Too good to last, the Morning Huddle hiatus since February.
The bosses have been too dispersed and lonely, it seems; schmoozing opportunities are no longer a few steps from their office doors, as in all the years past. And likely, a meeting still needs to go on "Accomplishments" lists for their performance reviews.
To kick off the new cycle, we first had to have a meeting on the subject: Having Meetings. There was nothing to discuss, so the manager filled time by reminding us the group will move offices again, in about three years.
Although this has long been the plan, and I will be retired long before it happens, I can only hope some newer topic can be found during my remaining months. Even if executive decision was for this Huddle incarnation to be held weekly, not daily, I am concerned it will become the weekly Three-Year Plan meeting.
Actually, the boss did have one other topic to raise: Simone Legree's group combine birthdays into a once-monthly party, and do we want to join them. Dead silence, until the woman whose default conversational tone is an annoying one-note snarkiness said, "Why don't we just keep it the way we have it."
Another week, another meeting: the boss announces, "We will celebrate with Simone's group." Poor babies; I avoid all of this stuff, but the co-workers will now have their party taken over. Simone is so much like my previous supervisor, Cruella, in braying for attention and giving the stink-eye to anyone not important enough to be fawned over.
My big complaint is that the Huddle is no longer a few minutes of standing in a doorway, waiting for it to end: it's newly sit-down, around a conference table. Where I used to slip back to my desk as the official part ended and the gossip began, now I'm trapped into staying through the latter, which is this group's real objective.
Showing posts with label Another Day at the Office. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Another Day at the Office. Show all posts
3.26.2015
3.18.2015
Meet The New Boss
Maybe just a tad more beady-eyed, but even more irritable and ready to squawk than the other ...
3.06.2015
TGIF
For all the institution's horn-blowing about being Sustainable, and, Green: I seem to be the only pedestrian around my new place, something that's been particularly aggravating this week. After work Monday, a boot toe's collision with uneven sidewalk ended by badly bruising both my knees and the palm of one hand. The next morning, invisible ice on a campus sidewalk sent me flying; the crash landing was onto the most painful of the previous knee injuries. Well, just one kneecap this time... but all very maddening, in that it happened on work premises, and that my knee hurt so much that it took a while to manage getting up.
This sidewalk begins at exactly the spot where the bus drops me mornings, and from there it leads to a convenient side entrance. The sidewalk also has the slightest degree of downward incline, which was where I'd gone sailing. So next day I tried a much longer (but flat) way, via sidewalks at the two major streets adjoining the buildings. No falls that day, but going the distance of just two blocks took nearly 15 minutes of negotiating pavement covered by ice.
Aside from parking lots, maintenance is indeed spotty. And I don't expect to ever hear a word from the building contact I e-mailed about the condition of the sidewalks.
Something that really gets me: one day, the snow and (subsequent mud) will be gone, and I'll want a nice solitary walk outside the factory. Which is just when the grounds will be full of walkers: administrative assistants who've changed to athletic shoes and puffed out their chests, striding purposefully to show they are becoming healthy, and doing their all to save their employer medical costs.
Meanwhile, I've lost track of the odd weather this week, but at some point, a shiny layer of thin ice appeared on every snow pile in town. It's lent my surroundings just a soupçon more surreality than before...
Not snow blobs on those trees, as it might seem, but buds—
Art budgets do exist to be used up (and what I've seen so far has been as bad).
That's one small step for man; one giant leap for corporate expansion.
This sidewalk begins at exactly the spot where the bus drops me mornings, and from there it leads to a convenient side entrance. The sidewalk also has the slightest degree of downward incline, which was where I'd gone sailing. So next day I tried a much longer (but flat) way, via sidewalks at the two major streets adjoining the buildings. No falls that day, but going the distance of just two blocks took nearly 15 minutes of negotiating pavement covered by ice.
Aside from parking lots, maintenance is indeed spotty. And I don't expect to ever hear a word from the building contact I e-mailed about the condition of the sidewalks.
Something that really gets me: one day, the snow and (subsequent mud) will be gone, and I'll want a nice solitary walk outside the factory. Which is just when the grounds will be full of walkers: administrative assistants who've changed to athletic shoes and puffed out their chests, striding purposefully to show they are becoming healthy, and doing their all to save their employer medical costs.
Meanwhile, I've lost track of the odd weather this week, but at some point, a shiny layer of thin ice appeared on every snow pile in town. It's lent my surroundings just a soupçon more surreality than before...
 |
 |
 | ||
Not snow blobs on those trees, as it might seem, but buds—
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| Medium is message; rusted wheels and shredded plastic = recycling? |
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3.05.2015
Turning Over Rocks
Clearly no expense was spared, to find these plaintiffs.
Four Little Words.
Supposedly, the King v. Burwell decision may all depend on Roberts' degree of concern that the public not notice the partisan hackery.
The verdict is due for June or July vacation news dump.
Four Little Words.
Supposedly, the King v. Burwell decision may all depend on Roberts' degree of concern that the public not notice the partisan hackery.
The verdict is due for June or July vacation news dump.
2.26.2015
Monday... Tuesday... Wednesday...
... 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.
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.
2.20.2015
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—
 |
12.02.2014
Confucius Say
Recycled script this morning: "Storytelling: workplaces have heroes and legends… What are yours?..."
Followed by precisely the same examples as last time: "Maybe it was the time we processed a record number of patients in one night"; [something about starting recalcitrant machinery]; "The co-worker who wore that Halloween costume..."
Here's an outfit selling a version of this.
This company claims some big corporate players as clients. Perhaps low-budget cheesy sites filled with misspellings are a sign of outsourcing Mission Accomplished.
It certainly suits the quality of the ideas, that they are represented by fine clip art like this.
Translated from a Chinese manuscript of the 6th or 5th century B.C., no less.... Those ancient sages sure had their greeting card sentiments down pat.
Followed by precisely the same examples as last time: "Maybe it was the time we processed a record number of patients in one night"; [something about starting recalcitrant machinery]; "The co-worker who wore that Halloween costume..."
Here's an outfit selling a version of this.
Your employees will love their job and their workplace.What photo pick could better represent corporate greatness?
Every great organization has its own heroes. These heroes become company legends. These heroes build great cultures.
Your organization's legend may be a support associate who set her alarm for 2 a.m. so she could respond to a client only available in the wee hours of the morning, or it may be the cutomer service agent who drove accross town to deliver a replacement part after 9 p.m. on a Thursday night.
 |
| At least it's not this one. |
It certainly suits the quality of the ideas, that they are represented by fine clip art like this.
3.20.2014
"solid poop this am!!!!!"
Subject line of message from Clever Sister. Which refers to her cat's recent medical episode and vet visits.
On the other hand, it really does apply to a variety of office situations I've experienced, beginning at 8:00 today.
No doubt, could also apply to pretty much any other workplace.
On the other hand, it really does apply to a variety of office situations I've experienced, beginning at 8:00 today.
No doubt, could also apply to pretty much any other workplace.
3.10.2014
A Non-starter
Vendor message in work e-mail this morning.
Brain Awareness... Quite a contrast to the office mentality: go along to get along, don't see anything beyond one's desk, and the rest.
Morning Huddle theme of the week: yet another version of communication styles. Four more days to hear this droned by the boss, or, if he's away, by whomever he has designated to go through the motions.
Brain Awareness... Quite a contrast to the office mentality: go along to get along, don't see anything beyond one's desk, and the rest.
Morning Huddle theme of the week: yet another version of communication styles. Four more days to hear this droned by the boss, or, if he's away, by whomever he has designated to go through the motions.
3.05.2014
For Crying Out Loud
My routine work e-mail arrives in automated cycles, typically in batches of 15-25 at a time. I need to watch out for problems in need of attention, so they don't get buried in the message volume (and I have to hope any emergencies won't take up too much time). Otherwise, the routine mail will need various bits of data extracted; many other items have to be re-formatted, saved to files, and uploaded to multiple places. This is all while I'm working on new stuff that generates more of this e-mail volume. Of course the less time I have to manage e-mail, the more those batches start piling into multiples of 15-25, sometimes for hours at a time.
In the midst of the pile-ups, I so enjoy seeing institutional messages touting programs and workshops— "Work-Life Balance!" "Relieve Your Stress!"—and the like. Topics are continually recycled, even as the same institution dreams up novel methods to Increase My Stress.
In e-mail today was a call for volunteers: to join "VOICES of the Staff."
This, says the e-mail, is "to continue the dialog between ... staff and leadership." Now there's a "dialog" I had no idea existed on this particular planet. But it may be that management is beaming VOICES into the heads of susceptible volunteers.
More of the goodness promised—
In the midst of the pile-ups, I so enjoy seeing institutional messages touting programs and workshops— "Work-Life Balance!" "Relieve Your Stress!"—and the like. Topics are continually recycled, even as the same institution dreams up novel methods to Increase My Stress.
In e-mail today was a call for volunteers: to join "VOICES of the Staff."
This, says the e-mail, is "to continue the dialog between ... staff and leadership." Now there's a "dialog" I had no idea existed on this particular planet. But it may be that management is beaming VOICES into the heads of susceptible volunteers.
More of the goodness promised—
VOICES offers staff members an opportunity to:While I hate to bring up the obvious, there is clearly a logo for this enterprise.
• Serve as a "sounding board" to provide feedback to executive officers on major
initiatives
• Establish connections that open new channels of communication
• Provide creative suggestions on staff climate and satisfaction issues
• Recognize their own and each other's value and talents
 |
2.15.2014
Huddle Muddle, Toil And Trouble
It's an unpalatable brew, served up daily.
Well, more of a bout: Supervisor vs. Printed Word ...
The challenger is not so proficient at reading comprehension, and he first encounters the script when he comes before the congregation. The result is much stumbling and garbling, and intoning of such things as—
Consultants take care of most other weeks.
Recent guidance from those fine professionals has included "Stop Multi-Tasking." Here's a version of what we heard, as going around the Intertubes.
But, It's all good. Or so I keep hearing.
At our office even rubber bands have inspiring slogans...
Well, more of a bout: Supervisor vs. Printed Word ...
The challenger is not so proficient at reading comprehension, and he first encounters the script when he comes before the congregation. The result is much stumbling and garbling, and intoning of such things as—
"All knowledge has its oh...rí-gens... in our perceptions."The script's writer needs to pad daily slots, 52 weeks a year (year, after year, after year...), so nationally branded weeks offer easy filler. Hurrah for National Random Acts of Kindness Week, February 10-16... Although group eyebrows were raised at that one, with its implication of doing something without gain.
—Ley...o...narda... dah Vinci
Consultants take care of most other weeks.
Recent guidance from those fine professionals has included "Stop Multi-Tasking." Here's a version of what we heard, as going around the Intertubes.
A study done at the University of London found that constant emailing and text-messaging reduces mental capability by an average of 10 points on an IQ test. It was five points for women, and fifteen points for men. This effect is similar to missing a night's sleep. For men, it's around three times more than the effect of smoking cannabis. While this fact might make an interesting dinner party topic, it's really not that amusing that one of the most common "productivity tools" can make one as dumb as a stoner.Wonder how how long until the morning script writer fills a week by encouraging us to multi-task.
But, It's all good. Or so I keep hearing.
At our office even rubber bands have inspiring slogans...
7.12.2013
Gulp, Indeed
"Courage": it's what's for Morning Huddle.
As usual, the boss had his little reading comprehension problems, but gamely droned on—
No one else notices.
The expert on Courage, to whom the Huddle script's author has turned day after day, is—
He may not have trademarked the word, but Mr. Treasurer has written the book.
The high dive photo is from this fine publication's cover story. It's a shame the available cover image is too small to fully savor—
A lucky thing that consultants exist; without them, heroic school administrators might be expected to spend money on students, or, teachers. And administrators at my public institution have plenty to spend for consultants; hiring adequate staff for rising workloads (or enough hospital employees to work with patients) would break the bank.
De-huddled back to my desk, I forwarded the Treasurer article to Clever Sister. She promptly found the "talent" agency ("Checkout Who's Hot!") representing the guy.
They can supply "entertainers" available, like the act CS was especially struck by—
There are motivational speakers of every stripe and schtick. Including—
And—
Sadly, "Vinny" is a fake, though we do get to see the actor's resume.
One morning's installment of Courage came when the boss was out, so it was read by a substitute.
"... create Gulp Goals: have sweaty palms... you should be challenged enough that your body reacts."
Reader and audience this day were all women, and they stopped for nervous laughter. Presumably, concerned that Management might expect them to let their deodorants fail.
Quote of the day: "The opposite of courage is not cowardice but conformity." The pinch-hitter usually has decent reading comprehension, but here she stumbled, attributing the quote to what sounded like "Ro-no May."
A serious author whose name, I believe, was once known to a fairly general public. Though hearing the quote in this context, and tryng to imagine what meaning this group takes from it... that's hard to find words for, other than the overused "Orwellian."
At some point in the blur of recent weeks gone by, the morning theme was, "T.H.I.N.K. about what you are about to say"—
Way back when—sometime last summer, when this current management kick began—Clever Sister asked if I had consented to joining the Cult of Huddle. Of course, I never did; of course, consent is implied by being employed.
It's just one small way that every day this workplace feels more like a psychological experiment from the days before informed consent.
As usual, the boss had his little reading comprehension problems, but gamely droned on—
Merriam Webster defines "courage" as "mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty." Courage can also be action in the organization, especially in the face of fear or reprisals...My bold, as this substitute for "fear of reprisals" implies that the meanings of "fear" and "reprisals" both stem from mere emotions that are easily overcome by the power of belief in a buzzword.
No one else notices.
The expert on Courage, to whom the Huddle script's author has turned day after day, is—
 |
| "Author and consultant Bill Treasurer exhibits his own courage during a high-diving stunt." |
The high dive photo is from this fine publication's cover story. It's a shame the available cover image is too small to fully savor—
 |
De-huddled back to my desk, I forwarded the Treasurer article to Clever Sister. She promptly found the "talent" agency ("Checkout Who's Hot!") representing the guy.
They can supply "entertainers" available, like the act CS was especially struck by—
 |
The Bill and Hillary Show |
 |
| Alan Veingrad is a motivator, entertainer, and financial and insurance strategist. He may be the only former NFLer in history to become a Torah-observant Orthodox Jew. |
 |
| "Vinny Verelli, the Goombah Guru" |
Some highlights of Jonathan's performing career:All very diverting. And if any of these folks' wisdom is searchable by buzzword of the week,I will no doubt hear them quoted in a Morning Huddle to come.
• Tour of Samuel Becket's Waiting For Godot to 12 Florida State Prisons
• Classes with the Polish Mime Theatre in Wroclaw, Poland
• Master class with Marcel Marceau in New York City
• World premiere production of Tiger Tail with artistic supervision by Tennessee Williams
• National tours with the Claude Kipnis Mime Theatre, including a week at Carnegie Hall
• 11 years on and off cruise ships as entertainer, port lecturer and Cruise Director
• Still receives residuals 11 years after taping an episode of, "Wildest Police Videos."
One morning's installment of Courage came when the boss was out, so it was read by a substitute.
"... create Gulp Goals: have sweaty palms... you should be challenged enough that your body reacts."
Reader and audience this day were all women, and they stopped for nervous laughter. Presumably, concerned that Management might expect them to let their deodorants fail.
Quote of the day: "The opposite of courage is not cowardice but conformity." The pinch-hitter usually has decent reading comprehension, but here she stumbled, attributing the quote to what sounded like "Ro-no May."
A serious author whose name, I believe, was once known to a fairly general public. Though hearing the quote in this context, and tryng to imagine what meaning this group takes from it... that's hard to find words for, other than the overused "Orwellian."
At some point in the blur of recent weeks gone by, the morning theme was, "T.H.I.N.K. about what you are about to say"—
Is it True?A search suggests this gem is based on parables attributed variously to Quakers, Sufis, and the Buddha. As an acronym, it's big with home schoolers and the disciplining children crowd; in other words, it fits our institutional need to train for unquestioning obedience.
Is it Helpful?
Is it Inspiring?
Is it Necessary ?
Is it Kind?
Way back when—sometime last summer, when this current management kick began—Clever Sister asked if I had consented to joining the Cult of Huddle. Of course, I never did; of course, consent is implied by being employed.
It's just one small way that every day this workplace feels more like a psychological experiment from the days before informed consent.
6.30.2013
Loose Lips
Digby has been quite attentive to this. (More graphics here).
Sinister? At the very least, inappropriate in a democracy. And I have to say: it also seems pretty much an extension of your average organization's approach to employee management.
Sure, your foreign types have their own attitudes toward spying on citizens.
That article's author makes a point of noting that the NSA's reach made a former high-ranking Stasi officer feel "appalled." Or was the emotion jealousy?
A former victim of the Stasi says—
I also have to repeat myself in quoting the suggestion to go for a stress-relieving walk (just remember: move along; nothing to see).
To quote more of the Stasi/Homeland Security-Industrial Complex comparisons—
Sinister? At the very least, inappropriate in a democracy. And I have to say: it also seems pretty much an extension of your average organization's approach to employee management.
Sure, your foreign types have their own attitudes toward spying on citizens.
That article's author makes a point of noting that the NSA's reach made a former high-ranking Stasi officer feel "appalled." Or was the emotion jealousy?
A former victim of the Stasi says—
"When the wall fell, I wanted to see what the Stasi had on me, on the world I knew. ... A large part of what I found was nothing more than office gossip, the sort of thing people used to say around the water cooler about affairs and gripes, the sort of things that people today put in emails or texts to each other."At this week's Morning Huddle (and here, I do have to repeat myself)—the theme is Don't Worry.
I also have to repeat myself in quoting the suggestion to go for a stress-relieving walk (just remember: move along; nothing to see).
To quote more of the Stasi/Homeland Security-Industrial Complex comparisons—
[the German spokeswoman for Stasi records]...noted that Stasi victims have a large advantage in finding out what was studied.
"It's easy to make information available when it was gathered by a state that no longer exists," she said.
Stefan Wolle is the curator for Berlin's East German Museum, which focuses in part on the actions of and reactions to the Stasi. What becomes clear when studying the information the organization gathered is the banality of evil: Simple pieces of everyday life are given much greater importance than they deserve when a secret organization makes the effort to gather the information.
"When the wall fell, I wanted to see what the Stasi had on me, on the world I knew," he said. "A large part of what I found was nothing more than office gossip, the sort of thing people used to say around the water cooler about affairs and gripes, the sort of things that people today put in emails or texts to each other.
"The lesson," he added, "is that when a wide net is cast, almost all of what is caught is worthless. This was the case with the Stasi. This will certainly be the case with the NSA."
6.29.2013
It's All So Simple, Workers
Charles Pierce sums it up—
"Scalia is simply the court jester," Pierce concludes. "Alito is the king of dicks, the last and lasting vengeance of George W. Bush."
In my little corner of the work world, the Morning Huddle theme of the week is, Don't Worry.
Helpful tips are offered; "Creating a playlist of different music types can be a stress reliever," for one.
Or, "go for a walk."
Need one add: if you do go for that walk, just remember to move along; there's nothing to see here.
... the real walking id of the Court's preposterously Janus-faced conservative faction is Justice Samuel Alito, who turns out to be not only a reliable reactionary voice on almost every issue, but a colossal dick besides.Justice Ginsburg's dissent was Alito's cue: start the attention-getting histrionics.
It began with two decisions concerning the possible remedies that can be sought by employees who face racial, sexual, or some other kind of harassment in the workplace. The two decisions—Vance v. Ball State University and University of Texas Southwestern Medical Center v. Nassar—were as bad, and as thoroughly detached from empirical reality, as they possibly could be. Especially the former. The case involved a kitchen worker at Ball State who accused a supervisor of harassing her because she was the only black person working on the staff. Spectacularly, the case turned, essentially, on who qualified as a "supervisor."
Under Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, it's far easier for a plaintiff to win a harassment case against a supervisor than fellow employees, even if the latter have been vested by upper echelons with supervisory functions. The hitch, as Ian Millhiser explains, is that the United States Court of Appeals for the Seventh Circuit decided that only those with "the power to hire, fire, demote, promote, transfer, or discipline an employee" are fit to be called "supervisors."
In other words, your supervisor can't harass you, but he or she can subcontract the job of making your life a living hell to whoever wants it. However, Sam Alito, who will never have a supervisor again in his life, has no problem seeing past the problems of those of us who will. The alternative, he argued, "would make the determination of supervisor status depend on a highly case specific evaluation of numerous factors."
Which is precisely the way the world works in 99 percent of the jobs in this country these days. His extraordinarily tortured explanation—even by Supreme Court standards—continued.
"In such cases, the victims will be able to prevail simply by showing that the employer was negligent in permitting this harassment to occur," he said.
I think we can all agree that this is a very interesting concept of the word "simply," which does not carry the same meaning in the world without supervisors as it does in the world the rest of us inhabit. Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg dissented, and seems to be familiar, at least, with the fact that we don't all work as justices of the United States Supreme Court.
"Scalia is simply the court jester," Pierce concludes. "Alito is the king of dicks, the last and lasting vengeance of George W. Bush."
In my little corner of the work world, the Morning Huddle theme of the week is, Don't Worry.
Helpful tips are offered; "Creating a playlist of different music types can be a stress reliever," for one.
Or, "go for a walk."
Need one add: if you do go for that walk, just remember to move along; there's nothing to see here.
6.21.2013
Huddled Masses
The Morning Huddle Theme of the Week: "Talkin' 'Bout My Generation."
De-huddled back to my desk, I search for phrases from this particular rehash of "generational workplace styles." While I can't identify the precise source being cribbed, the wording of this version from Regent "University" is quite close.
Another thing I find is that, despite beliefs on Regent's end of the political spectrum, it is corporate clichés—not Black Helicopters—with which the UN is armed. Exactly the same corporate clichés as Regent's (illustrated by celebrity photos, in the UN version).
Back to the office...
Monday: "Traditionalists (1927 - 1945)... believe in the value of hard work, loyalty, and sacrifice and have respect for rules..." Among the wisdom offered: in the old days, generations lived and worked together in families. I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying, "Tell it to the kids sent to orphanages during the Depression, when their parents couldn't support them."
The session ends with obligatory Tom Brokaw quote.
It seemed I must have nodded off and missed a day, because by Tuesday we were already on Gen X. There was much "Yay, us!" at the reading of dates (1964 – 1982). Dates that apply to all attending—except for the fossil who's a bit stuck on critical thinking.
"Gen X-ers value work-life balance, and would turn down a promotion if it's not right for them." Now that made the group squirm. They looked at each other, unsure if they had heard correctly, yet reluctant to challenge the holy writ. Even so, I heard mutters of, "turn down a promotion...?"
(When I reported this later, Clever Sister said, "For a promotion? They'd turn Granny in—to the Gestapo!")
Well, it seems our supervisor had been in such a hurry to get to Gen X that he skipped Boomers. Day 3 was his backtrack, with such out of sequence revelations as, "Boomers are hard working, competitive, had to struggle for college and careers after the war." Um... didn't there use to be cheap tuition and plenty of work (or at least for white men)...?
As the "1946 - 1964" generation is not theirs, they had nothing to say. Although the group's designated joker (and designated butt of jokes) did suggest that he might be a boomer, since the dates include 1964. "You have corns older than that!" said the [manager] boss, to much hilarity over his witticism. But the thought that Gen X also starts in 1964 did provoke speculation that generational labels may overlap. It was a real head-scratcher, as they all are so willing to believe your dates are your traits, if the text hath so decreed.
That morning's Thought of the Day: "The older generation thought nothing of getting up at 5 am to work. And the younger generation doesn't think much of it, either." The [supervisor] boss cracked himself up—30 seconds later, when the meaning of what he had read managed to sink in.
Yes, it's a very, very long week, indeed... Day 4: "Millenials grew up with multi-tasking, and want frequent feedback." This time the boss was out, so this was proclaimed by a substitute—who also objected, on the basis of her own kid's behavior. Though I would just amend this by substituting "constant feedback from peers," for anything to do with the workplace.
Resuming her reading: "Millenials expect aunotomy in the workplace..." "aunotomy"... No one heard a thing—"aunotomy" must have seemed merely a big word known to the guru of Morning Huddle.
Aside from the morning rah-rah (and knowing I am the only one of the huddled who yearns to breathe free), there are other meetings. These days, the big ones are about imminent plans for making the whole institution "paperless." It will be a dream come true, bring the Millenium, or something like that, depending on the speaker's purity of faith (or talent at parroting institutional BS).
From what I've seen so far of the plans, they will make it take much more time to achieve the same results. And there appears to be no easy way of tracking work done, following up problems discovered later, or dealing with any other big-picture needs.
But it's just part of the escalating speed of makeovers—"Do it this way"; "Now do it that way"; "It's done this other way, and has never been otherwise"—in my department as well as all other parts of the organization of which I'm aware. Following one of the pep sessions, this suddenly popped into my head—
Ho-hum... In the ongoing psychological experiment that is the workplace, this sort of thing starts to seem like just your average executive decision—
De-huddled back to my desk, I search for phrases from this particular rehash of "generational workplace styles." While I can't identify the precise source being cribbed, the wording of this version from Regent "University" is quite close.
Another thing I find is that, despite beliefs on Regent's end of the political spectrum, it is corporate clichés—not Black Helicopters—with which the UN is armed. Exactly the same corporate clichés as Regent's (illustrated by celebrity photos, in the UN version).
Back to the office...
Monday: "Traditionalists (1927 - 1945)... believe in the value of hard work, loyalty, and sacrifice and have respect for rules..." Among the wisdom offered: in the old days, generations lived and worked together in families. I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying, "Tell it to the kids sent to orphanages during the Depression, when their parents couldn't support them."
The session ends with obligatory Tom Brokaw quote.
It seemed I must have nodded off and missed a day, because by Tuesday we were already on Gen X. There was much "Yay, us!" at the reading of dates (1964 – 1982). Dates that apply to all attending—except for the fossil who's a bit stuck on critical thinking.
"Gen X-ers value work-life balance, and would turn down a promotion if it's not right for them." Now that made the group squirm. They looked at each other, unsure if they had heard correctly, yet reluctant to challenge the holy writ. Even so, I heard mutters of, "turn down a promotion...?"
(When I reported this later, Clever Sister said, "For a promotion? They'd turn Granny in—to the Gestapo!")
Well, it seems our supervisor had been in such a hurry to get to Gen X that he skipped Boomers. Day 3 was his backtrack, with such out of sequence revelations as, "Boomers are hard working, competitive, had to struggle for college and careers after the war." Um... didn't there use to be cheap tuition and plenty of work (or at least for white men)...?
As the "1946 - 1964" generation is not theirs, they had nothing to say. Although the group's designated joker (and designated butt of jokes) did suggest that he might be a boomer, since the dates include 1964. "You have corns older than that!" said the [manager] boss, to much hilarity over his witticism. But the thought that Gen X also starts in 1964 did provoke speculation that generational labels may overlap. It was a real head-scratcher, as they all are so willing to believe your dates are your traits, if the text hath so decreed.
That morning's Thought of the Day: "The older generation thought nothing of getting up at 5 am to work. And the younger generation doesn't think much of it, either." The [supervisor] boss cracked himself up—30 seconds later, when the meaning of what he had read managed to sink in.
Yes, it's a very, very long week, indeed... Day 4: "Millenials grew up with multi-tasking, and want frequent feedback." This time the boss was out, so this was proclaimed by a substitute—who also objected, on the basis of her own kid's behavior. Though I would just amend this by substituting "constant feedback from peers," for anything to do with the workplace.
Resuming her reading: "Millenials expect aunotomy in the workplace..." "aunotomy"... No one heard a thing—"aunotomy" must have seemed merely a big word known to the guru of Morning Huddle.
Aside from the morning rah-rah (and knowing I am the only one of the huddled who yearns to breathe free), there are other meetings. These days, the big ones are about imminent plans for making the whole institution "paperless." It will be a dream come true, bring the Millenium, or something like that, depending on the speaker's purity of faith (or talent at parroting institutional BS).
From what I've seen so far of the plans, they will make it take much more time to achieve the same results. And there appears to be no easy way of tracking work done, following up problems discovered later, or dealing with any other big-picture needs.
But it's just part of the escalating speed of makeovers—"Do it this way"; "Now do it that way"; "It's done this other way, and has never been otherwise"—in my department as well as all other parts of the organization of which I'm aware. Following one of the pep sessions, this suddenly popped into my head—
Ho-hum... In the ongoing psychological experiment that is the workplace, this sort of thing starts to seem like just your average executive decision—
Esposito: From this day on, the official language of San Marcos will be Swedish.... In addition to that, all citizens will be required to change their underwear every half-hour. Underwear will be worn on the outside so we can check. Furthermore, all children under 16 years old are now... 16 years old!
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