Fear Factor @Home

Things have been really weird for me for the last week. I mean really, really weird. I started with a weekend-long series of off-the-cuff-and-by-the-seat-of-my-pants system upgrades last weekend (for which I’d had two hours’ notice about doing), worked its way along with this, proceeded into my work week on Monday, and really blew up last night.

What?

Well, let me start out by saying that I used to be really afraid of birds. I admire the crow. I hate the pidgeon. I laugh at the parrot. But birds, in general, freak me out. I just don’t like things that fly and have the mindset to claw your eyeballs out. And in particular, I don’t like it when these things get trapped in your house.

Last night, I decided that after a long work day, I’d have a big salad — and french fries. I truly savored my big salad, french fries, and diet soda. But I wasn’t complete. I decided that having one almond-flavored biscuit would complete my repast. At the same time, I was upset since the cat kept jumping on the counter. I shoo’ed him away one last time, headed over to the cookie jar (it’s a tin, actually) and started to remove the lid.

“Funny”, I said to myself, “something is vibrating inside of the cookie jar.” Imagine my surprise when a sparrow came shooting out, taking the lid along with it. “SHIT!”, I yelled, ducking out of the way. The cat took chase and both creatures disappeared into the darkness of my house. The sparrow buzzed by my head. I went looking for my broom.

By the time that I found my broom, I couldn’t find the cat. Nor could I find the sparrow.

“Fuck it”, I said to myself. “I’m going upstairs to my bedroom. I’m going to close the door. I have a bathroom adjoining my bedroom. I have a television. I have a bed. I’m going to watch stupid Emeril Legasse until I fall asleep. Seeing the week that I just had, I decided that maybe I’d just daydreamed myself into believing that a sparrow was flying around my home downstairs.”

Now obviously, watching a sparrow hatch from my cookie jar begged some questions, like “how did the sparrow GET INTO THE COOKIE JAR IN THE FIRST PLACE?”, or “HOW LONG has the sparrow been in the cookie jar?”, or even “do you think that it was a bat or some other creature that I wouldn’t like to run into?” These questions were blowing my mind. I was already on overload. So, I curled up in bed, my head resting on the pillow. Emeril was having a Halloween episode. Soon, I slept. The phone rang. It was S.

Me: (in my sleepy state) Hello?
S: Hi Nate. It’s S.
Me: Hi.
(a number of vague points here)
S: So, wait, are you actually sleeping, and talking like you’re actually awake — like you wrote about in your blog?
Me: I think so.
S: OK, well, I played “Super Awesome” a few times, and it’s…
Me: Uh huh.
S: Are you sure that you’re awake?
Me: No.
S: Well, I should let you go, then.
Me: But there’s a bird…
S: Umm, I should definitely let you go. I was just checking in.

I think that was the conversation, at least.

This morning, I woke up at 6:30am. You see, since I wake up at 4:15am to get to work by 7-7:15am, I tend to sleep about 4-5 hours per night. This means that by Friday — which is generally my Work at Home day — I’ve slept about 16 hours for the week, so I’m exhausted. It’s probably the wrong way to go with having so little sleep, but there’s not much that I can do since I need a couple of hours to myself between my arrival at home at 7pm, and when I go to bed at 11pm or midnight.

In any case, I opened my bedroom door a crack, and peeked out. I didn’t see any sparrow. I crept downstairs. It was very sunny, and except for the cat meowing, there was no other noise. I didn’t see any sparrow.

“Huh”, I said to myself. “I really need to sleep more”.

I went downstairs and took the dog out. Then I came back upstairs and made coffee, which I drank while following my normal morning routine: switching back and forth between VH-1 and ESPN while drinking coffee. In fact, I drank my entire gigantic mug of coffee and watched my normal programs without seeing a sparrow. I even loaded the dishwasher, and was just about to add detergent and close the door — when the cat started running around again.

Sure enough, the sparrow soon flew by my head, with the cat jumping impressively over the counter top as well. “Okay, well, maybe I wasn’t dreaming”, I said to myself. I rolled my eyes.

But at the same time, I realized that the cat — despite his efforts — wasn’t going to catch the sparrow for me. I’d have to take care of this one. Fuck.

So, I went downstairs and had a cigarette.

In the end, I decided that I’d have to lock the cat downstairs, and keep the large, sliding glass door open so that the sparrow would have plenty of room to scurry itself outside. Executing this plan was a chore since I couldn’t get the cat to stop chasing the sparrow. And certainly, I didn’t want the sparrow to trap itself upstairs. This would’ve truly made the task an arduous one. Finally, I captured the cat and locked him downstairs. And then, I couldn’t find the sparrow anywhere.

“Okay, self, you know that you didn’t dream it THIS time”. So, I went room to room, broom in hand, hunting high and low for the sparrow. “He’s got to be somewhere”, I said to myself. “I have very few earthtones in this house.” Sure enough, when I jostled the fake plant with the broom, the sparrow shot itself out, narrowly missing my face. I ran to open the sliding glass door, and waited on the deck. No sparrow. I waited outside some more. No sparrow.

Sure enough, I went back inside, and the sparrow was attached to a small wallhanging that I had in my living room. I decided that the best approach would be to throw a bundle of coaxial cable in its direction, perhaps to dislodge it from the wallhanging and head in the direction of the light. Well, after I hit it squarely with the bundle of cable, it began to fly wildly around the kitchen, nearly trapping itself in my open dishwasher. I headed outside to stand on the deck, broom in hand.

I could hear the sparrow bouncing itself off the kitchen window. I peeked my head into the kitchen from the sliding door on the deck. Suddenly, the sparrow redirected itself, and shot past my Red Sox cap — flying quickly to a tree in my backyard. I jumped inside and slammed the door behind me.

I bid adieu to the sparrow, with two middle fingers pointed in its direction.

Bridgekeeper: What is your name?
Me: Nate
Bridgekeeper: What is your favorite color?
Me: Blue.
Bridgekeeper: What is your quest?
Me: To get this fucking sparrow out of my home.
Bridgekeeper: And what is the average windspeed of that sparrow?
Me: Pretty fast, when you swat at it with a broom a few times.

Lord Combover, Man of Misunderstandings

I think that I realized — finally — why I get really frustrated with work. It’s not the division of labor. It not the micromanagement. Hell, it’s not even the long hours. It’s the number of non-technical people who manage technical projects and resources.

The problem with these managers isn’t that they aren’t technically inclined. The problem is that they are reactionary, and through their own agendas misunderstand problems from flexibility in implementation. What happens, then, is that Lord Combover will hassle me about this project or that, and I’ll explain that there’s been a change in plans. He’ll then have a meeting with Firey-L who’ll chide me for the work not being done, and then I’ll end up in a conference call.

It happened again this morning, along with other problems. It turned out — funny that — that I was correct all along. It was really no big deal that I hadn’t completed the tasks, because the vendor (for whom I was completing the task) was trying to get a head start on work that they’d be doing next week. So, in essence, we ended up having a tiresome discussion about basically nothing. Was there a problem? No. Were we missing a deadline? No. Was there reason for consternation? No.

It’s almost like my company hires managers who react proactively. Like a state policemen, my company sets up a checkpoint, which brings traffic to a standstill. In the end, everyone is confirmed to be wearing their seatbelts, but nobody is willing to apologize for the delays.

Dismembers Only

I believe that “Tina Tina” and I might’ve found some common ground. If you haven’t been reading, “Tina Tina” is an eccentric gentleman with whom I work. Actually, I shouldn’t say “work”, as “Tina Tina” hasn’t actually done any. But we’re both employed by the same company, so I guess that you could call us co-workers. That aside, many of us agree that “Tina Tina” is the most likely employee who’d turn up at the office and shoot us all. It’s a pretty serious thing, actually, but since my company never seems to fire anyone, we try to take such things as physical harm in the workplace in stride. Our company surely does, too, as it would take a killing or maiming before it would fire “Tina Tina”.

As usual, I digress.

A few weeks ago, I noticed “Tina Tina’s” jacket that was hanging over the back of his chair. This was not just any jacket. It was a black, Members Only jacket. If you’re familiar with 1980’s “fashion”, you’ll remember the Members Only phenomenon. During this point in time, a significant portion of the male population — let’s call them “members” — acquired the same jacket. Well, that’s not quite fair. They acquired the same jacket in available gray, blue, charcoal, tan, burgundy, or black colors. Members Only jackets, then, were like the adult versions of something that you’d find in the Honey Comb Kids Gang.

After having seen the Members Only jacket, I understood my course of action. To stay safe in the workplace, I would not acquire impulse-buy items like kevlar vests and hats. I would buy myself a Members Only jacket, most likely in black.

And this one time… at Jiffy Lube…

My car, recently, had needed a decongestant in the worst of ways. It was simply being overworked, and it sounded awful. It needed a cup of soup and then bed. In the world of humans, such things are feasible. In the world of cars, there is Jiffy Lube.

Unfortunately, the people behind the automobile-lubrication-while-you-wait concept decided to make the process as eccentric as possible. In Nate’s World, you ask them for an oil change and they take care of your car. In the world of Jiffy Lube, there’s a cabal of Lubrication Pirates who pillage your car and your pocketbook until you’ve left with both oil and unnecessary purchases like air filters and windshield wipers. In the meantime, you’re left to sit in the waiting room.

Since I’m usually dilligent about getting my oil changed at 3-4,000 miles, I find that I visit places like Jiffy Lube more than I’d like. Today, however, was the exception.

They were running unusually slow today, as they were doing tire rotations for the guy in front of me. Tire rotations? At a lubrication place? As a consumer, I guess that it would be a stretch for me to have my tires rotated at a place that doesn’t actually sell tires, but whatever. While I sat in the waiting room, a cute, teenaged girl and her mother appeared. They were having a spirited conversation about this and that, and then a funny set of words invaded my ears.

“Blah blah blah Band camp blah blah”.

Band camp?

Sure enough, they were talking about band camp, and they were calling it band camp explicitly, too! Apparently, the teenaged girl was in band camp, and had previously been griping about various annoying things related to the color guard. It’s the color guard that gets you, I always say!

After some more eavesdropping, I noticed that she was selling raffle tickets, in (her) hopes that she could make enough money to take band camp to a competition in New York City. Wondering if she played the flute, I chimed in:

“Excuse me, but did I hear that you’ve been attending band camp?”, I asked.

“Why, yes!”, she responded. “Have you heard of band camp before?”

“Of course. Everybody has!”, I responded.

“Would you like to buy a raffle ticket?”, she asked.

“Okay”, I said, “but you’ll need to tell me what instu-…”

Suddenly, I was interrupted by the Lubrication Pirate. Apparently, after 30 minutes, the oil in my car had been changed. It required that I go to the shop floor to inspect it. I could only imagine that during the course of the oil change, they’d also replaced a few things like an air filter and the engine itself.

When I returned to the lobby, band camp and her Mom were gone. That was kind of a relief, actually. I don’t know how I would’ve reacted if the teenaged band camper had told me that she played a flute or woodwind.

One time… at Jiffy Lube… I sat there getting more bored by the second.

And another time… at Jiffy Lube… I met someone who’d attended band camp.

Couldn’t Script it Any Better

As noted, most of the stuff that I do at work these days is bullshit. It’s not so much that I mind doing nothing of any particular value (what the fuck, it’s a job, and all). It’s more the case that I despise being treated like crap while working under duress. jjohn says that he worries about me, given these simple facts of employment, facts of life. I reassure him, of course, that spending a couple of uninterrupted hours a week at home recording my quaint heavy metal songs is just enough to keep me from doing something irrational in the workplace.

Every once in awhile I get to pursue my hobbies, like not having someone thwap me over the head with a newspaper or writing some kind of program or script. Unfortunately, at work, acts like writing programs are seldom done on my own terms. Usually, like some kind of jingle-writer, I’m basically told to make a program function in a certain way, regardless of how little the requestor actually knows about programming. So, my works of programming are seemingly some form of starving art. Well, or something like that.

The thing that working in this environment baffles me the most has got to be the people who ask for help with writing a program, and after I write some sample lines of code — maybe even half the program itself — they’ll reply back with each and every revision that they’ve made to my original program. The problem? Their versions are seldom different than mine. I wrote the following program earlier, shortened for her displeasure here:

#!/usr/bin/perl -w

... some stuff here ...

foreach my $item (@result) {
    print "i have $item
";
    # now do something with item here.
}

An hour after writing this program for someone, I received the following email response, along with an attachment:

From: Chronic Anal Prober
To: Nate
Subject: your program

Nate:

I revised your program.  The results are below.  Please let me know what you think and how you can help.

#!/usr/bin/perl -w

... some stuff here ...

foreach my $item (@result) {
    print "i have $item
";
    # nate, what should i do here?
    print "help
";
}

Good, then.