Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Life(?) is imitating art(s) again! And as we know, that’s usually not a good thing.
You know Office Space? (of course you do) You know The Bobs? (of course you do) We have a Bobs situation going on at my office space.
It’s painful.
Since February we’ve been told the likelihood of layoffs is high. Since March we’ve been told “we’ll know more sometime in August.” We’re all holding our breath. Some people have jumped ship. But probably not enough to prevent layoffs.
And what do “we” do when “we” are not making enough money to keep employees on staff? “We” bring in consultants and pay them to tell us what the employees have known for years. If someone bothered to read the suggestions in the employee suggestion box we might not be in this situation.
But alas, the key to the suggestion box is lost. Metaphorically and literally lost. The person originally tasked with reading the suggestions in the suggestion box has long since quit and no one can recall where they left the key. I’m guessing someone in our company inherited a desk with a key in the drawer and has no idea what lock it fits.
Which, in a way, is kind of interesting. It renders our suggestion box useless to employees but it transforms it into a time capsule. It’ll be fun and funny to read those suggestions 25 years from now. Let’s just hope they weren’t faxes. Yes. I’m guessing some of those suggestions date back to image fading thermo fax paper that came on a roll and curled up on the edges.*
What with the lost suggestion box key and everything, we have to rely on outside consultants to give us suggestions on how to run our business. And, true to Bobs form, we are being called into spartan conference rooms for one-on-one “chats” with our version of the Bobs.
That’s problematic enough.
But.
Making it worse is that these guys, our the Bobs, are hanging around like they’re employees. They’re “getting to know us.” Hanging out in the break room, sitting in on meetings, sending email, signing the get well cards. I heard a rumor than one of them showed up at a baby shower for one of the gals in accounting.
In short, they walk among us. The ridiculous aspect of this, is, obviously, that we all know who our the Bobs are. We know why they're here. They are not our friends or coworkers. They are conspicuously not us.
We all know they’re acting all friendly and jocular but their motives are ulterior. And they’re making bucks off us. Of course they’re going to pimp our ideas. They might spin them a little differently, but of course they’re just going to regurgitate what we tell them and call it their evaluation. And off they go, into the sunset, onto the next company, the next management consulting gig, the next baby shower bash in a finance department.
Predictable, right? Of course.
But there’s a slight spin on it.
I, uh, I, um, well, I actually like a couple of our Bobs. One in particular impresses me. And not just for his consultant skills.
And I fear this is by design.
I’m cynical enough to think having good looking, younger, hipper consultants is a ruse to get people like me more willing to open up to the consultant. Because, yes, it’s true, if our the Bobs looked and acted like the Bobs, Bobs Classic if you will, I and a few other people would chew them up and spit them out faster than you can say case of the Mondays.
A few of our the Bobs are scarily not management consultant-esque. They are, shockingly, not the Bobs-like. Which is suspect. It could be a ruse to lull us into a false sense of security. The snake tempting Eve with an apple.
"Apples are good for you," the snake reasons.
"I know. I'm tempted, I want to trust you. You're not like other talking scary creatures I've encountered. But you are a scary talking snake and we're not supposed to go in there," Eve counters, staunchly clamming up and not giving in to the snake's rationalization of apples' nutrient value.
"Suit yourself," shrugging, which is an indication that something's not quite right about this guy, snakes don't have shoulders, they shouldn't be able to shrug, "I'm just trying to help you out here. I'm on your side, Eve, I want you to succeed and even prosper. I looked at your work on that last project and read the reports. I thought you were a straight shooter with management written all over you. But if you're not interested in helping me help you then I'll go see what Adam's up to. No biggie."
"Adam from IT? Seriously? You're kidding, right? 'I've kissed so much ass they call me Rim Job' Adam?"
(Chuckles knowingly) "Yeah, he is quite the yes man, isn't he? But, if you're not interested in cooperating what choice do we have?"
We're in a situation. A bind. A "you're not going to beat them, they're not completely awful, so, join them" situation. They're not awful. But. I don't trust them.
That doesn’t change the fact that, even knowing their "not like the other Bobs" approach is part of the ruse, I like a couple of our Bobs.
One in particular has garnered my attention.
And that’s problematic.
A few facts.
He’s intelligent. He’s funny. He’s aware. He’s even keeled. He doesn’t drink coffee. He likes the Pixies. He’s tall. He’s young. But not young enough to sport a stupid Pete Wentz haircut without looking like an idiot. And unfortunately he sports a stupid Pete Wentz haircut.
Actually. That’s fortunate. At times that stupid Pete Wentz haircut is all that comes between me and inappropriate feelings about this particular Bob. When my mind wanders past the stupid Pete Wentz haircut (grant you, that’s difficult to do) I find my mind wandering to places other than work and consultants.
Oh yes. I have a crush.
I know. I know!! It’s been ages.
And it’s wrong on many, many levels. Which of course makes it all the more tantalizing. And I’m 99.999999% certain there isn’t an iota of reciprocated crush. Which of course makes me feel pathetic and stupid. So I need to sort this out and expunge my crush in order to strengthen my armor.
Let’s dissect my Bob of choice so I can get past my crushing on him and get back to worrying about losing my job.
He’s intelligent. Okay. He’s smart. Around my office that’s a rarity so naturally anyone who enters the workplace with a brain behind their degree is going to capture my imagination. And my respect. But. He’s not that smart. He doesn’t know who Douglas Adams is and when I suggested the Guide, he saw the size of the book and panicked. Even though it says, “Don’t Panic” on the cover. “It’s the most brilliant piece of literature of the 20th century, penned by a prophet who foretold the future of HR departments and middle managers,” I said to him when he noticed a copy of it in my office. (Yes. Of course I keep a copy handy. Church Lady gets to have her bibles in her office and take prayer breaks. She prays at her altar, I pray at mine.) And no, no, familiarity of the Guide is not my barometer for intelligence. But. When someone is unfamiliar with the Guide and panics when they see the cover clearly stating, “Don’t Panic” I get bemused. So. The point of this is that he shows signs of intelligence but he’s not brilliance unrivaled. He’s intelligent for a paid management research consultant. He’s intelligent contextually. Okay. So. Good. We’ve knocked his IQ down enough points to make him undesirable.
He’s funny. He has a Flight of the Conchordsesque way of sarcasm. Innocent, unaffected, but, very effective. A lot of people in my office don’t get that he’s being sarcastic, or how funny his delivery is. It redeems his stupid Pete Wentz haircut. In fact, the stupid Pete Wentz haircut might even be an ill-conceived attempt at humor. Hmmmm. I got nuthin’ on disputing his funniness. He’s funny. That’s desirable. I’m going to have to wait and hope he becomes unfunny. Maybe if he starts doing Gallagher routines in the break room.
He’s aware. Within two days of his arrival he started making aside comments about my boss. Funny aside comments. Not just pointing out the obvious. Not that my boss isn’t an easy read. But. Still. No one else makes asides about her. He finds no use for management motivational training seminars held at airport hotels. For this fact alone, this and nothing more, I could make a lifetime commitment to him. He also got Spanglish’s number fast, and I don’t mean her personal mobile number. I mean he not only saw through her routine, he slated her on it on his first day in the office. We all know her antics. We all know she’s getting away with murder, but no one is willing to risk looking like a racist bigot by calling her bluff. This Bob did. On his first day here, no less. That, too, is desirable. No way to get around that one, either.
He’s even keeled. When he makes aside jabs or slates someone he’s “nice” about it. He delivers it in a way that comes across as the voice of caring reason. He seems sincere - not affected or disingenuous - real. We’ve had a few issues, a couple meltdowns in this process. He hasn’t crumbled. He hasn’t showed anger, defensiveness or fear. Then again, he might be on medication. And what does he care? He doesn’t work here. He’ll be gone in a few weeks. So why should he be angry, defensive or afraid? Pffft. Even keeled. Whatever. So not a turn on.
He doesn’t drink coffee. I like that in a man. We could also probably attribute the even keeled thing to a lack of caffeine. Maybe he’s not even keeled. Maybe he’s just tired. Still. He doesn’t drink coffee. He doesn’t stink up the place with a half full mug of lukewarm mud sloshing around.
He likes the Pixies. Automatic kinship. Automatic points in his favor. Everything else about him could be horrible and he’d still get automatic cred for liking the Pixies. The only thing to dispute here is that he likes some of the covers. While I don’t “mind” the covers, I don’t think the Pixies shine their brightest when they do a cover. And lately it’s starting to feel a little like Rod Stewart’s album of easy listening classics. I realize it’s going to start being stupid for them to sing Velouria on stage, but I’m not ready for them covering Burt Bacharach. Worse, the Bob thought Head On is an original Pixies composition. He wasn’t aware that it’s a cover of a Jesus and Mary Chain hit. He isn’t even remotely aware of the Jesus and Mary Chain. And yes, yes, I know, that makes me a music snob (and old) but it irritated me when he started rattling off his favorite Pixies songs and the list was comprised of a lot of covers. Cha ching. Less desirable. Keep him talking about the Pixies and this crush will be flushed out my system in no time.
He’s tall. And I’ve been in that tall man fantasy land lately. No, he didn’t spark the tall guy exclusivity in my fantasies. I developed that lusting proclivity before his 6’4” frame entered our office. The timing of my tall man fantasy exclusivity is unfortunate. Because he’s tall. No getting around that one, either.
He’s young. This is the passion killer. He is young. And I mean young. Trillian needs to get her groove back, of that there is no doubt. But. This is not the best way to restore my groove. Cougar jailbait aside, the conventional and societal rule of thumb for age appropriateness is that if it would have been biologically possible to push him out of your birth canal he’s too young to enter it from the other direction. I was a late bloomer. I get a few bonus years. Yay me. But. This guy is on the cusp. I need to find out when his birthday is because it’s possible I could have birthed him but not conceived him. But even so, if we’re splitting a few menstrual cycle hairs the kid is too young.
Stupid Pete Wentz haircut. Yes. He’s young. But he ain’t that young. Pete Wentz isn’t young enough to sport a Pete Wentz haircut. If you’re not skipping 7th hour science class to get Mountain Dew Slurpees and go to the skate park you’re too old for a Pete Wentz haircut. And guyliner for that matter. I fear my crush might wear guyliner when he’s off duty. I thought I saw a slight trace of it one morning. He said he was having trouble with his contacts. But I suspect something more sinister at play. Something black and smudgy. And while I don’t give a toss what he does in his personal life, if I’m going to have a crush on him he cannot have a stupid Pete Wentz haircut and wear guyliner. It’s bad enough on 13 year old boys. But on post graduate school professional men? Poof! Attraction vanishes.
So yes, on the plus side, that stupid Pete Wentz hair cut is keeping my modesty and professionalism in tact. When I see a tall choppy headed shadow darkening my door my heart goes pitter, but not pat. When he makes a quick, almost imperceptible jab at my boss my heart only skips half a beat because the accompanying sarcastic roll of his eyes is half covered by the emo swath of hair slicked over his forehead.
When I think about what’s to come, the day of reckoning when our the Bobs deliver their research findings and suggestions, I think of The News being delivered by a guy with a Pete Wentz hair cut. Management research findings lose some credibility when delivered by a guy with a Pete Wentz haircut, don’t you think? I fear that like the Office Space Bobs, our Bobs will call me into the spartan conference room and tell me I’m laid off or that they deem me worthy. Either way, that kind of news delivered from a guy with a Pete Wentz haircut puts a comedic spin on the whole thing. Even more so than the Bobs from Office Space. They look like the kind of guys who deliver that kind of news. It’s all just as you imagine it, the way it should be. But a Bob with a Pete Wentz haircut makes the whole thing off kilter.
And that is what will keep my mind off getting my groove back with my Bob of choice.
* Sadly, we actually still have one of those fax machines. In use. It makes those loud noises and everything. It used to annoy me. It used to embody all that I found wrong with my company. But now I kind of like it. Maybe because I’m getting older and outdated, too, I have a kinship with it. But mainly I like it now because it’s stubborn. It won’t break. And until it does there’s no reason to buy a new one. Yes, you can still order that irritating paper. (We have two cases of it in the stock room, just in case…) It doesn’t get used very often. (When was the last time you sent or received a fax?) So, it’s kind of like Milton (Office Space) Technically it’s fired, but it keeps coming into work. I made it a name plate: Milton. We keep a red Swingline stapler by it. On birthdays us wacky folks in the creative department send it a drawing of a piece of cake.
