projector is that it projects not only images, but also the heat of a thousand suns. In a bind, the Epson aka "Bernie" could double as a heating unit for a small townhouse. The ceiling location maximizes available countertop space. It also keeps clients from receiving third degree burns and unwanted visits to the emergency room. Due to the relentless heat, the commercial real estate manager received numerous complaints about life on Mercury. She responded with building engineers to fix the problem. The answer: a portable air conditioning unit.

Much thought was given to the AC hookup. The engineers vigorously reviewed the building blueprint and entertained all options. They promptly threw out all the options, gutted a corner ceiling tile, and connected the portable unit to flexible aluminum ducting that is force fed to the ceiling. This shiny, NASA-esque product now juts out like a spacesuit for a giant penis. No matter where you sit, it is always within peripheral vision. Rocking to the beat of the air flowing through it. Inconspicuous.

Okay, so the portable unit is somewhat noticeable. But it does the job well. In fact, too well. I am convinced the duct feeds directly to Yakutsk, Russia. Air is pumping out hard, check. Air is cold, check. Temperature more appropriate for an Arctic Musk Ox, check. This is where it gets interesting. Not only are there two weather patterns in a room the size of a suburban kitchen, there is also the noise.

I'm sorry, can you repeat that? There is some background noise.

The projector makes a high-pitched tinny sound. If our company ever introduced a "bring your dog to work day", all the canines would howl their way out of the conference room and directly into their respective owners' car. The AC unit is the opposite. A low, consistent, guttural sound, Robert Mitchum serenading on a megaphone. Battling both weather and sound while giving a presentation is a challenge. A presenter can even the odds by moving throughout the room and commanding the floor. Too hot, move towards the door. Too cold, move towards the back of the room. All the while, adjusting the volume of one's voice to the appropriate level for attendees depending on positioning in the room. For the attendees, it is more difficult when stationary.

Stay cool Corporate Joe. I know you can hear me.

Choosing a place at the table is important. The worst seat in the house is smack dab in the middle. Counter-intuitive. In the middle is where a person would want to sit. Best of both worlds. Blasting the AC with the top down on a hot, sunny day. Nice image. Except in this case, it is the extreme of both worlds. Smelling burning flesh on one side of the body while battling frost bite on the other. But hell, I was late to the meeting. I deserve this seat. Then it hits me, this can be the same location for the exit interviews next week. A great way to accelerate a painful process. There is always a silver lining. Even in this uninhabitable place.

Truth Serum Font

It has to be frustrating to be a leader. To motivate and inspire employees who, at most times, are frustrated and uninspired themselves. Waiting to go home. Waiting for a paycheck. Waiting to die. Reading a satirical blog with limited hits. I always wondered what the inner-monologue would sound like between constructing a memo in an executive’s mind and actually typing it as an email. Forfeiting harsh criticism in favor of a diplomatic manner takes a daunting amount of self restraint. There is a chasm as wide as the Grand Canyon between what the top of the food chain wants to write and how it should be written. How would it read if the gap could be closed with executive level truth serum font? Well, let's take a look.

I love writing a good letter to my bank employees.

To Whom It Doesn’t Matter,
We constantly engage with our workforce for new ideas. This includes you. It is only through the thousands of unsolicited emails, hundreds of times being accosted in the hallways and one-on-one exit interviews across this great country that we have been able to realize how much you incessantly complain. I wanted to use this opportunity to share the collective feedback received from our bitch and moan portal (i.e., my inbox.)

You gave us spirited responses in high numbers with great insight. Thank you! This will help us learn who we should get rid of. The items below were the most prominent suggestions. We prioritized this feedback and wanted to share it with you along with our thoughts.

• An on-site gym at our corporate headquarters - We heard from you loud and clear on this one. I think Mike D. stated it best when he whines, “I need a shot of creativity at lunchtime and a corporate gym could be a great place to reenergize my body and brain cells for the afternoon grind.” That’s a great idea, Mike! Let’s magically find a non-existent 2,000 square foot space in our building so you and all the other entitled millennials can get the creative juices flowing. Maybe we can also hire personal on-site chefs to feed you on the elliptical. You know what else reenergizes? 5-hour energy. It’s less than three dollars a pop. Swig that down after your spinach salad with flax seed and shut the fuck up. You work in the Accounting Department, Mike. You need creativity as much as a musician needs to know the meaning of EBITA. Instead of working out, let’s just focus on getting actual work done at this point. Based on the last performance review, you are lucky to even have a job.

This gym is going to be awesome.

• Bring casual Fridays back! - Another great piece of feedback which has nothing to do with profitability, competing in the market space, or identifying our core customer base. Paula R. bitched about it best, “Casual Fridays are a freebie and a great recruiting tool for new hires.” Could not agree more. It is a great recruiting tool if you want to single out people who have an affinity for denim and bad fashion. Last time I remember, Casual Fridays slowly crept into other days of the week. Hoochie-Mama Thursdays. Don’t give a shit Tuesdays. Fuck-it Mondays. Provide the workforce an inch and they take a mile. If I hear this request one more time I am enforcing Winged Tip Wednesdays and Double Starched Fridays. Have your Mommy adjust your Double Windsor knot in the morning and get to work.

Is it Thursday yet?

• Implement a Project Management Database – Something work related, a Christmas miracle. Thank you Dave H. for being the only one to introduce a relevant business item. He writes, “I have been diligently constructing a management database to capture costs of each geo-coded project, the purpose of the project, number of employees involved, and market area. This will help identify gaps and overlaps in each sector of our business as well as tap into future opportunities.” Wow, impressive. Funny thing though, I don’t remember asking for this--you know why? Because it is already being implemented. Tag that as an “overlap” in your stupid, obsolete database. Here’s an idea for when you have an idea, share it with others first. Now you have wasted time on the company dime. Good news is you get out early today to pick up your kids from school. Bad news is, you’re fired.

I cleaned out my desk like you asked. What did you want to see me about?

I hope you found this open dialogue helpful. It is always nice to cut through the red tape and hear what is on your mind. I like waking up at 4:30AM to get this shit out of the way so I can begin my real job of keeping the lights on in this place.

Carpe Diem, Tomorrow

I have a write-up due. Technically, it WAS due but since I have not started, it is still due. A white paper to be exact: a report that provides insight to an existing or developing business issue with proposed solutions. The purpose is to whet the appetite of the forward thinking client and line the pockets of the firm proposing the solution. A win-win concept, but only if it is actually written.

I know it's breakfast time, but lunch would be good right now.

This white paper will take one day of research and two days of writing. I already have an outline. Within the past several weeks I have completed three other white papers. The difference is those were due based on a hard deadline. If it is important to leadership, it is important to me. My job is to make their job easier. The opposite also holds true. The incomplete white paper was assigned from a specific leader who follows up with light requests, "How is it going?", "Talk me through your progress.", "Why are you drunk?" Without a deadline, the report burrows itself to the bottom of my inbox.

I'm sure that deliverable is right under our feet.

Some of the hardest workers have the biggest lazy streaks. They are self aware enough to keep themselves busy. Without work, self-destructive habits subtly occupy everyday life: excessive eating, sleeping late, or hard core underground Slovakian porn. The scariest thing for a hard worker is white space on a calendar. The emptiness creates temptation to embrace their lazy streak. I waver between the two worlds of busy and lazy. Both depend on my emotional state and current work leader. Sometimes it is churning through assignment after assignment with no end in sight. Eventually, there is a glacial shift towards inactivity. This latest assignment without a deadline is classical conditioning towards laziness. Like pavlov's dog, I begin to look for a new show to binge-watch on Netflix.

The devil finds work for my idle hands in the form of a remote control.  Left to my own devices, I become a couch potato. Ten pounds and 30 Dorito Bags later, I recognize my ass has been parked on the sofa for a month. My work capacity and physique constantly swaying back and forth between a "before" and "really before" picture.

You've got your health...insurance.

When given a deadline, my shiftless pavlovian dog can morph into a border collie. With job, have purpose. My business mind operates at a high level when an ambitious deadline is at hand. It also makes me aware of my self imposed decision resulting in second-tier status. The realization is I never serve as my own catalyst. Great business minds find work and capitalize on it whereas I capitalize on the work given to me. A fine line with a big difference in pay grade. The worst part of all, I am okay with this.

What you want to be a leader for anyhow?

I like the feast and famine of work and relaxation. Besides, for years I have been hearing 'The Wire' is a must see. And those Doritos aren't going to eat themselves.

Auld Lang-ziety

I have been consistently employed for the past 30 years.  I started as a bus boy at the Denny’s on Route 1 in Alexandria, VA. The 5:30PM to 11:30PM shift for five days a week. Six hours of straight work came with a free meal. The short order cook named Marcus (who smoked copious amounts of weed) would always have "Moons Over My Hammy" waiting for me at the end of my shift. I made sure he never ran out of plates when the restaurant was slammed with hungry drunks. I worked there 30 hours a week and he was the only one who regularly called me by my first name. To most, I was the invisible bus boy. Marcus would hit the bell with his spatula and call my name when my food was ready. It was the first time I ever felt appreciated for my sweat equity. The paychecks were small but the feeling was large and the food was free.

Good work, CJ. You can have some of my medicinal brownies next.

That was the summer of 1985. Many career changes have happened since. But as of right now, for the first time in my life, I'm scared to find a new job.

Job-hunting at the age of 45 is intimidating.The challenge is not related to finding a job, it is about the stress of finding the right job. Once mid-life hits, the stakes are high. I don't want to buy a Corvette and get a divorce, I want a new career.


What's the big deal? It's just a car.

Due diligence is imperative to ensure the next move lands on bedrock instead of quicksand. Looking back, it was a slow progression to arrive here.

• Ages 15 to 22. All I wanted was extra change. Spending money for clothes and gas for the car. My horizon was the next two weeks. During these years I was a bus boy, I waxed and buffed floors, and worked in food service at Mount Vernon Hospital. I even cut grass on Fort Belvoir military base with workers on furlough from Lorton prison. After each summer ended, I always had the luxury of walking away.
• Mid-20's. A college degree now. Interviews. Salary instead of hourly. But youth is wasted on the young. Despite landing a great job I saved up a few paychecks and eventually quit. No plan. Just knew that I was not interested anymore.
• Late 20’s. A career starts to form whether voluntary or not. I learned what I was good at and what I liked and that sometimes the two were mutually exclusive. I also learned two career limiting actions 1) my excessive enjoyment of happy hours and 2) saying, "that's not my job."

So I booze a little. Shoot me.

• Early 30’s. Life settles in--fast. Marriage. Kids. Mortgage. Voluntarily locked in. The career becomes a centerpiece. How good am I at what I do? No more half-assed work products in hopes that senior management would correct my mistakes. Own it. Working beyond my job description.
• Late 30’s. Moving up with enough tenure to manage large scale projects and groups. People are actually listening to what I have to say. My input is no longer patronized, it is necessary. Skipping happy hours in lieu of work.
• Early 40’s. Instead of swiveling my head in a conference room looking for someone with an answer it turns out everyone is looking for an answer from me. Did someone call me a "thought leader". Ugh.
• Mid 40’s. TBD.

Just one thing, CJ. Go out and find it you jackass.

It is difficult to conjure other careers after being employed at one place for so long. My 'anything is possible' attitude has been downgraded to 'these are my limited options.' Mistakes are allowed in youth, I made plenty of them. Now? Not so much. Retirement is no longer a word, it is a reality. What was once abstract is now concrete. I have to squeeze all the risk I can out of my job search. There is another Marcus waiting for me, he is ready to ring the bell once the job is done right. Moons Over My Hammy sounds pretty good right about now.

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.

The Cafeteria Chaos Theory

This week, I forgot my lunch along with an emergency breakfast bar. I would have to visit our "new" cafeteria. At least new to me. It opened four years ago but somehow I have managed to avoid it. Upon confession of my first visit to co-workers I received incredulous reactions. I heard talk at the water cooler over the years. It was an experience. Time to find out for myself.

Before entering, I scanned the layout to find a point of engagement. No luck. The flow of human traffic in the cafeteria resembled a mock riot. No stones were being thrown and no one was crying injustice yet each person had their own unique cadence and destination to reveal a pattern that was no pattern. Behind me, the next wave of hungry consultants pushed me into the fray against my will. I was part of the mob. It was time to grab some grub.

You take the salad bar, I’ll grab the tofu stir-fry.

I search for what I’m craving and the chaos begins to make sense. My scanning eyes and line of sight are out paced by the number of options. I am fully integrated into the chaos by wandering aimlessly to each poorly marked station. Only to turn a corner to find more stations: regular salad, supreme salad, Korean BBQ, pizza, sandwiches, vegetarian, gluten-free, soft-drinks and health drinks. Being accosted by the caterers of each station while trying to reach a decision: “Would you like to try a sample?”, “Interest you in a salad?”, “Make a decision, yo?” This cafeteria was not designed by an architect, the layout was created by Pussy Riot in the hopes of upsetting the status quo.

Say no to the New Food Order!

It’s a smidge of anarchy paired with the blueprint of a traditional food court. A well-assembled plan that was cut into pieces then used for a game of 52 pickup. For all of the process improvement the consulting industry brags about, the cobbler’s kids are without shoes in this instance.

The Korean BBQ looks really good, except I don’t know where to get in line. The station is less than three feet away but there are a dozen people in front of me. I’m not sure if I’m cutting in front of someone or being taken advantage of. It's as if I'm sifting my way through the thick forest of pins in a Pachinko machine. With 25% will and 75% luck, I shake and ping my way to the food station. I load up on meat, veggies and white rice and head to the cashier.

The scale I set my food on has the gravitational pull of Jupiter. Apparently the Korean BBQ has coagulated into a ball of concrete as the scale indicates a price close to $13. I am tempted to ask about a layaway plan. Instead, I grab the last Andrew Jackson from my wallet and hand it over. My expression to the sticker shock registers with the cashier. Her smirk equates to, “Welcome to the cafeteria, sucker.”

Hello! Trying to find the weigh station for my Korean BBQ.

I exit to the seating arrangements of the cafeteria and survey the grounds. Waves of anxiety undulate in the pit of my stomach. Holy shit, I’m in high school again. The pressure to find a place to sit during the busiest part of lunch. There is the young crowd of astonishingly good-looking career climbers who occupy the majority of the space. They appear to have been pulled from a United Colors of Benetton casting call. In stark contrast are the apex predators atop the corporate ladder who sit at smaller tables. Then there are me and my co-workers: in the murky middle with little career growth and ambition. Luckily, we are the table that no one notices. I eat as fast as possible and head out the door.

Look, man. I just want to eat my food and leave.

The cafeteria exit is designed for assimilation back into work mode. A badge is required to depart the lunch experience. Leaving through turnstiles that account for where you were and also where you are going with your next security card swipe. Chaos to order. Somehow heading back to my cubicle doesn’t seem so bad anymore. But maybe that’s the point of the design. Damn you cafeteria. Damn you straight to hell.

Ahhh, home sweet home.

Power Pointless

Every presentation behooves a dry run. In theory, dry runs have a legitimate purpose. They are an opportunity to identify glitches, dead air, lack of clarity, or a need to forfeit a message that does not serve the overall theme. In reality, they serve a different purpose. Dry runs are an event for leadership to frustrate and belittle subordinates. No matter the herculean efforts to date, the presentation will be ripped apart before the title page even opens. A presenter must sit and suffer through the corporate hazing. The good news is that the presenter can also have the last laugh.

This presentation is so ugly it could be a modern art masterpiece.

Corporate Joe, you are the lowest form of life on earth!

The opening question: "Okay, what are we talking about again?"
That question is the expected ice breaker from leadership. A euphemism for, “why did you drag me into this shit?” Never mind they asked for the meeting. Getting leadership to enter the atmosphere is a challenge in and of itself. There is thought residue from previous business affairs. Their heads are in a collective fog. Physically, they are present. Mentally, they are trying to calculate a profit margin, latest expense, or number of days until retirement.

Leadership’s attention is also in competition with their mobile devices. The inescapable excuse of “multi-tasking.” The word itself qualifies as an oxymoron. The most common phrase associated with it is in the form of an apology, “Sorry, I was multi-tasking.” If you were successfully multi-tasking, there would be no need for an apology.

This partial absorption of material exacerbates the presentation. It is fuel for the fire of criticism. Leadership is halfway in the conversation and cannot follow the story. This leads to spasmodic starts and stops due to constant interruptions. For the presenter, what felt like jazz while working in a vacuum now feels like a hokey pokey grand-mal seizure in front of leadership. Go back one. Go forward one. Back again. Forward. Back. Forward. That’s what it’s all about.

The mid-point question: "Aren't we running out of time?"
To answer that question, yes, particularly when there are a dozen interruptions by slide 2. Each piece of the presentation has a narrative feeding into the overall story. When properly constructed, the delivery identifies a theme that is satiated throughout. An assault of questions will always kill the theme. We are almost at the 30 minute mark and only on slide 4 of 24. Then leadership wonders why it’s taking so long. Hmm, great question! Maybe our allotted time is slipping due to leadership injecting:

• A six minute impromptu Q&A on the title page’s font size/style.
• A seven minute discussion regarding the agenda.
• An eight minute tirade on the miniscule resemblance of a competitor’s color scheme embedded within a stacked bar chart.
• A two minute meltdown about a buried hyperlink to the Lemon Party.

Okay, so that last bullet point should have been caught. As for the first three, it cost 21 minutes.
 

21 minutes is an eternity. Careers have crumbled in less time.

The closeout question: "When can we see this again?"
The great thing about running out of time is that leadership will always request another meeting. A second version will incorporate their highly suggested modifications. In return, may I highly suggest an effective trick of the trade. This is where subordinates must adopt the peer invite technique. Invite rival peers of the leadership team to the next meeting.

Leaders will always make time to critique others, no matter how tangential the business need. Sit back. The edits of leaders being sent to the slaughter at the hands of other leaders is always fun to watch. At this point, it doesn’t matter what the presentation is about. In fact, you don’t even have to watch. The presentation has elevated to communal criticism amongst superiors. Your participation is no longer needed. Leadership is too busy arguing over the material to pay any attention to you. There is a matinee across the street. It starts in one hour. Slip out the back, Jack. Make a new plan, Stan. You don’t need to be coy, Roy. Just get yourself free.

Just go, Joe.

Zero Net Worth When Networking

My professional network on LinkedIn has a decent amount of contacts but in Tipping Point terms, I would not label myself as a connector. LinkedIn is a world of career contacts, industries, and skill sets. It opens a gateway to people in the know and trending companies. My reluctance to use LinkedIn is a head scratcher. Not only due to lice but also because my own behavior baffles me. Job advancement is available. The power of networking is present. Despite all this, I shy away from being an active player in carving out my own career.

Maybe I am reluctant to use LinkedIn due to profile fear. The application itself is essentially a career dating service. It gives companies and recruiters a marketplace to review and connect with viable candidates for possible employment. It is highly similar to the Tinder app minus the random, drunk sex. There is always concern on how employers will perceive my profile. Some of my connections read as a “Who’s Who.” Whereas mine resembles, “Who the Hell is That?” I am weary of my own pint-sized job title and lack of career progression. On the flip side, I am also skeptical on the amount of success achieved by others. I question the motives of many LinkedIn invites. Do you really want to connect with me or is this a way to rub your job title in my face? In a few cases, the former, in the majority of cases, the latter.

I am on this business card. Otherwise, I am simply not there.

LinkedIn provides an outlet to professionally humblebrag. The true intent of the LinkedIn application is admirable and useful: connect with others in an environment that can showcase your talent and expertise. However, most invitations transpose the primary purpose with the humblebrag. A bait and switch technique to boast career achievements without any concern for new employment. It sends a message to the world that this individual has arrived to the big time…in the form of a paper tiger.

CEO? According to the D&B, the company has 3 employees. When shareholder meetings can be held in a pantry it is at best, “Small Business Owner.” Titles should be in sync with activity. If a candidate has been out of college for less than two years, it’s okay to be an “Analyst”. When I graduated, my title was not “Petroleum Transfer Specialist.” Instead, I was assigned “Pump my gas, dirt bag.” Not ideal, but honest. LinkedIn is a place where you are supposed to show off your skills. But the ante often increases to a level that would make Baron Munchausen blush. Contrived resumes can only live in the fabricated world of LinkedIn. Users unwittingly create a career dead end. Their own job inventions are so grand that it establishes an illusion of them never needing another job in the first place.

I must say, even by my own standards, that story sounds fishy.

I do not mean to insinuate that everyone on LinkedIn is lying. There are some people who are knocking it out of the park. The former teen nerds who are making bank have every right to gloat. More power to them. To the pimpled girl turned Account Executive, you go. To the bookworm boy that made partner, high-five. To the starting QB who banged the Homecoming Queen and threw the game winning touchdown, fuck off, you’re a dick.

Eventually a resume has to back up the job title. This is where the power of LinkedIn does not serve the career con artists well. The resume gains the interview, the interview wins the job. For those who are all sizzle and no steak, that fake job is going to last a long time. Trust me, my alter-ego is CEO of Galaxy Global Industries Corporation, he knows these kind of things.

Please Stop the "Click" Clock

Most people measure their job tenure in pre-defined increments of time: years, months, days. And for the new hire who accidentally dropped the f-bomb in a meeting….minutes. For me, I have an unorthodox measurement that visits each time I reload my Swingline with a new sleeve of staples.

F*&%! Did I just say f*&%ing?

One box of Swingline standard staples holds 24 sleeves, each sleeve has 210 staples, totaling 5,040 staples per box. My supply is dwindling. The rattle of the box is less jovial. Reload with the few remaining sleeves that are the drunks of last call. Party over. The “click” is an auditory hourglass of how many staples have passed.

As long as I have my staples, they can't touch me.

I remember picking up the box after orientation. That was almost 4,626 staples ago, but who’s counting. At the time, each staple had yet to be randomly united with various deliverables not even conceived. I have moved within my own building three times, burned through three laptops, and have seen co-workers leave for PhDs and MBAs. My hair is thinner, my eyes dimmer, and my six-pack replaced by an impostor oddly resembling a gut. Through it all, my staples have been my touchstone. The one constant in my cabinet drawer, always within arm’s reach.

I can’t say I have come as far as I’d like. I’m not sure if I’m heading where I want to go. Only two sleeves left. I am 400+ “clicks” away from a possibly unwanted watershed moment. Maybe I’ll start using paper clips.

My fountain of youth

Degree of Difficulty

Three letters carry a lot of weight in the consulting industry, “PhD”. Those three letters make the client uncontrollably drool. Outside of a congressional inquiry, it provides the necessary trump card for anyone who dares to question the project's methods:

• Don’t like our approach? Well, the girl who designed our statistical sample has a PhD!
  
• You want to question our findings? Well, the guy who completed the quality assurance has a PhD!
  
• You’re cheating on me? Well, I’m banging a PhD!

Don’t get me wrong, PhDs do provide some value besides infidelity. They are the fossil fuel for brainstorming, they tackle and resolve the high-level approach to solutions, and they are hardly around long enough to get on your nerves. But don’t expect to be called “Doctor” unless you plan on successfully administering surgery during one of our WebEx conferences.

O.K., I don't know where the patella is.

But I can answer questions on my abstract involving the randomness of bees.

The MBAs are helpful too. They determine the business flow of the project, the timing of key deliverables, and serve as the consulting voice of the project. Then comes the work and just like Keyser Soze, poof, they’re gone.

After this MBA wins the work, my guess is that you'll never hear from him again.

After the brainstorming is done and the project plan is laid out, there is the nagging work that is left over. The endless deliverables; spreadsheets, flow diagrams, presentations, survey results, datasets, meeting minutes, on-site training, off-site training, oh my goodness please stop. The lower the degree, the larger the workload. Any guesses where I am categorized in the pecking order?

Work won. Work begin.

Bachelors Degree translates into completing all of the deliverables and receiving none of the credit. And the best of the lot take the initial instructions from those with superior degrees and run with it. The PhD’s and MBA’s become more obsolete as the project exits the incubation stage and hatches more work products than Evander Holyfield can impregnate women. They are only re-integrated at the end of the project when all the findings have been compiled, all the answers provided, and all the subordinate talent tapped out of any ambitious urges to replace them.

And who can blame them. What a great gig. I plan on reviewing some PhD online programs. But first, I have to get this deliverable out.

No Need for Alarm

Everyone sits in their respective cubicles working diligently. The sound of clicking keyboards, phones ringing, and copy machines humming. The harmonious sum is greater than its tone-deaf parts. Folks, it's official, this is the sound of productivity.

And then the fire alarm goes off at work.

A shrieking sound emanates from the intercom and quickly crescendos and diminuendos in rapid succession. Each iteration picking up steam as the sound reverberates off the wall and feeds into the next pulsating wave. This ear-bleeding shriek dances in perfect synchronicity with the red lights. Satan just opened up a nightclub in our hallway and the cover charge is your hearing and sight.

Press button to ignite fire.

Naturally, you would expect papers to fly in the air as people madly rush for the exit while elbowing catering service out of the way. And of course, two or three employees plowing through a plateglass window that is carefully being carried by two extras from the set of Dukes of Hazzard.

However, the reaction is counter-intuitive. The reaction is no reaction at all.

No sense of urgency. No panic. Recognition only through small talk. Question from a female who is filing paperwork, "Should we go?". Followed by the answer from a male who is masturbating, "Nah, just a drill."

Then Satan kicks it to a higher gear. Not by upping the voltage on the sound nor by bursting corneas with an orb of red light...he just uses the power of persistence.

The light continues, the sound continues, and the lack of urgency among the staff is replaced with heavy sighs directed towards the intercom. Question from a female who is doing her nails, "What's it like outside." Followed by the answer from a male who is still masturbating, "Mid-50's, bring a coat."

The employees nod at each other in recognition. They know what must be done. The only way to stop this out of tune Ozzfest is for a mass exodus down the staircase. A display of unity for the fire department. The masses clog the stairwell. They rapidly descend using short staccato steps. A centipede comprised of hundreds of people twisting and turning to exit. Finally, everyone is outside. Question from a female putting on her makeup, "Are you still masturbating?" Answer from the male, "Yeah, sorry. I like my junk."

The fire department, drunk with power, is happy with the outcome. They observe the monkeys in their suits. They confirm everyone's morning is ruined and wave everyone back in.

Alright, you overpaid asswipes. Back inside.

Except no one is heading back in.

Hmmm, it's 11:15. Technically, not too early for lunch. Plus all the fatties waiting for the elevator will clog the lobby. That's at least another 15-minutes. Screw it, going to lunch. All that masturbating has made me hungry.

Building, My Confidence

At the same time George Clooney was announcing the award for Best Supporting Actress at the Golden Globes I was fully entrenched in my consulting cubicle to meet a deadline. I could not help but laugh at the uncanny similarities between me and Clooney. Both of us had blood being pumped to our vital organs along with sharing some of the same letters in our name. The list goes on, but let's just focus on my story.

Good job Corporate Joe. We'll catch up never.

Checking back into work at 8:00PM after leaving only 3 hours earlier was a Deja-F*ck You moment. The hours this week have been relentless in pursuit of a deliverable that will inevitably be shipped to a graveyard called Iron Mountain Storage. Because of this bizarro world schedule I have been exposed to the alter ego of our building that I never knew existed. And I wished I had never found out.

During the day, our office is alive with the humming of lights, the buzz of printers, and the firing of employees. However, the environment changes in an instant based on the sinister plan of our building engineers. I was the firsthand witness to this account and reacted the way most humans would. I pissed my pants, cried, and fell asleep in the fetal position.

The 12-story structure of brick and steel takes its final breath of the evening when the digital clock strikes 11:00PM. The ceiling lights shut down in perfect synchronicity with the auxiliary lights that struggle to stay alive. No humming, no buzz, no traffic. The lighting transmogrifies into an eery blanket of charcoal darkness occupying every space that was booming with electric life a moment ago.

After waking up feeling refreshed from my involuntary coward nap, I sat back down and was immediately distracted by the oppressing silence. Occasionally I'd look over my shoulder to see if someone was there. In particular, the twin girls from The Shining. The poor lighting and deep hallways seemed to be a perfect invitation for them. After misaligning my vertebrae from looking behind my back so many times, I returned to work.

Come play with us forever and ever and ever.
And by the way, what the f*ck are you still doing at work?

The clock now read 12:30AM and I did not put a significant dent in my deliverable. Why am I still here? Why am I hearing the elevator? Who wet my pants again? Oh goodness, the elevator stopped at my floor. I take a breath and hope the killer will murder someone else dumb enough to be working at this hour.

The elevator doors open and the "click clack" of dress shoes reverberate in the lobby. Then silence...which speaks volumes since this means the psychopathic killer is on the carpet that is one step closer to me. Then comes a "beep" indicating a security badge, the psychopathic killer molester now has access to the inside of the floor.

That call is coming from inside your cubicle!

After sucking my thumb and trying to wet my pants for the third time I realize that neither of these techniques have been very helpful. I decide to grab my kahunas (which are saturated at this point) and summon the courage to hunt down the last face I'm going to see before I die. There was a need for me to find the psychopathic killer molester pedophile with a fetish for nylon and look him right in the eye.

I rounded the corner and was immediately met by an intimidating physique. His clothes were dark and his shoes were black mirrored pools. He took a step into the straining light and I saw the true face of....Security. The dread replaced joy faster than the lighting had changed in our building. Naturally, I embraced him and cried.

In his best English he managed to reassure me with the words, "Your pants are wet." God bless you, Babukar something or other. It's hard to read your name tag with all this salt in my eyes and the shitty lighting, but either way, you know I've been through. After this encounter, I left the building tired from the ordeal but refreshed by the outcome. I had put my fears and deliverable to rest.

Upon entering the same building only six hours later the sounds of office life were frighteningly reassuring. The humming, buzzing, and firing had returned. Together they harmonically whistled a tune that let me know I share the burden of a paycheck with endless others.

I had made it through the night with my manhood intact. As long as Babukar keeps his mouth shut based on that C-note I gave him. If he doesn't, I swear to God I'll murder him while he's working the night shift.

I'm Mr. Blue

The majority of people who take the Princeton Review Career Quiz are recent college graduates whose entrance into the workforce is imminent. I have always been a late adopter so I decided to wait until the quiz was tweaked. Fourteen years after graduation, I felt that all the kinks had been worked out. Upon completion, the results already confirmed what I was feeling. I'm blue.

The quiz has a total of 24 questions. Each question provides two possibilities but only one answer can be chosen. Upon answering all the questions, you are assigned two colors. One is based on Interest and the other is Style. Mine was blue for both.

I guess we have been down in the dumps lately.

Initially this upset me. I'm not racist, but I think we can all agree that blue people are lazy as shit. Based on this sweeping generalization, I decided to look further into the test.

Here are some sample questions:

Question 1
a) I would rather be an auditor.
b) I would rather be a musician.

Question 2
a) I would rather be a clerical worker.
b) I would rather be a carpenter.

Question 3
a) I would rather be in Corporate America.
b) I would rather suck on a 12-gauge.

My Interest was blue:

Blue people like job responsibilities and occupations that involve creative, humanistic, and quiet types of activities. This is often due to being witness to a traumatic act in their formative years thereby stunting emotional growth. Blue people repressed this horrific experience and escaped by disengaging with the outside world to create their own. Their personal world extensively involved video games, comic books, and torturing handicapped animals.

Neato mosquito! Get 'em Green Lantern!

Blue interests include theorizing, masturbating, knitting, writing, and murder, which often lead to work in teaching, masturbating, knitting, mediating, murdering, and other activities ending in "ing".

My Style was also blue:

People with blue styles prefer to perform their job responsibilities in a manner that is supportive and helpful to others with a minimum of confrontation. This is due to their fear of once again being socially isolated from the outside world and forced to play Dungeons & Dragons in their parents basement.

My half-orc has darkvision. Or is it dorkvision?

They prefer to work where they have time to think things through and desperately need others to validate them. People with blue style tend to be insightful, reflective, masturbating masturbaters, selectively sociable, thoughtful, and imaginative. Usually they thrive in a cutting edge, informally paced, future-oriented environment where mistakes are not easily spotted.

Go on, take the test. Unless you are Blue. Then I'm sure you'll make up an excuse not to take it. Lazy ass.

http://www.princetonreview.com/cte/quiz/career_quiz1.asp

Dispensing Advice

I visit a nearby deli every day that makes the best chicken salad. However, I never take napkins from their dispenser because it is eerily similar to what one would find in a bathroom stall. As a matter of fact, I do my best not to look at it because the implications could be socially catastrophic.

There is a slight possibility through visual recognition that the mapping in my brain would trigger unacceptable muscle memory. Before you know it, I'm wiping my ass in the middle of the deli. I'm not sure where that kind of behavior is categorized on a performance improvement plan. And I don't want to find out.

"I'll take two. In case I'm barking out of both ends."

Mufasa, King of the Bagels

Mufasa is the alpha male marked with gorgeous colors in his Brooks Brothers tie. With quiet confidence, he adjourns the meeting in Conference Room A as lower ranking members of the pride throw furtive glances towards the bagels. They think wiser and slowly back away from the untouched tray. The room is now empty with dimmed lights. The bagels and an eery sound of the struggling A.C. unit are all that remain.

Lurking in the Accounting Department, Shenzi catches the scent of the assorted bagels and cream cheese. This could be a good kill for her. A potential free breakfast, and with proper stealth, a free lunch as well. Under the cover of her wool pickstitch pinstripe jacket she is able to blend in the shadows with her clan following closely. She hisses at them to move away, she will handle this on her own. Her clan reluctantly retreats back to their cubicles barking at each other in disgust.

I love me some garlic bagels.

Shenzi's eyes lock on the the bagels as they remain motionless, unable to fight off their impending doom. The corporate environment has not been rich with food due to recent cutbacks so Shenzi knows she must strike quickly. This opportunity may not present itself again, especially due to third quarter earnings. She reaches for the garlic bagel and begins smothering it with sun-dried tomato cream cheese. "This is too easy", she whispers aloud as her crushing bite pierces the bread.

Who's grabbing my grub!

The lights come alive in perfect synchronicity with Shenzi's first bite. Mufasa stands at the lightswitch with a dissapproving growl. He puffs out his chest to challenge her. The eternal enemies stare at each other. Shenzi knows the matchup is not in her favor. With haste, she grabs another bagel, lunges towards the exit, and immediately bumps into members of Mufasa's pride. In defeat, she drops the bagel on the conference room table and exits. She regrets having left her clan behind and will have much explaining to do at lunch (which she now has to pay for). Next time this confrontation happens, she'll be prepared.

Mufasa switches the lights off again and motions the pride away. He is the only one remaining. Another victory. He meticulously prepares three bagels while awaiting his next meeting. He knows the only way to get rid of Shenzi is to kill her. And there is more room for cutbacks in accounting. He peruses his BlackBerry and realizes his next meeting is with the head of accounting. The clan will be rudderless without their leader. He roars with laughter at this thought while gulping his bagels down whole.

Post Vacation Depression Disorder

I'm back from my 4th of July vacation and some of my predictions were correct. The Big Dog outlet store had the gravitational pull of Jupiter for white people over 300 pounds and the beaches were ridiculously crowded. One unexpected event was witnessing Guatemalapalooza when forty Latinos set up a compound next to me on the beach which included four tents, three tables, fifteen chairs, five blankets, and a partridge in a pear tree. You haven't lived until you've heard Gloria Gaynor's "I will survive" sung by a man en Espanol. And you know what, I had a great time because I wasn't at work.

Making the drive home today I began to suffer from Post Vacation Depression Disorder (PVDD). This disorder is often referred to as "F*ck, I have to go to work tomorrow" and affects a large majority of the American workforce.

Symptoms include:

• Heavy sighing
• Temptations to liquidate 401K
• Feelings of worthlessness
• Yelling "F*ck, I have to go to work tomorrow"
• Uncontrollable flatulence.

If you begin to experience any of these symptoms towards the end of your vacation and/or on Sunday evenings please begin looking for a new job immediately. This will not cure PVDD but it will surpress your symptoms for approximately six months. Never underestimate the power of denial and never underestimate your weakness to use it. Once you find a new job, the symptoms will resurface with a vengeance whereby you start over. Wash, rinse, repeat. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to post my resume.

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.

My dog is getting old

Every weekday I reluctantly crawl out of bed to participate in the morning commute. And whether it's 5am or 8am, my dog gets up with me. Ears perked, head bobbing, her paws scraping at my heels, trying to will me to the front door for her morning walk. Although lately things have changed. My dog is getting old and it sucks.

The signs are small but significant. She's been grabbing extra shuteye in the morning while I get dressed. She's added an extensive stretching routine to her morning repertoire that resembles canine Tai Chi. Her usual leap has been reduced to a hop and her brown muzzle is morphing into a distinguished silver. She is 11 years old, so if she was a dog, she'd be 11 years old, which she is.

I would use the same term to describe her that Robin Wright used to describe her husband, Sean Penn, "a loving nightmare". There are differences though. My dog was smart enough to turn down the role of Glendon Wasey in "Shanghai Surprise" and never shook paws with Saddam Hussein. Besides that, "loving nightmare" is a solid fit between the two.

The nightmare: needy, clingy, neurotic, barks in her sleep, freaks out when my shoes squeak on the fake wood floor, and is unpredictable around other dogs.

The loving: never barks when she's awake, hates cats, miraculously survived Parvo, bladder of a dehydrated camel, snarf-o-matic hog-a-tron on our kitchen floor, and is great with our toddler son.

She's not flirting with death just yet but seeing the first signs of age made me miss her before she is even gone. It's a sad observation with a silver lining. She's sitting beside me now, catching some zzz's. I think I'll wake her up and we'll go for a walk.

I'm scared, hold me.

My first chance to express myself online without having a cumbersome webcam and those uncomfortable assless chaps.

Upon encouragement from my friends and the voices inside my head I was inspired to showcase my lack of talent in the form of a blog. It feels good to join an elite club of millions whose journal entries, opinions, and insight are actually being read by people that are less motivated than I am. Whoever is reading this, I didn't mean you. Trust me, I was just on imdb.com for about an hour catching up on mindless movie trivia. OK, two hours. OK, it was porn. You happy?

I'm hoping to create some amusement for my audience with anectodal information about my happy, average life which will be served with a healthy portion of self-deprecation. More than two people can be considered an "audience", right?

Enjoy.