Health Breakdown and The Magic Command

About three weeks ago, Work (actually, a certain manager to whom I’ve given the nickname “FMM”) declared that failure to prepare us correctly for the upcoming (computing infrastructure) audit would result in termination. First, she would be terminated. And then? We would be terminated.

If you’re unfamiliar, corporate audits are regular things that involve a completely irregular and nonsensical process. In short, you run a bunch of reports which contain a bunch of highlighted terms like “High Risk” or “Medium Risk”, or even “Low Risk”. You show these reports to your managers who then summarily freak out, and reiterate the bits about termination. Before the auditors ever arrive, you can clean these items up, to the extent that the reports won’t show you anything more than “Low Risk” items, or even less!

But between the reports with “High” and “Medium” risks and the threats of firings, FMM succeeded in making everyone on my team completely insane. She delegated my two teammates the responsibilities of following through with the “risk” items and “remedies”. And my role was to sit in on a meeting here and there and to offer a reality check — since I’d be solely responsible for finishing (starting, actually, then finishing) a large-scale computing project that was due in less than two weeks, and spanned across two data centers, 30 miles apart.

After sitting in one of of these meetings, I realized that I’d lost any last bit of respect that I had for FMM. Basically, she was subjecting both of my team members to reviewing — line by line — each and every item in every audit report. This meant 2 to 3-hour meetings, at one point taking place 3 to 4 times a week. In the meantime, I scurried between our data centers in Boston and Rockland, attempting to dodge the likes of Lord Combover.

In any case, the point at which I lost any remaining respect for FMM was when the following transpired during one of the audit review meetings:
FMM: So, for item B-23, what do you suggest, Nate?
Me: Well, we can do this or that.
FMM: Oookay…
Me: Or even this other thing.
FMM: Well, can’t you just run that command like you usually do?
Me: And what command would that be?
FMM: You know, the one you run to get that information.

Apparently, FMM is of the impression that I sit around all day and execute “magic commands” to make pretty output, and mitigate risks in our computing environment. Maybe I’ll even write a “magic command” someday. It’ll do everything, and maybe it’ll also reply to the 500 voicemail messages that I’ve never checked.

Totally pissyness aside, working these 80+ hour work weeks finally took its toll. As of yesterday, I came down with the flu. I’m usually not the sickly type. When I feel myself coming down with something, I sleep it off, and it’s gone within a day. This time around, I haven’t been so lucky. I’ve been under the weather since Friday, pretty much. Yesterday, it came back with a vengeance. Today, I worked from home — actually, I was sick — but the project needed to be finished. When I was done with the project deliverable, I stated in email that the long hours had taken their toll and that I’d be out tomorrow and the day after, and that I would be “offline” during this time.

I have to work again this weekend, after all.

The Footsteps

Today, I turned 32. Thing is, I realized that at 32, I really know less where I’m heading than when I was 28 — when I seemingly had a clue and loads of motivation and direction.

It’s not to say that I don’t have motivation now, but I’m in a state where I’m not clear if my career efforts, in particular, are really where I should be going. I’ve been with this firm just short of 2 years, and despite giving it my best effort, these days I’m always behind. And today? I made a mistake.

Now, I won’t blame the mistake on anyone else. It was my fault alone. The thing that gauls me about mistakes is two-fold: first, I’ve come to plan well so that I don’t make them. And second, mistakes seem to justify micromanagement, something that my firm is very good at. When I suggest that I need more autonomy, mistakes are remembered, not successfull all-nighters or other implementations that were correct on first try. It’s frustrating. Mistakes suck!

Right now, the scene that keeps playing through my head is one where you see a tow truck attempting to pull a car out of a quicksand. And then? The tow truck itself gets lodged in the quicksand. Does the tow truck save itself? Or does the tow truck try to free the car from its confinement while running the risk of sinking deeper itself?

Simultaneously, I keep having visions of a dark hallway and hearing footsteps. Somehow, I keep envisioning myself being terminated. While I could really use some time off, not working has its own set of disasterous consequences.

Right now, I will think me the way of the grasshopper, grasshopper. Paint fence.

Lord Combover & Shutting the Door on Serenity

In terms of work, there’s your world, there’s my world, and then there’s The World of Lord Combover. I can’t speak for your world, honestly, because I don’t know most of you. My world (at work) is predicated on a few things, the least of which include an intolerance of inefficiency, gameplaying, and other bullshit. Given these things, I either spend my time at work worrying that I’ll be fired, or spending my offtime fearing that I’ll be fired, since I’m not actually at work enduring these things.

Added to this mix of things that I have a hard time tolerating is “Lord Combover”: Man of a Million Questions. It appears that “Lord Combover” was retained by my company to be a project manager. At face value, this doesn’t necessarily seem like a bad thing. But when you look at it more closely, you realize that Lord Combover doesn’t really manage anything. He asks a lot of questions — corners you actually — then returns to his desk to modify his project plans in Microsoft Project 2000 (or whatever the product is). And he has meetings. And he has “core team” meetings. And he has meetings about who should be part of the core team. And he refuses to take “no” for an answer. We’ve had conversations like the following over the past few days.

He: Pat, I have a question for you.
Me: *ignoring him, since my name is not Pat.*
He: Pat?
Me: *continuing to ignore him*
He: Oh, I mean Nat.
Me: (close enough) Yes?
He: Do you have some time?
Me: Honestly? No. I have a million things to do, and I have to head out to our other site, and blah blah blah.
He: (starting to ask questions anyway)
Me: Listen, you asked me the same question yesterday, and the answer was the same. You asked me the same question the day before yesteray, and the answer was the same. You asked me the same question last Friday, and the answer was the same. You can keep asking me the same question, if you’d like, but the answer isn’t going to change until the network hardware arrives.
He: Oh, uhhh, that’s right. (asking same question again)
Me: (walking away)
He: Nat, but you didn’t answer my question…

So, I used to be safe from Lord Combover when I was at home. Today, however, that changed. One of my co-workers called me late in the afternoon during my nap, and shortly after I hanged up my cell phone, it rang again. It was Lord Combover. “Sweet Violation of Serenity”, I muttered to myself, “someone gave Lord Combover my cell phone number”. And then we proceeded to have this conversation.

He: Nat, can I ask you a question?
Me: Umm, okay.
He: Can you attend a meeting tomorrow at 10am?
Me: what’s the meeting for?
He: Can you attend?
Me: But what’s the meeting for?
He: Project-name-here. Can you attend?
Me: Okay.
He: So, you’re not going to be in today?
Me: No.
He: And tomorrow?
Me: No, I won’t be in.
He: *sigh* Well, when are you going to be in again?
Me: Wednesday morning.
He: Well, *sigh*, okay.
Me: Is it a problem that I won’t be in until Wednesday?
He: Well, we need to follow the project plan.
Me: Well, after working 6 and 7 days a week for the last 5 months, I needed to take a couple of days of comp time.
He: Okay. But you’ll be in on Wednesday?
Me: Yes.
He: Truthfully?
Me: Sure.
He: I can tell that you work your ass off.
Me: Okay. So, what does this mean?
He: That we need to follow the project plan.

Serenity now!

Double-G, the Daredevil

Something interesting always happens when S and Double-G come for a visit.

As I’ve mentioned before, Double-G is an extremely active young man. I’ve seen many active children (my mother used to be a school teacher, and often times taught second grade), but this youth is possibly the most active that I’ve ever seen. Not only does his little mouth keep emitting words and quips, his body refuses to stop moving. It’s almost like it fears that stillness will lead to instant atrophy, so it refuses to stop at all.

Yesterday was no exception. S and I rented Double-G a couple of video games, and earlier I’d bought him some juice boxes and goldfish crackers. I thought that we’d covered all of the bases. Apparently not.

After a few hours, Double-G tired of the video games and — while claiming that we were feeding him like a refugee in Bangladesh — food treats. So, S said that she’d run out and buy him a treat, some ice cream. During that point in time (probably over a duration of 30 minutes), I observed the following:

First, Double-G liked to chatter, chatter, chatter. He was speaking very fast. He’d say a few things, then pet the cat, then hurl himself against the couch while making karate sounds (you know, the whoosing sounds of garments and punches like you’d hear in a kung-fu movie?), punching himself in the face, then faking fainting/death, and then he’d repeat the above.

Given that Double-G is not my child, and even though he is a guest in my home, I do not feel that it is my place to correct him. He’s not being malicious, and nothing has gotten broken. We’ve had some spillage of soda and juice, but it’s not a big deal. And, as I’ve learned with children (actually, I know basically nothing about the mental workings of children, so take this lightly at best), to observe bad behavior — or to correct it — acknowledges that you’re in some way buying into the bad behavior. Like some kind of modern day dot-com investor, I’m not wont to buy in so quickly, so I observed Double-G in all of his glory.

And I came to the following conclusion: it’s not so much that he’s looking for attention. In fact, I completely paid him no attention during the behaviors I’d noted above, and he continued with his one-man kung-fu method acting. He just has an extreme amount of energy.

Actually, now that I think about it, I acted almost entirely like my own father when it came to dealing with children who were acting, well, like children gone wild. He’d sit there in his recliner or on the couch. He wouldn’t say a heck of a lot. My mother, meanwhile, would be freaking out. But my father would just sit there, looking exhausted, not saying a word. Eventually? The wild behavior would just stop. Or, one of a few profound things would happen.

1. Something would get broken. This didn’t happen often. But when it did, spankings would be given, and THEN we’d be told that we were to speak with our mother. This was instant justice. Nobody in my family wanted to feel the wrath of Mom. Nobody.

2. My father would relent and decide to let the children act wildly until the children — realizing that they weren’t getting any attention at all — would tire themselves out and go away.

3. My father would get to the heart of the issue by having a conversation like the following with us…

Dad: Nathan?
Me: Yes?
Dad: I noticed that you’re running around here.
Me: Yes.
Dad: Why is that?
Me: (starting to run around again) Wheee!
Dad: Nathan, have you finished all of your school work?

Knowing me, I hadn’t finished all of my school work. I would almost certainly stop running around like a maniac and attempt to leave the room abruptly.

Dad: Well, have you?
Me: Yes.
Dad: Can you bring it to me for an inspection?
Me: OK.

Naturally, the work was left undone. In fact, it probably hadn’t been done at all, so by the time I finished it, it was time for bed. i tried this approach with Double-G last night.

Double-G: So, how old is your cat?
Me: 7 years, maybe 8.
Double-G: And how old is your dog?
Me: 3 and a half years.
Double-G: How old is your cat, really?
Me: Well, for each year a human has, a cat has 7 or 8.
Double-G: And for the dog?
Me: It’s about the same.
Double-G: And that would make the dog older, then?
Me: No. Think about it. The dog is 4 and the cat is 7, at least.
Double-G. Oh. So, the dog is older, then?
Me: No. Let’s thing about it again.
Double-G: Oh, I think I understand it.

I was pleased. It gave Double-G pause. He was intrigued by the mathematics of pet age. My father’s technique was excellent, and always worked. My father was a jedi. He spoke softly and carried a light saber. I smiled.

Then, Double-G looked at me, made “karate fists” in my direction, and started launching himself against the couch again.

Or not.

You’re Welcome, and Vaseline Next Time.

A few months ago, work initiated what I’ve deemed a “Gracias Policy”. That is, if you spend lots of extra hours working (long days, off hours, weekends, holidays, etc), you’ll get a “Thank You” note from someone in management. The note goes something like this:

Team,

Thank you for dedicating your time and energy to making sure that we uphold service excellence.

– the management

Or even:

Team,

Thank you for dedicating your energy and time to making sure that we uphold service excellence.

– the management.

Last week? I worked nearly 100 hours. This week? I worked close to 70. This summer, all told, I had 6 days off; and yeah, that includes weekends, of which I’ve had basically none. Even though I’m happy to be employed, I guess that I have a hard time buying into a “Thank You” policy that doesn’t involve anything more tangible than one-line electronic mail messages.

Dear Management,

Thank you for reminding me of the importance of service excellence. I will continue to keep in tune with the needs of the customer, and will tirelessly aim at keeping our dashboard green.

My only request is that the next time you have your way with me this vigorously, you use a lubricant first.

– the employee

Plan B and Fanning the Flames

I’ve been at this job for 23 months now. Next month, it’ll be 2 years. For the last year, things have been exceptionally busy. Last week, I worked nearly 100 hours. I averaged 3 hours of sleep per night. And things don’t seem to be easing up.

My job, like that global killer in “Armageddon”, seems to be followed by a trail of debris. That is, you can maybe drill into the core of things if you make it through the space junk that precedes it. Like a movie that features Ben Affleck, I approach every workday in the same way: same start, same end, same face, with varying degrees of surlyness.

Currently, we have about 3 implementations that are to be done at the same time. And with Lord Combover, Man of a Million Questions, and FemulletManager, they simply refuse to allow any simple task to remain simple. Just today? 6 different people asked me for a status of the project that I’ve been working on. Thing is? Only 2 of them were managers!

Oh, and did I mention that Lord Combover, Man of a Million Questions, seems to hold two job responsibilities: spreadsheets and holding meetings.

On Reverb and Pants

Since late winter of 2002, I put myself on a diet. The result was that I lost nearly 70 pounds. I ended up returning to close to 200 pounds, which is the weight that I’d carried for many years before I lost control of my food intake. My stomach ailment suddenly disappeared, and my back feels much better.

The only thing that sucks, even if slightly, is that all of my pants are way too big. Since I just checked, and I’m not David Byrne, there’s probably no reason to wear a pair of pants that’s about two times too big. In other words? I need to buy new pants.

Thing is, I don’t like shopping for clothes. I’d prefer to spend money on something else. For instance, I’ve finished tracking 4 or 5 songs for the Jarvik-11 album, but many of these songs are undone because I can’t find the right reverb sound for the snare drum or to add a little extra “breath” to my ambient drums. For this purpose, I’d like to get nice effects processor, like a Lexicon. I’ve used bad effects processors, and they’re just that: bad. The Lexicon? Sweet. Like all good things, they’re not cheap.

So, when you see a tall, Indian-looking guy walking down the street with a black-colored piece of electronics strapped around his waist? That would be me.

Tina Tina Bang Bang

I’m afraid to come to work anymore. As of today, I believe that it’s confirmed… “Tina? Tina!” is going to bring a gun to work and shoot us all. Not only has he been talking to himself more than ever, but you could AUDIBLY hear his wife screaming in his ear over the phone.

Between “Tina? Tina!” and Lord Comb-Over, Man of a Million Repeated Questions, I’m completely trapped.

So I guess that the question that I have to ponder is this: if you buy a gun and shoot someone to prevent them from doing the same to you, is your murder considered premeditated or proactive?

Frankie Say Belax

Those of you who know me in real life know that I’m not one to wake up early. For years, my habit was to wake up at 8am and saunter in to work by 10am. I’d stay at work until 7pm or so. Recession, mortgage payments, terror alert levels, non-existent market for good-paying technical jobs, and ever-growing feelings of guilt lead me to start coming into the office early. As of the second week of July 2003 — the same week that both of the SAs in my team became fathers (to the day, no less!) — I started arriving at the office by 7am. Of course, for many days I also left the office at 7pm, which was an unexpected and dire side effect of arriving early and flying solo at the same time. But whatever. Once I started this cycle of early arrivals, my body acted in kind. Now, on a daily basis, my body decides that it must empty the bladder — at 4am — each and every day. The result? I just decide to wake up, take the dog out, have a gigantic mug of coffee, then get ready for work and commute. Fine.

The problem? First, I’ve been working 7 days a week, or close to it. I don’t get days off per se. So, by Monday afternoon, I’m beat. I’m totally spent. I’d taken to falling asleep in my recliner, but then I realized that sleeping in such a position just doesn’t work. So, I head up to bed and crash for two hours. Thing is that I’ve been pretty busy recently, so my brain keeps functioning (or sort of) even when I sleep. Often times during my Monday afternoon naps, I dream of work and technology-related things. Yesterday? Well, it was different. I’m landing details of the dream here.

As some of you know, I’ve been recording an album at home. I’ve been working on this content for a couple of years, and have been actively tracking and mixing whenever I get the chance. Chances to do this as of late have been scant at best. But somehow, my brain decided to take things to the never-ext level yesterday during my nap. Basically, it designed a scenario where I’d been given a recording contract and was recording at a “top shelf” studio. Unfortunately for me, I had to spend my time in New York City, a place that I really don’t care for. Even worse, the record label who’d given me hundreds of thousands of dollars in advances to cover recording time and expenses, also insisted that I made my own living arrangements. They specifically conspired — along with the RIAA — to have me not stay in hotels. So, any hotel in NYC would deny me room rental. It was kind of bogus. Since I didn’t know anyone in NYC, I’d basically meet up with people in diners and on the subway and ask them if I could bunk with them for the night. It came to pass that I spent the night in an apartment that was about 50 feet away from the “Cross Bronx Expressway”. My host’s name was “Meaty Buck”, and he enjoyed to watch me while I slept on his couch. “Meaty Buck”, from what I recall, didn’t like to sleep in his bed, but slept standing up. And since I was breaking his routine of sleeping while standing up, our “agreement” was that he’d let me stay in his apartment for free if he could watch the sun hit my face in the morning. He agreed that there was a “no touch” policy. After spending 18 hours a day in the studio, I’d forget that “Meaty Buck” was watching me while I slept. I’d wake up the next morning, and he’d just be looking at me. I was no big deal. And better? Rent was free.

One specific morning, after I’d been staying with him for about 5 days, I awoke with a start to find “Meaty Buck” wearing a too-tight white t-shirt with black lettering that read: FRANKIE SAY BELAX. The hair on his back was peeking through a hole near the collar. We had the following conversation, for reasons that I cannot understand.

Me: Ummm, what does your shirt say?
Buck: Frankie Say Belax.
Me: Bee-lax? Or Beh-lax?
Buck: Beh-lax.
Me: But isn’t it supposed to be “Relax”?
Buck: No.
Me: Are you sure?
Buck: Yes.
Me: Where’d you get that shirt from?
Buck: This vendor over in the market.
Me: Oh.
Buck: I thought that you were a musician?
Me: I am.
Buck: And you never heard of Frankie Goes to Hollywood?
Me: Of course.
Buck: Then, you of all people should know the history of Frankie, gay bathhouses, the making of the album, and Holly Johnson.
Me: Oh, we all know about that gay cultural piece, sure. It’s pretty obvious, you know?
Buck: So, how come you don’t know the lyrics, then?
Me: It’s “Relax”, I’m sure of it.
Buck: No, it’s not.

“Meaty Buck” and I argued back and forth for nearly an hour about this, at which time, he lost patience, grabbed me by the shirt, and pushed me out of his apartment… my suitcase following me. After straightening my shirt, I picked up my suitcase and descended a dozen set of staircases until I hit the street. From open window of the apartment, I heard a slamming bassline, and “Meaty Buck” was in the window singing along in his NYC accent:

“Beh-lax … don’t do it … when you wanna c…”

In the background, I could hear the recording. It clearly said, “Relax”. I almost yelled something back up to “Meaty Buck”. But then I remembered that I was in the Bronx.

Banjo Center of the Universe

One of the worst things that I encounter on the face of this earth has got to be musical equipment stores. Now, this is not to say that I think musical equipment stores are bad in general. It’s just that the “chain” ones with the mid-level consumer gear are the ones that seem to be the most vile.

Awhile back, I promised S that I’d get a guitar for Double-G, seeing the liking that he’d taken to playing my electric guitar (with “Black Sabbath Sound” set to 11, of course!). I’m really hoping that he takes to it, if not now, when he’s a teenager and he’s looking for something better to do than, well, being a teenager.

But to get there, of course, I had to select a suitable electric guitar “starter kit” for Double-G. Unfortunately for us in New England, we have two options: Daddy’s Junky Music and Guitar Center. Both of these options, I believe, truly suck. Daddy’s Junky Music couldn’t be a shiftier — and shittier — place to buy music gear. It’s probably a front for the mob or some kind of drug cartel. The people who work there, by and large, are mean and cynical jerk-offs. In comparison to Daddy’s, Guitar Center is Heaven on Earth. The problem, then? You realize that Guitar Center only appears to be Heaven on Earth.

For this purpose, I’ve made a list of 10 reasons why Guitar Center sucks big balls.

1. It’s not called Banjo Center for nothing.
2. I don’t like to be called “Cochese” by anyone, let alone a subhuman clerk at Banjo Center. Got that, Cochese?
3. Nowhere else on earth do you pony up $700 for a purchase (in a sagging economy, no less!) and they make you wait nearly 45 minutes to complete the transaction. It should be simple; I want this keyboard. I have a credit card with an ample balance. You have access to the cash register. Ring it out. Nooo, not that easy at Banjo Center.
4. It’s hard to tell between the clerks and the clientele.
5. I don’t care for clerks who tell me that a district manager says that they can only float me a $50 discount on a demo unit, when in fact the district manager doesn’t actually seem to exist, since they were never able to appear when I asked to speak with them.
6. Nowhere else will you be told to trade your gear at Daddy’s Junky Music to get a better dollar value then be requested to return to Banjo Center to spend the money that you’ve earned from the sale. Yes, that’s smart business. Fuck the customer, then ask them to spend money with you again? Don’t think so.
7. At no other store have I ever seen four levels of managers needing to punch in key codes so that I can complete a simple purchase. Four people typing in keys? FOUR. It boggles the mind. During the whole process, I kept thinking of that scene from “War Games” when the missile commander refused to push the button. At least after enduring all of this keypunching, they might’ve had the decency to detonate something. But nooooo!
8. I believe that Banjo Center has hired people to call their phone number incessantly. The phone couldn’t have rung less than 400 times while I was standing there trying to pay money to the Grand Poobah of Banjo Center.
9. They employ one person who also calls you “Man” or says something like, “Wow, you got a REAL SWEET DEAL, man!” before they stamp your receipt when you’re leaving with your purchases.
10. When I enquired about recording solutions for Mac OS X, I was told that Banjo Center would “love a cut of the action”. Action? Action?! How much action could there be in my home studio? I didn’t have the heart to tell them that aside from a guitar and bass and drum machine, there’s basically no steak.