... and still counting, as last Friday's free lunch—the Jimmy John's platter that was an insult when new—continues decomposing in the office fridge. By Wednesday, I couldn't decide if my group treasured it that much, if they feared disposing of it would insult the higher-ups, or if they were saving it to hold a one-week anniversary this Friday.
Meanwhile, I am discovering the lack of amenities in this huge, shiny complex—where I can't find so much as a US Postal Service box. For all the number of staffed security desks at entrances to various buildings, no one knows the answer to such questions. Nor do they care: the denizens are cocooned in their vehicles, and blessed with the close, ample parking they all rave about. For me, commuting a distance that's ten minutes in a vehicle has added more than an hour and a half's extra time each day, most of it long waits at the end of the day. The only reliable service then is the transit company's favored line, Out of Service... That bus breezes by nightly, at precisely the time my bus is scheduled. Meanwhile, I wait in sub-zero temperatures, watching for an arrival that is always fifteen or twenty minutes late.
By Thursday morning, the nearly week-old Jimmy John's finally was gone.
As has Morning Huddle vanished. I'm only hoping it will stay that way. People are more dispersed in the new space, and even my stolid group of suck-ups had been rolling their eyes at day after day of recycled text, dumb trivia quizzes, and general daily padding.
Originally, it was adopted to please the department's administrator (and bestower of Jimmy John's). If he can't see us in our Siberia, he can't know whether or not we huddle, is my fervent hope.
2.23.2015
Clark Terry, 1920-2015
Trumpet great and irrepressible spirit Clark Terry died Saturday, at 94. Having grown up poor in 1920s St. Louis, he liked telling of his earliest attempts at making music—
From Italian TV in 1958, members of the Ellington band's trumpet section perform "El Gato." (Left to right: Shorty Baker, Clark Terry, Cat Anderson, Ray Nance)—
London, 1967—
Leading a quintet in 2000—
Along with so many accomplishments as sideman and leader, Terry created a long-running sub-genre: the scat singing of his alter ego, "Mumbles."
Here he is in 1965, with the Oscar Peterson trio—
Scatting and mumbling, with Aretha and friends in 2001—
Like Dizzy Gillespie and Ray Nance, Terry found it natural to combine the highest levels of musicianship with entertaining showmanship. The humor of the Mumbles-Aretha dialog even seems to harken back to black vaudeville. It reminds me (a bit) of the "indefinite talk" routines credited to Mantan Moreland. Other comedians (including Moreland's one-time partner, Flournoy Miller) would perform it; Moreland was perhaps its originator, and certainly its brilliant master.
Not to digress too much, but—the Encyclopedia of Harlem Renaissance (K-Y) entry above suggests (on page 813) that after hundreds of low-budget films, radio work, and an occasional A-picture, Moreland "apparently ... was even considered as a replacement for Shemp Howard in the Three Stooges comedy team."
To think: what might have been... Certainly, an African-American Stooge would been used to set up the crude punchlines of the time. Yet there also could have been rich slapstick opportunities; it's easy to picture the diminutive Moreland dodging Stooge fights and emerging triumphant, as other heads knocked together.
But back to a different legacy: Clark Terry's frequent musical channeling of this sort of comic tradition. It's captured well in this version of "Never"—
"I coiled up an old garden hose into the shape of a trumpet ... and bound it in three places with wire to make it look like it had valves. ... And for the bell on the other end, I found a not-too-rusty kerosene funnel."He played his first instrument after neighbors chipped in to buy him a pawnshop trumpet. From those beginnings, Terry went on to nearly seven decades as performer and music educator.
From Italian TV in 1958, members of the Ellington band's trumpet section perform "El Gato." (Left to right: Shorty Baker, Clark Terry, Cat Anderson, Ray Nance)—
London, 1967—
Leading a quintet in 2000—
Along with so many accomplishments as sideman and leader, Terry created a long-running sub-genre: the scat singing of his alter ego, "Mumbles."
Here he is in 1965, with the Oscar Peterson trio—
Scatting and mumbling, with Aretha and friends in 2001—
Like Dizzy Gillespie and Ray Nance, Terry found it natural to combine the highest levels of musicianship with entertaining showmanship. The humor of the Mumbles-Aretha dialog even seems to harken back to black vaudeville. It reminds me (a bit) of the "indefinite talk" routines credited to Mantan Moreland. Other comedians (including Moreland's one-time partner, Flournoy Miller) would perform it; Moreland was perhaps its originator, and certainly its brilliant master.
Not to digress too much, but—the Encyclopedia of Harlem Renaissance (K-Y) entry above suggests (on page 813) that after hundreds of low-budget films, radio work, and an occasional A-picture, Moreland "apparently ... was even considered as a replacement for Shemp Howard in the Three Stooges comedy team."
To think: what might have been... Certainly, an African-American Stooge would been used to set up the crude punchlines of the time. Yet there also could have been rich slapstick opportunities; it's easy to picture the diminutive Moreland dodging Stooge fights and emerging triumphant, as other heads knocked together.
But back to a different legacy: Clark Terry's frequent musical channeling of this sort of comic tradition. It's captured well in this version of "Never"—
2.20.2015
Keep Your Damn Social Democracy To Yourself
The day began with this.
"What was a longshoreman?" ... A verb tense chosen to set the tone of future NPR queries? It may not be long before "What was a union?"; "...a worker?"
Longshoremen are past tense, yet we are told they are powerful. Both are according to Renee Montagne, who also clues us in: they are on the West Coast, so are not the same corrupt East Coast longshoremen we know from "On the Waterfront."
Just a couple of things are off. "On the Waterfront" was fiction, a movie made in 1954 by a director eager to please red hunters. And beyond ominous remarks about a "powerful union," Montagne's piece was free the slightest mention of work conditions, corporate behavior, or any actual issues in the dock shutdowns.
Mercifully, this setup skipped a recent shtick NPR indulges in: introducing "history" by with feature film audio. Or maybe the omission showed some journalistic lines are not to be crossed—after all, "On the Waterfront" was set on the wrong coast.
In any case, the "history" here was superficial background to Montaigne's storyline that dockworkers and their outmoded "union" cost the economy millions a day, and just need to get with it—
Even if there were challengers in online comments, it was Mission Accomplished: NPR reached its target audience of white-collars who have had any conception of workplace democracy educated out of them.
On to the first fully equipped day at my new locale. Buildings in this complex are sparkly glass boxes, full of high design furniture. It's like walking into Scandinavia—just without the social democracy and benefits.
A jam-packed day's festivities began with an early call to assemble, now that two units once separated by several city blocks have been combined into one happy family. Without booking a facility conference room, the only likely space to meet is such that everyone stands in a couple of converging aisles; the awkwardness of this did suit the makeup of the new happy family.
The newly added group's boss, Simone Legree, was ready with a spiel she was eager to get out. To wit: her staff have "strict productivity goals" daily, with ten people to do $7 million annual hospital billing. Staff are allowed two 15-minute breaks and a half hour lunch; they have to account for any other time spent, whereby they haven't met the daily goal. "Don't talk to my people" was her point, which she was in a hurry to make known and publicly rationalized.
Well, the only member of Simone's staff I'm likely to speak to is A. Friend, and I already knew to avoid her desk. A. has been harassed ever since falling into Simone's clutches, several years ago. A. and I are about the same age, but the median age in the unit is 30-ish. Simone's behavior can only come from sheer bias against A.'s age and her dressing plainly (most of the others wear heels and the height of mall fashion). Simone is no younger than A. or me, and in the looks department, she has a particularly pinched and unpleasant face. So for years she's tried to drive out the oldster, the better to surround herself with younger, dressed-to-the-nines women; presumably, their allure is supposed to rub off on her.
In the two days I've been around this group, it's no secret there are favorites. A. tells me she is "written up" if she's seen reading an e-mail from a family member. On the other hand, it's fine that the plastic-looking blonde across the aisle from me takes frequent face and hair touch-up breaks. Blondie also has TV windows open throughout the day.
Our end of the room has windows, which prompts Blondie's announcing to all who pass her desk: "I'm getting plants." Said as if it's an astoundingly brilliant thought, yet in a particular kind of bland tone. It strikes me as sort of a mid-West suburban Queen of England manner, of knowing she can count on people to fall over themselves admiring her least raise of a pinky. Though I may well be over-thinking this: it could be just that the botox keeps her face from moving.
The morning meeting's other main order of bullshit was from the overall manager: "Just because we've moved over here, doesn't mean the dress code has been relaxed. And no matter what you might see other people in the building wear, there are no sneakers." The department has always been thoroughly pretentious about controlling garb for office staff—almost inevitably women, and easily intimidated—and the administrators have no such sway over faculty, lab or IT staff. The real meaning, of course: "just because the bigwigs exiled you out of their sight, don't you peons think you can relax."
A. Friend, who's been unable to wear anything but sneakers, had to speak up here, "Do I need a doctor's note for my plantar fascitis?"
"Yes," said an annoyed manager.
From my side of the work group, She Who Is With Child is always on the lookout for any chance to broadcast the fact—as well as looking for any possible work bandwagon to join. So she jumped in, "Do I need a note if I'm pregnant and my feet are swelling?"
"We'll talk about it later."
Yes, they are hypocrites who play favorites. Their dress code is so meaningful, yet wearing jeans on Fridays is encouraged when the wearers cough up $1 for department fundraising. As the shindig wound down—and for all the "strict productivity goals" determining her staff's use of time—Simone began gushing about how great it is to meet, and that "once we're caught up from the move, I think we should get back to Morning Huddles: they're so useful"
That's a nutshell of my workplace, in all its varieties of sucking, and, sucking up.
Soon after the meeting broke up came a news flash: lunch will be delivered at noon by the department administrator. Huzzah: there was the usual office excitement over free food—which turned out to be platters of craptacular Jimmy John's subs.
It was easy for me to hold out for lunching later on something more palatable. I tried to make myself inconspicuous about the non-eating by talking to A. Friend and sticking to that spot. Until the administrator headed toward us...
Unlike the previous old goat, this guy has an affable manner, and a "Hi, how are you?" for everyone. Along with remarking on the weather, that's as much conversation as I'd ever had with him, though our paths often crossed in the other facility. Now, what he opens with is, "I hear you lost your walk"... I don't know if he'd previously overheard me talking about the office move, or what prompted this.
Whichever, his remark was in a tone not far from "Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah,!" Later, A. agreed that it was extremely weird for him to pounce on me and bring up that subject, and that his tone was pointed.
But while the administrator was in my face, I just said, "Oh well, I guess that would have changed soon, because I have to find another place to live since the stealth sale of the building I've lived in for eight years..." What the hell; I was so pissed off, I blandly brought up the other hostile real estate takeover ruining the year for me. Anyway, he began making sympathetic noises about home moves.
Soon after the administrator had pounced, the department chairman arrived—to be pounced upon himself, by Simone Legree. She began to schmooze mightily with the Great Man; from the corner of my eye, he sure seemed to be looking for an out.
Well, I had one: retreating to my desk, even if the office space was filled with the sounds of Simone's yakking and the GM's humoring her. It went on for some minutes, until I heard, "Oh! You haven't met my staff"; a beeline was then made for the desk of Blondie.
In the course of this venting, I do prefer being vague about where I work. But here I have to say that it is a medical department, which I'll call the Department of Mmm-mmm-ology. The new broom who swept me out of the old location is Doctor Broom, Chairman of the Department of Mmm-Mmmology.
Upon being introduced to him, Blondie said, "Oh, are you a mmm-mmmologist?
My desk is positioned for a perfect view of the good doctor, who was taken aback for the merest fraction of a second. No doubt concluding that you can't expect much from the help, he quickly replied, "Yes, and a practicing one..." He went on to make some shop talk, which I barely follow (and don't expect Blondie does at all).
After the Great Man had finally left the building, Simone came rushing back to Blondie and laughing, "I can't believe you said that to him!"
"Well, things are new to me—I'm trying to learn them."
"Oh, he's just so personable—that's it coming out!"
After more raving about the GM, Simone proceeded to bring her sub-lieutenants to Blondie's desk. It was an actual procession, as one by one they were led over, while Simone guffawed, "I can't believe she said that!... He took it so well!..."
This throughout the afternoon, as Blondie defended herself:
"What was a longshoreman?" ... A verb tense chosen to set the tone of future NPR queries? It may not be long before "What was a union?"; "...a worker?"
Longshoremen are past tense, yet we are told they are powerful. Both are according to Renee Montagne, who also clues us in: they are on the West Coast, so are not the same corrupt East Coast longshoremen we know from "On the Waterfront."
Just a couple of things are off. "On the Waterfront" was fiction, a movie made in 1954 by a director eager to please red hunters. And beyond ominous remarks about a "powerful union," Montagne's piece was free the slightest mention of work conditions, corporate behavior, or any actual issues in the dock shutdowns.
Mercifully, this setup skipped a recent shtick NPR indulges in: introducing "history" by with feature film audio. Or maybe the omission showed some journalistic lines are not to be crossed—after all, "On the Waterfront" was set on the wrong coast.
In any case, the "history" here was superficial background to Montaigne's storyline that dockworkers and their outmoded "union" cost the economy millions a day, and just need to get with it—
MONTAGNE: Well, other unions have realized in this last - certainly this last decade that they needed to give up certain benefits to survive. Have the longshoremen gotten to this point?Even if some comments to NPR's site challenged the narrative, it was already Mission Accomplished, when the broadcast reached its target audience: white-collars who've had any conception of workplace democracy educated out of them.
Even if there were challengers in online comments, it was Mission Accomplished: NPR reached its target audience of white-collars who have had any conception of workplace democracy educated out of them.
On to the first fully equipped day at my new locale. Buildings in this complex are sparkly glass boxes, full of high design furniture. It's like walking into Scandinavia—just without the social democracy and benefits.
A jam-packed day's festivities began with an early call to assemble, now that two units once separated by several city blocks have been combined into one happy family. Without booking a facility conference room, the only likely space to meet is such that everyone stands in a couple of converging aisles; the awkwardness of this did suit the makeup of the new happy family.
The newly added group's boss, Simone Legree, was ready with a spiel she was eager to get out. To wit: her staff have "strict productivity goals" daily, with ten people to do $7 million annual hospital billing. Staff are allowed two 15-minute breaks and a half hour lunch; they have to account for any other time spent, whereby they haven't met the daily goal. "Don't talk to my people" was her point, which she was in a hurry to make known and publicly rationalized.
Well, the only member of Simone's staff I'm likely to speak to is A. Friend, and I already knew to avoid her desk. A. has been harassed ever since falling into Simone's clutches, several years ago. A. and I are about the same age, but the median age in the unit is 30-ish. Simone's behavior can only come from sheer bias against A.'s age and her dressing plainly (most of the others wear heels and the height of mall fashion). Simone is no younger than A. or me, and in the looks department, she has a particularly pinched and unpleasant face. So for years she's tried to drive out the oldster, the better to surround herself with younger, dressed-to-the-nines women; presumably, their allure is supposed to rub off on her.
In the two days I've been around this group, it's no secret there are favorites. A. tells me she is "written up" if she's seen reading an e-mail from a family member. On the other hand, it's fine that the plastic-looking blonde across the aisle from me takes frequent face and hair touch-up breaks. Blondie also has TV windows open throughout the day.
Our end of the room has windows, which prompts Blondie's announcing to all who pass her desk: "I'm getting plants." Said as if it's an astoundingly brilliant thought, yet in a particular kind of bland tone. It strikes me as sort of a mid-West suburban Queen of England manner, of knowing she can count on people to fall over themselves admiring her least raise of a pinky. Though I may well be over-thinking this: it could be just that the botox keeps her face from moving.
The morning meeting's other main order of bullshit was from the overall manager: "Just because we've moved over here, doesn't mean the dress code has been relaxed. And no matter what you might see other people in the building wear, there are no sneakers." The department has always been thoroughly pretentious about controlling garb for office staff—almost inevitably women, and easily intimidated—and the administrators have no such sway over faculty, lab or IT staff. The real meaning, of course: "just because the bigwigs exiled you out of their sight, don't you peons think you can relax."
A. Friend, who's been unable to wear anything but sneakers, had to speak up here, "Do I need a doctor's note for my plantar fascitis?"
"Yes," said an annoyed manager.
From my side of the work group, She Who Is With Child is always on the lookout for any chance to broadcast the fact—as well as looking for any possible work bandwagon to join. So she jumped in, "Do I need a note if I'm pregnant and my feet are swelling?"
"We'll talk about it later."
Yes, they are hypocrites who play favorites. Their dress code is so meaningful, yet wearing jeans on Fridays is encouraged when the wearers cough up $1 for department fundraising. As the shindig wound down—and for all the "strict productivity goals" determining her staff's use of time—Simone began gushing about how great it is to meet, and that "once we're caught up from the move, I think we should get back to Morning Huddles: they're so useful"
That's a nutshell of my workplace, in all its varieties of sucking, and, sucking up.
Soon after the meeting broke up came a news flash: lunch will be delivered at noon by the department administrator. Huzzah: there was the usual office excitement over free food—which turned out to be platters of craptacular Jimmy John's subs.
It was easy for me to hold out for lunching later on something more palatable. I tried to make myself inconspicuous about the non-eating by talking to A. Friend and sticking to that spot. Until the administrator headed toward us...
Unlike the previous old goat, this guy has an affable manner, and a "Hi, how are you?" for everyone. Along with remarking on the weather, that's as much conversation as I'd ever had with him, though our paths often crossed in the other facility. Now, what he opens with is, "I hear you lost your walk"... I don't know if he'd previously overheard me talking about the office move, or what prompted this.
Whichever, his remark was in a tone not far from "Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah,!" Later, A. agreed that it was extremely weird for him to pounce on me and bring up that subject, and that his tone was pointed.
But while the administrator was in my face, I just said, "Oh well, I guess that would have changed soon, because I have to find another place to live since the stealth sale of the building I've lived in for eight years..." What the hell; I was so pissed off, I blandly brought up the other hostile real estate takeover ruining the year for me. Anyway, he began making sympathetic noises about home moves.
Soon after the administrator had pounced, the department chairman arrived—to be pounced upon himself, by Simone Legree. She began to schmooze mightily with the Great Man; from the corner of my eye, he sure seemed to be looking for an out.
Well, I had one: retreating to my desk, even if the office space was filled with the sounds of Simone's yakking and the GM's humoring her. It went on for some minutes, until I heard, "Oh! You haven't met my staff"; a beeline was then made for the desk of Blondie.
In the course of this venting, I do prefer being vague about where I work. But here I have to say that it is a medical department, which I'll call the Department of Mmm-mmm-ology. The new broom who swept me out of the old location is Doctor Broom, Chairman of the Department of Mmm-Mmmology.
Upon being introduced to him, Blondie said, "Oh, are you a mmm-mmmologist?
My desk is positioned for a perfect view of the good doctor, who was taken aback for the merest fraction of a second. No doubt concluding that you can't expect much from the help, he quickly replied, "Yes, and a practicing one..." He went on to make some shop talk, which I barely follow (and don't expect Blondie does at all).
After the Great Man had finally left the building, Simone came rushing back to Blondie and laughing, "I can't believe you said that to him!"
"Well, things are new to me—I'm trying to learn them."
"Oh, he's just so personable—that's it coming out!"
After more raving about the GM, Simone proceeded to bring her sub-lieutenants to Blondie's desk. It was an actual procession, as one by one they were led over, while Simone guffawed, "I can't believe she said that!... He took it so well!..."
This throughout the afternoon, as Blondie defended herself:
"Well, he saw me and just thought, 'You're so pretty'..."Somehow, this starts to seem like such a good idea...
"Well, what can I say; sometimes the blonde comes out..."
2.19.2015
Goat or Sheep?
Office move day just happens to coincide with the start of the lunar year. As to the ambiguity of the year's Chinese character—whether "horned animal" means goat, or, sheep—well, either suits the office situation. Whether or not the issue is taking blame, the expected response to any management whim is a simple, "Whatever you say, baaas-aaaa-aaaas."
Here's the institution's office move method: pack up your desk the day before, report to the new location at 8:00 a.m., and ... twiddle your thumbs. Anything needed to do a lick of work will be unavailable, when the movers don't start until 8 the same day.
"Downtime, until further notice" was the order of the morning. If it hadn't been for record sub-zero temperatures, I would have checked out the neighborhood, just to be sure of where the scarce bus stops are. Instead, I was stuck inside a sterile, factory-like building, trying to find some constructive use for the sudden free time.
I took the 10-minute hike toward the cafeteria, to visit my anticipated only positive thing about relocation: a satellite library. Just an office space, but I'd been told that book requests from the main campus could be delivered there for me to pick up. It seems I was misinformed: the "library" is a mere presence, hiring staff and touting itself online, but offering no useful services.
It does have a few computers, so I sat myself down, to try salvaging something from the time. The computer proved to be as useless as the "library": it couldn't so much as load institutional e-mail, or do much of anything else.
Meanwhile, the space next to the "library" was jumping: it's an IT office, that day offering workshops—on "Cloudspace ...", or, "Air... something"—a name along those lines. Whatever it was called, it's evidently the newest, shiniest thing being forced upon large groups of employees. And it has mystified them all, to judge from the way business on that side was booming.
I stuck it out with the bad computer for nearly an hour, as seekers of IT enlightenment came and went. Then came the point when a new group was milling around, talking loudly. The voices were women's—administrative assistant types, from the conversation. One began going on about "poopy diapers"—presumably, a current or recent experience she was waving around (so to speak) as a badge of work/home multi-tasking honor. That seemed to halt the conversation for a moment; then—Team Building opportunity—the others chimed in with their poopy diaper stories.
That did it for me: if I want to be subjected to such sparkling conversation, I can hang around my work group. Though my annoying co-worker most likely to bring up such topics is pregnant now, and on the lookout for any opportunity to discuss pregnancy details with any willing listener. I am not among the willing—just cannot avoid hearing—but at least poopy diapers are not yet part of her repertoire.
The day was a frustrating waste of time. I ran through all the 2014 calendar pages of weird supplier art I'd saved for making origami boxes. Also untangled the knots from eleven or twelve twisted pairs of $1 store earbuds I'd tossed aside over the years. Now it will be easier to test them (and find, no doubt, that all are dead).
One of the discomfiting things about this move is being thrown together with a unit previously at a different building. For years, the staff were only to be seen at the year-end holiday party. They always presented an odd picture then, sitting together at a table with no intention of mingling. The exception was A. Friend, whom I've known ten years, and with whom I worked until her transfer to this other group. I know A. to be extremely conscientious about her work, yet ever since her move, she's complained about harassment by the supervisor (whom I'll call Simone Legree). I never witnessed what went on, but found the annual look at the robotic rest of her office was unsettling.
Now, some of these women sit in cubicles opposite my side of the aisle. (Not A. Friend: she's been placed directly across from her supervisor's office, to provide Simone L. maximum scrutiny). When I finally had a desk, the member of their team directly opposite noticed my sit-stand monitor platform. She asked what it is and why do I have it, so I demonstrated. Because of the apparent whip-cracking on her side of things, I tried to be discreet, but did want to suggest the department has ordered these platforms at the recommendation of an ergonomics evaluator, and that, "the department supports getting a work station evaluation if you need one." Her co-worker in the next space had also come to see the thing (so she also got my spiel). Both complained about sore necks, so I tried showing them a quick loosening trick that's based on wing-like movement from the back of the shoulder blades. The second neighbor was very interested, and actually tried it along with me; in the middle of the our wing-flapping, along came a glowering Simone L., to clip them.
Even aside from Simone's demeanor, there's a strange dynamic in that unit. It seems the data entry is transmitted to a sort of hall monitor (or, Simone Legree, Jr.) She travels between her office and the workers' desks, to have them explain or justify something they've entered. Simone, Jr.'s office is on the corridor leading to all exits; each time I passed by, she jerked her head around, presumably to check that it wasn't one of her staff making unauthorized movements.
And I need to pass Jr.'s office to reach the kitchen or rest room. Both are shared with a department that's been settled in the building for some time. They are a muckety-muck group dealing with scientific research rule compliance. Unlike any other department I've encountered in my (on and off) fifteen years at the institution, staff are mostly women around my age. They may be mostly administrative assistants or middle managers, but most seem high-powered. That may be vicariously, through proximity to muckety-mucks, or some of these people may be key players in the line of defense against things reaching the institution's lawyers. In any case, the concentration of women of mature ages is unusual: I don't know if they have particular training and long experience, or if they have reached the heights of Compliance via previous decades of crushing underlings.
They certainly are rigorous in enforcing kitchen compliance. That was clear from the extensive communication media: their refrigerator duties whiteboard, a detailed status log on the status of a pending ice-maker repair, and such. To prepare for the intruders, Compliance had plastered every appliance and drawer with their unit's acronym; I happened to be in the room to hear our manager's admin assistant being told, "You can use these two shelves."
From the other side there is a sniffy regarding of persons and lunches. Well, to have hoity-toity ladies inspecting my co-workers: it's Whole Foods meets Sam's Club. No doubt, those women think Whole Foods is a benevolent organization made of happy Team Members.
The rest room is another jointly used space. I was there around 3:00, and heard one Compliance woman to another, "Oh! Out of toilet paper already!" Well, what would you expect from the sudden importation of over twenty women?
By around that time, I finally had a connected computer. And new junk e-mail, from a vendor jumping on this bandwagon:
They are the year's honorees, after all, and this company is "Your Source for Quality Sheep and Goat Polyclonal Antibodies"
Here's the institution's office move method: pack up your desk the day before, report to the new location at 8:00 a.m., and ... twiddle your thumbs. Anything needed to do a lick of work will be unavailable, when the movers don't start until 8 the same day.
"Downtime, until further notice" was the order of the morning. If it hadn't been for record sub-zero temperatures, I would have checked out the neighborhood, just to be sure of where the scarce bus stops are. Instead, I was stuck inside a sterile, factory-like building, trying to find some constructive use for the sudden free time.
I took the 10-minute hike toward the cafeteria, to visit my anticipated only positive thing about relocation: a satellite library. Just an office space, but I'd been told that book requests from the main campus could be delivered there for me to pick up. It seems I was misinformed: the "library" is a mere presence, hiring staff and touting itself online, but offering no useful services.
It does have a few computers, so I sat myself down, to try salvaging something from the time. The computer proved to be as useless as the "library": it couldn't so much as load institutional e-mail, or do much of anything else.
Meanwhile, the space next to the "library" was jumping: it's an IT office, that day offering workshops—on "Cloudspace ...", or, "Air... something"—a name along those lines. Whatever it was called, it's evidently the newest, shiniest thing being forced upon large groups of employees. And it has mystified them all, to judge from the way business on that side was booming.
I stuck it out with the bad computer for nearly an hour, as seekers of IT enlightenment came and went. Then came the point when a new group was milling around, talking loudly. The voices were women's—administrative assistant types, from the conversation. One began going on about "poopy diapers"—presumably, a current or recent experience she was waving around (so to speak) as a badge of work/home multi-tasking honor. That seemed to halt the conversation for a moment; then—Team Building opportunity—the others chimed in with their poopy diaper stories.
That did it for me: if I want to be subjected to such sparkling conversation, I can hang around my work group. Though my annoying co-worker most likely to bring up such topics is pregnant now, and on the lookout for any opportunity to discuss pregnancy details with any willing listener. I am not among the willing—just cannot avoid hearing—but at least poopy diapers are not yet part of her repertoire.
The day was a frustrating waste of time. I ran through all the 2014 calendar pages of weird supplier art I'd saved for making origami boxes. Also untangled the knots from eleven or twelve twisted pairs of $1 store earbuds I'd tossed aside over the years. Now it will be easier to test them (and find, no doubt, that all are dead).
One of the discomfiting things about this move is being thrown together with a unit previously at a different building. For years, the staff were only to be seen at the year-end holiday party. They always presented an odd picture then, sitting together at a table with no intention of mingling. The exception was A. Friend, whom I've known ten years, and with whom I worked until her transfer to this other group. I know A. to be extremely conscientious about her work, yet ever since her move, she's complained about harassment by the supervisor (whom I'll call Simone Legree). I never witnessed what went on, but found the annual look at the robotic rest of her office was unsettling.
Now, some of these women sit in cubicles opposite my side of the aisle. (Not A. Friend: she's been placed directly across from her supervisor's office, to provide Simone L. maximum scrutiny). When I finally had a desk, the member of their team directly opposite noticed my sit-stand monitor platform. She asked what it is and why do I have it, so I demonstrated. Because of the apparent whip-cracking on her side of things, I tried to be discreet, but did want to suggest the department has ordered these platforms at the recommendation of an ergonomics evaluator, and that, "the department supports getting a work station evaluation if you need one." Her co-worker in the next space had also come to see the thing (so she also got my spiel). Both complained about sore necks, so I tried showing them a quick loosening trick that's based on wing-like movement from the back of the shoulder blades. The second neighbor was very interested, and actually tried it along with me; in the middle of the our wing-flapping, along came a glowering Simone L., to clip them.
Even aside from Simone's demeanor, there's a strange dynamic in that unit. It seems the data entry is transmitted to a sort of hall monitor (or, Simone Legree, Jr.) She travels between her office and the workers' desks, to have them explain or justify something they've entered. Simone, Jr.'s office is on the corridor leading to all exits; each time I passed by, she jerked her head around, presumably to check that it wasn't one of her staff making unauthorized movements.
And I need to pass Jr.'s office to reach the kitchen or rest room. Both are shared with a department that's been settled in the building for some time. They are a muckety-muck group dealing with scientific research rule compliance. Unlike any other department I've encountered in my (on and off) fifteen years at the institution, staff are mostly women around my age. They may be mostly administrative assistants or middle managers, but most seem high-powered. That may be vicariously, through proximity to muckety-mucks, or some of these people may be key players in the line of defense against things reaching the institution's lawyers. In any case, the concentration of women of mature ages is unusual: I don't know if they have particular training and long experience, or if they have reached the heights of Compliance via previous decades of crushing underlings.
They certainly are rigorous in enforcing kitchen compliance. That was clear from the extensive communication media: their refrigerator duties whiteboard, a detailed status log on the status of a pending ice-maker repair, and such. To prepare for the intruders, Compliance had plastered every appliance and drawer with their unit's acronym; I happened to be in the room to hear our manager's admin assistant being told, "You can use these two shelves."
From the other side there is a sniffy regarding of persons and lunches. Well, to have hoity-toity ladies inspecting my co-workers: it's Whole Foods meets Sam's Club. No doubt, those women think Whole Foods is a benevolent organization made of happy Team Members.
The rest room is another jointly used space. I was there around 3:00, and heard one Compliance woman to another, "Oh! Out of toilet paper already!" Well, what would you expect from the sudden importation of over twenty women?
By around that time, I finally had a connected computer. And new junk e-mail, from a vendor jumping on this bandwagon:
"Science to You in the Year of the Goat. Chun Lian is a decoration used during the celebration of the Chinese New Year. Typically, the Chun Lian writes a happy, hopeful, and uplifting message about a good New Year to come."
 |
"This Chun Lian is for you. |
 |
| "You will be happy with whatever you do" |
And: don't forget to buy!
 |
| "In the year of the goat, use good quality antibody" |
2.18.2015
Cleaned out
Today was packing up the desk day: preparation for tomorrow's work unit move. For me, a move from ten years' in walking distance from home, to a suburban industrial park and commuting by limited bus service.
It's the consequence of a new department chair's setting his eye on my bosses' office space: those guys have to be cleared out, for the space to be renovated so the new guy can move in his chosen. It's the usual effect of the new broom, and he—always "he"—is handed lots of money to blow on such things.
It happened with the arrival of the previous Great Man, but his decorating schemes affected me minimally. And when Dr. G. Zuss departed, his former administrative assistant was kicked upstairs to a new position, thus clearing her out of the Chairman's office and away from sight. As of tomorrow, I will be working in the general locale to which she was exiled.
Real estate grabs are the theme of my 2015. I made it as far as January 12, when there was a surprise notice that the building I live in had been sold that day. The office move had loomed over me since December, but that was knocked from the forefront of my overloaded brain by the stealth of the apartment sale. The building was bought by the worst kind of student property management company, and the fifty percent rent increase for the same nothing, is almost the least of it. Suffice it to say, I would never knowingly rent from this kind of outfit. With the challenge finding bearable housing in this little college town, and with my new longer weekdays... so much for any free time this year.
It's a good thing I won't have to bother much about keeping up with other things, as news will pretty much be of two types: 2016 horse race, or, "ISIS is coming!"
Time does march on; a find from the desk cleaning—
It's the consequence of a new department chair's setting his eye on my bosses' office space: those guys have to be cleared out, for the space to be renovated so the new guy can move in his chosen. It's the usual effect of the new broom, and he—always "he"—is handed lots of money to blow on such things.
It happened with the arrival of the previous Great Man, but his decorating schemes affected me minimally. And when Dr. G. Zuss departed, his former administrative assistant was kicked upstairs to a new position, thus clearing her out of the Chairman's office and away from sight. As of tomorrow, I will be working in the general locale to which she was exiled.
Real estate grabs are the theme of my 2015. I made it as far as January 12, when there was a surprise notice that the building I live in had been sold that day. The office move had loomed over me since December, but that was knocked from the forefront of my overloaded brain by the stealth of the apartment sale. The building was bought by the worst kind of student property management company, and the fifty percent rent increase for the same nothing, is almost the least of it. Suffice it to say, I would never knowingly rent from this kind of outfit. With the challenge finding bearable housing in this little college town, and with my new longer weekdays... so much for any free time this year.
It's a good thing I won't have to bother much about keeping up with other things, as news will pretty much be of two types: 2016 horse race, or, "ISIS is coming!"
Time does march on; a find from the desk cleaning—
 |
2.14.2015
Action
Something had started to change, as the sudden departures suggest.
Municipal judge resigns, and cases are moved.
City manager resigns.
Police chief resigns.
Whatever happened next—whether police were caught in cross-fire from a source unconnected with demonstrators, or whether it was something else—media attention has shifted predictably.
No matter that it's still unclear what happened in Ferguson on February 12, Fox can be relied upon to provide a story line.
Not that I choose to tune in, but on the 13th Clever Sister and I had stopped by a certain fast-food chain for a cheap, refillable drink. It happens the patrons were mostly black, and the screen was tuned to "news."
What we saw is so routine for Fox, it inspired no comment from Media Matters or any other source I've tried. What I had hoped to find was a screen shot of this setup—
Here's a different screen shot from Media Matters on the 12th. It serves its purpose of suggesting the menacing ones mobilized against "the good guys," though the looming shadowy figures are presumably police—
One interesting thing, we were almost on our way out of the unnamed fast-food place when a hippyish white guy of about 60 appeared, along with the (black) manager. Their voices were low, but we saw the customer gesturing to the TV, apparently asking for a change of channel.
Municipal judge resigns, and cases are moved.
City manager resigns.
Police chief resigns.
Whatever happened next—whether police were caught in cross-fire from a source unconnected with demonstrators, or whether it was something else—media attention has shifted predictably.
No matter that it's still unclear what happened in Ferguson on February 12, Fox can be relied upon to provide a story line.
Not that I choose to tune in, but on the 13th Clever Sister and I had stopped by a certain fast-food chain for a cheap, refillable drink. It happens the patrons were mostly black, and the screen was tuned to "news."
What we saw is so routine for Fox, it inspired no comment from Media Matters or any other source I've tried. What I had hoped to find was a screen shot of this setup—
On the right (of the split screen): Fox personalitiesActually, to the left was a woman, possibly middle-aged, marking time on a conga as her fellow demonstrators chanted. There was no hint of menace—aside from the group's exercising free speech while black. If jungle drums pounded, the other side of the screen was there to reassure, with its pretty blonde ladies and those concerned white guys who seem to know all the answers.
On the left: scary demonstrators, beating jungle drums.
Here's a different screen shot from Media Matters on the 12th. It serves its purpose of suggesting the menacing ones mobilized against "the good guys," though the looming shadowy figures are presumably police—
2.01.2015
Sticking It To
A catch from Steve M.—the Nixonian appeal of Scott Walker—
Tengrain adds—"I like what he did to Wisconsin, and I think he'd be great at getting rid of a bunch of stuff that the government is doing to us," said Kerri Vaughn, a carpenter from western Iowa who has followed Walker's career mostly on Fox News.Right -- Vaughn doesn't like what Walker did in Wisconsin, or for Wisconsin -- Vaughn likes what Walker did to Wisconsin. Politicians are, or ought to be, like the worst kinds of cops or CEOs -- they should go into a situation and do stuff to people, smacking them around for their own good. Note what in particular Vaughn would like our next president to "accomplish": "getting rid of a bunch of stuff that the government is doing to us."
"So why is (under criminal investigation) Walker doing so well you ask?"The easy answer is in that carpenter's quote—
What Walker did to Wisconsin. Not what Walker did in Wisconsin, or what Walker did for Wisconsin. Let that sink in for a moment.
Wingnuttia wants a guy who beats up the imaginary hippie under the bed, and fights overpaid kindergarten teachers, and someone willing to sell off entire chunks of both the apparatus of government and the public resources to corporate America; we also note that Walker takes orders well from his paymasters. Wingnuts want a preznint who will get rid of stuff the government is doing to us (which helpfully Bloomberg didn't ask, "Like what?"). One might draw one's own conclusions as to what those pesky things are.
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