“This is the loop,” said Buck, tracing a large, lazy circle in the air with this left hand. “And this,” he added, wiggling two dangling fingers of his right hand like human legs some eighteen inches outside the loop, “is Buck.”
Stubbornly refusing to refer to himself in the 1st person, Buck went on to invite the reader to notice that he was not actually in the loop.
That had always been the story of Buck’s life, but now the winds of change were upon him, blowing through hair that refused to yield because of the sturdy product he used to reinforce it. “Curious the lengths some people will go to carefully construct the illusion of casual disinterest in their appearance,” he mused, but then he quickly pulled himself back from the precipice of digression. “The topic is the winds of change. Buck was finally in the loop.”
Word on the street had reached him that he was not alone. There were others like him dwelling within the sordid depths Cubopolis, silently suffering the insecurities associated with being a consultant. These are human beings, real flesh and blood, body and soul, just like their clients, and yet there is an expectation that they be more than the client: smarter, more productive, more efficient. The consultant is clairvoyant and correctly reads industry trends, finding solutions to problems that the client didn’t even know he had. He “hits the ground running,” accomplishing in hours what might otherwise never be accomplished at all. He weaves order out of the strands of chaos by introducing controls into business and technical processes, despite the fact that he may himself be the former product of that same chaos with no ability to articulate what a “control” actually is in this context, let alone the actual experience necessary to create and implement these controls. All this he must execute with an aura of supreme self-confidence despite a persistent, underlying fear that he will be exposed as the ordinary mortal he really is.
It reminds Buck of his early days as a consultant. He was tossed into a situation where he was supposed to introduce controls for a team of programmers the least experienced of which had exactly 15 more years of programming experience than Buck. Along the way, Buck was supposed to help them write code and identify areas of improvements in their architecture. Buck had faked his way through a year of that nonsense and received nothing but glowing feedback, entertaining multiple interesting job offers, yet at the end of that engagement he still could not have described an actual control. If controls meant the design documents he had written, then sure, he’d introduced “controls.” Yeah, that’s the ticket. Add it to the resume.
At one point the client’s manager had asked Buck into his office to see if Buck could come up with the solution to an architectural problem inherent to the client’s system. Buck was dumbstruck (and dimly aware that he should have foreseen this particular problem: shame on him for allowing the client to find it first!). Buck was invited to take it away and think about it for awhile, and think about it he did. He wrestled with the problem for two weeks. In the end he proposed some options, all of which profoundly sucked. It would be another two years, long after the window of opportunity had closed, before it dawned on him. No, not the answer to the architectural problem, but the flaw in Buck’s approach.
The consultant really is better than the client because he is not actually one person. The consultant is the vanguard of the entire consultant company, and chances are that someone in that company has the background necessary to solve a given problem. This is how he differs from a contractor. A contractor is on his own, while a consultant has his entire firm to fall back on. He does not need to be the expert: someone else in the firm already is. The consultant’s job is to find that expertise and bring it to bear on his client’s situation, and if he succeeds, everybody wins: the client gets his problem solved, the consultant looks like a clairvoyant genius, the expert gets a name to pass along to his manager when it’s time to collect feedback for writing reviews, and the firm itself strengthens its reputation with the client. Good stuff happens.
So Buck heard through the grapevine that people like himself were finding comfort in the blog, that the late night ranting of a lunatic third-person-self-referrer were easing the feelings of isolation inherent in the field of consulting in this tense pressure-cooker Hell we all know and love as Cubopolis. He mentioned this news to the beautiful and enigmatic Mrs. 99, and she said, “You’ve started a religion.”
Or a cult, thought Buck to himself. This was a dangerous situation. People were finding out about the blog. News was spreading. At some point a critical threshold would be reached when enough people would know about the blog that one of them would be the wrong person, someone in a position of power within the firm who didn’t subscribe to the dogma Buck was peddling. Then the house of cards would collapse amidst a flurry of pink slips. Cubocalypse, the end of the road for Buck. He had to do something to rectify this, and fast.
“The first rule of 99 Club,” he began, pacing around the living room in his skivvies, “is don’t talk about 99 Club.”
He adjusted his gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses, pausing to allow time for the first rule to sink in.
“The second rule,” he continued, deliberately emphasizing every last syllable, “is don’t talk about 99 Club!”
Friday, September 29, 2006
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Sweaty Black Men in Tuxes
Buck was participating in a charity sporting event in his former hometown. Now if you actually met Buck in person you might think that he doesn’t look very athletic (and it’s true, he doesn’t), but that just serves to put his opponents off their guard. Nobody ever expects Buck to have speed or grace, but on the field of battle he has both (well, not speed, per se, but certainly quickness. Buck is like a sports car that goes from 0 to 60 in 4.0 seconds, but only has a top speed of 62 and suffers frequent engine and chassis breakdowns). Unfortunately, this particular sporting event was a Bowl-a-Thon, and Buck was nursing a right-shoulder rotator cuff impingement and tendonitis in his right arm so bad he could barely tie his own shoes. In short, Buck was in no position to handle a bowling ball. Instead he passed out t-shirts and door prizes.
As he was passing out the goodies he came upon an old friend, a girl he had attended training with when he’d joined The Inc. Buck had recently received word that Girl had become engaged to Boy. Boy also worked for The Inc., and was bowling nearby. They would go on to make a lovely couple.
Buck had recently joined an alternative pop-rock musical act based in another town in the same region. He hadn’t had many shows with them yet and was eager to kick it into high gear. He saw a quick opportunity for easy money and exposure for the band in a new market. So he asked Girl if she needed a band for her wedding.
“As a matter of fact, we do,” she replied. “What kind of music do you play?”
“Danceable pop rock covers,” he summarized. They covered everything from Goo Goo Dolls, Train, and Counting Crows to Bryan Adams and The Stray Cats.
She seemed excited about the idea, but told Buck to ask Boy, because he was arranging the band. Since Buck was on good footing with Boy he was optimistic about his chances of landing the gig. Little did he know that he was about to be the victim of racial discrimination for the first time in his life.
He spoke to Boy and told him straight up that he had a new band and would like to offer up their services at his wedding for a bargain basement price. For his part Boy seemed genuinely interested: after all, people normally pay through the nose for a wedding band. Who wouldn’t want to pay a quarter of the normal price? Plus someone he knew and trusted would be on the inside, within the band, which would allow for some control over the situation if the music wasn’t just so. But then, with dead earnestness, he dropped the bomb.
"Are you sweaty black men in tuxes?" he asked.
The question caught Buck completely off guard. "Huh?"
Boy rephrased his question. "Are any members of your band sweaty black men in tuxes?"
"Um...no. White guys only. Alternative pop-rock and dance music." Buck felt like a broken record. Hadn’t he covered this ground already?
"Dance music? That's good. We want good dance music. Tell me about your horn section."
Buck saw where this was going, even admired the man for the high standards he was setting. He could tell that Boy hadn’t been playing him. Boy truly had assumed that Buck played music in a large ensemble with black men. That's what serious musicians did, right? Buck went through the motions and answered, "Well, we don't really have a horn section. We're four white guys: two guitars, a bass and drums."
“No tuxes?”
“No tuxes.”
"Sequins?"
"None. "
"Buck,” Boy lamented in a tone of sincerest regret, “I hope you understand it’s nothing personal. I’m sure your band is great. But this is my wedding, a once in a lifetime shot, and I intend to have nothing less than a band of sweaty black men in black or purple tuxes with sequins. A negro band with a brass section is an absolute must, and they have to have synchronized dance moves on stage."
Buck, always a gentle soul and easily brainwashed by PC agents, was a little taken aback by the gratuitous use of the word “negro.” However, he had to admit that bands such as the one Boy described truly were perfect for formal celebrations, certainly better than four white guys covering white music. What really bummed him out, though, was that while he knew he was good enough to play in such a band and had even played successfully in blues and funk ventures in the past, he didn’t quite have what it takes to join a band of sweaty black men in tuxes. True, he was sweaty and he could rent a tuxedo. He could play all the right notes at the right times, with a convincing approximation of African-American rhythm. Hell, he could even throw in the synchronized moves. But that would only take him so far.
As he was passing out the goodies he came upon an old friend, a girl he had attended training with when he’d joined The Inc. Buck had recently received word that Girl had become engaged to Boy. Boy also worked for The Inc., and was bowling nearby. They would go on to make a lovely couple.
Buck had recently joined an alternative pop-rock musical act based in another town in the same region. He hadn’t had many shows with them yet and was eager to kick it into high gear. He saw a quick opportunity for easy money and exposure for the band in a new market. So he asked Girl if she needed a band for her wedding.
“As a matter of fact, we do,” she replied. “What kind of music do you play?”
“Danceable pop rock covers,” he summarized. They covered everything from Goo Goo Dolls, Train, and Counting Crows to Bryan Adams and The Stray Cats.
She seemed excited about the idea, but told Buck to ask Boy, because he was arranging the band. Since Buck was on good footing with Boy he was optimistic about his chances of landing the gig. Little did he know that he was about to be the victim of racial discrimination for the first time in his life.
He spoke to Boy and told him straight up that he had a new band and would like to offer up their services at his wedding for a bargain basement price. For his part Boy seemed genuinely interested: after all, people normally pay through the nose for a wedding band. Who wouldn’t want to pay a quarter of the normal price? Plus someone he knew and trusted would be on the inside, within the band, which would allow for some control over the situation if the music wasn’t just so. But then, with dead earnestness, he dropped the bomb.
"Are you sweaty black men in tuxes?" he asked.
The question caught Buck completely off guard. "Huh?"
Boy rephrased his question. "Are any members of your band sweaty black men in tuxes?"
"Um...no. White guys only. Alternative pop-rock and dance music." Buck felt like a broken record. Hadn’t he covered this ground already?
"Dance music? That's good. We want good dance music. Tell me about your horn section."
Buck saw where this was going, even admired the man for the high standards he was setting. He could tell that Boy hadn’t been playing him. Boy truly had assumed that Buck played music in a large ensemble with black men. That's what serious musicians did, right? Buck went through the motions and answered, "Well, we don't really have a horn section. We're four white guys: two guitars, a bass and drums."
“No tuxes?”
“No tuxes.”
"Sequins?"
"None. "
"Buck,” Boy lamented in a tone of sincerest regret, “I hope you understand it’s nothing personal. I’m sure your band is great. But this is my wedding, a once in a lifetime shot, and I intend to have nothing less than a band of sweaty black men in black or purple tuxes with sequins. A negro band with a brass section is an absolute must, and they have to have synchronized dance moves on stage."
Buck, always a gentle soul and easily brainwashed by PC agents, was a little taken aback by the gratuitous use of the word “negro.” However, he had to admit that bands such as the one Boy described truly were perfect for formal celebrations, certainly better than four white guys covering white music. What really bummed him out, though, was that while he knew he was good enough to play in such a band and had even played successfully in blues and funk ventures in the past, he didn’t quite have what it takes to join a band of sweaty black men in tuxes. True, he was sweaty and he could rent a tuxedo. He could play all the right notes at the right times, with a convincing approximation of African-American rhythm. Hell, he could even throw in the synchronized moves. But that would only take him so far.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
The Celebrated Mr. H.
Buck 99 continued to believe himself to be subject to the laws of nature, unaware that those laws were defined by a program being executed on a doomed spacecraft. The program enforced each law regardless of whether Buck knew about it. Ignorance of the law was no defense against its enforcement. For example, if Buck were to somehow be unaware of the laws of gravity and go stepping off of a high ledge, a loud, painful splat would quickly educate him. Thus were the laws of the program learnable.
Buck was gradually becoming familiar with the laws as they were applied in the Cubopolis milieu. For example, he understood well the natural consequences of foolishly promising to deliver a specific piece of work by a specific date and time. Making such a promise is a common rookie mistake. The promised time comes and goes, and much stress and worry ensues. Eventually, after having repeatedly experienced these negative stimuli, one tries to avoid them by becoming more vague when making such promises. Instead of promising 5:00 PM, for example, one will try to employ acronyms such as “COB” or “EOD.” Unfortunately these do not help since they only guarantee that one will have to finish the work from home and forfeit the right to kick back and unwind. One must be vaguer than that, expressing one’s intentions in terms of weeks or months, but sooner or later the client will inevitably hold his ground and try to corner the victim.
“The key,” wrote the authoritative Buck as if advising an imaginary young protégé wearing a flimsy silk negligee, “is to think of it as a negotiation in multiple dimensions. When they try to pin you on when, that’s when you switch the topic to what. Sure, go ahead and promise a specific date and time if you must, but make sure you get something in return like scope concessions or obfuscation of the details around whatever it is you have to deliver. If possible, become increasingly vague about what content will be included in a given version of a deliverable even as the dates are becoming more solidified.”
Sometimes Buck’s awesome skills as a professional procrastinator astounded even himself, and he paused for a moment to admire his own brilliance. His euphoria was short lived, however, once the Fraud Complex filter through which he viewed himself brought the context of his procrastination into sharper focus. Was it possible to rid himself of FCD (Fraud Complex Disorder) so he could procrastinate at the office to his heart’s content for the remainder of his career, completely guilt free? His gut said no because the FCD was needed to ensure that enough quality work got done to keep him gainfully employed. As he pondered this dilemma he became acutely aware that he’d covered much of this ground already in this same blog. Only two weeks in and he was already starving for material. He was treading on dangerous ground. Nobody was going to try to get him to endorse their products if he established himself as a washed up hack regurgitating the same tired material week after week. He needed a new topic, and he needed it fast.
He glanced over at his client and watched him draw a diagram on the whiteboard. His client was a native of a distant land, and not one of those vastly overpopulated countries that foreigners in the American workplace typically come from. His client, who Buck shall hereafter refer to as Mr. H., came from a very exotic destination, and one which Buck aspired to one day visit. In recent weeks, Mr. H. had come to trust Buck as someone who could guide him through various aspects of American culture. For example, Mr. H. worried about being suddenly and randomly fired by the powers that be within Cubopolis, an event perhaps common in his homeland but much rarer here. This fear would be understandable if Mr. H.’s papers were not in order, but he had a green card and was well on his way to citizenship. He owned a house and had a wife and kids, one of which attended one of the county’s schools for the gifted. By all accounts Mr. H. strove to ensure that the exterior of his house and yard were well maintained to present proper appearances consistent with high suburban standards. He was a top performer in the workplace, and his superiors had rightly entrusted him with a great deal of responsibility. He was very conscientious about every moment he spent at the office, unlike his consultant. Buck believed that guys like this don’t just get fired without cause. They get laid off, sure, but they receive decent severance packages, especially from this particular instance of Cubopolis. He tried to reassure Mr. H. about this, but Mr. H. remained unconvinced. Perhaps Buck was naïve.
In general, though, Mr. H. utilized Buck’s consulting services beyond the scope of the contract. Just the previous morning, in fact, Mr. H. had asked Buck for advice on finding a trustworthy general contractor to repair some recent and extensive damage done to his deck by a violent storm. He was being careful to balance the need to quickly remediate the eye-sore that his deck was inflicting upon his neighbors with the caution that was necessary to avoid being victimized by a crooked and/or incompetent general contractor. Buck would be the first to admit that if left to his own devices, he himself would end up being victimized under similar circumstances. He was nearly certain that he had been cheated many times over the years by various and sundry automobile mechanics. This time was different, though. This time it was a client, and one he was coming to regard as a friend.
Buck quickly sprang into action, applying the time-honored tools of the consultant: technology and personal network. A quick call to Mrs. 99 on her mobile phone set the wheels in motion. She agreed to poll her peers at a social club engagement later that same evening, and also to touch base with two of their neighbors who had recently had significant work of the same sort done. Buck would have good answers for Mr. H. in a very aggressive timeframe, further solidifying the relationship with his client. This could prove very useful if his client ever found out about the blog.
Buck was gradually becoming familiar with the laws as they were applied in the Cubopolis milieu. For example, he understood well the natural consequences of foolishly promising to deliver a specific piece of work by a specific date and time. Making such a promise is a common rookie mistake. The promised time comes and goes, and much stress and worry ensues. Eventually, after having repeatedly experienced these negative stimuli, one tries to avoid them by becoming more vague when making such promises. Instead of promising 5:00 PM, for example, one will try to employ acronyms such as “COB” or “EOD.” Unfortunately these do not help since they only guarantee that one will have to finish the work from home and forfeit the right to kick back and unwind. One must be vaguer than that, expressing one’s intentions in terms of weeks or months, but sooner or later the client will inevitably hold his ground and try to corner the victim.
“The key,” wrote the authoritative Buck as if advising an imaginary young protégé wearing a flimsy silk negligee, “is to think of it as a negotiation in multiple dimensions. When they try to pin you on when, that’s when you switch the topic to what. Sure, go ahead and promise a specific date and time if you must, but make sure you get something in return like scope concessions or obfuscation of the details around whatever it is you have to deliver. If possible, become increasingly vague about what content will be included in a given version of a deliverable even as the dates are becoming more solidified.”
Sometimes Buck’s awesome skills as a professional procrastinator astounded even himself, and he paused for a moment to admire his own brilliance. His euphoria was short lived, however, once the Fraud Complex filter through which he viewed himself brought the context of his procrastination into sharper focus. Was it possible to rid himself of FCD (Fraud Complex Disorder) so he could procrastinate at the office to his heart’s content for the remainder of his career, completely guilt free? His gut said no because the FCD was needed to ensure that enough quality work got done to keep him gainfully employed. As he pondered this dilemma he became acutely aware that he’d covered much of this ground already in this same blog. Only two weeks in and he was already starving for material. He was treading on dangerous ground. Nobody was going to try to get him to endorse their products if he established himself as a washed up hack regurgitating the same tired material week after week. He needed a new topic, and he needed it fast.
He glanced over at his client and watched him draw a diagram on the whiteboard. His client was a native of a distant land, and not one of those vastly overpopulated countries that foreigners in the American workplace typically come from. His client, who Buck shall hereafter refer to as Mr. H., came from a very exotic destination, and one which Buck aspired to one day visit. In recent weeks, Mr. H. had come to trust Buck as someone who could guide him through various aspects of American culture. For example, Mr. H. worried about being suddenly and randomly fired by the powers that be within Cubopolis, an event perhaps common in his homeland but much rarer here. This fear would be understandable if Mr. H.’s papers were not in order, but he had a green card and was well on his way to citizenship. He owned a house and had a wife and kids, one of which attended one of the county’s schools for the gifted. By all accounts Mr. H. strove to ensure that the exterior of his house and yard were well maintained to present proper appearances consistent with high suburban standards. He was a top performer in the workplace, and his superiors had rightly entrusted him with a great deal of responsibility. He was very conscientious about every moment he spent at the office, unlike his consultant. Buck believed that guys like this don’t just get fired without cause. They get laid off, sure, but they receive decent severance packages, especially from this particular instance of Cubopolis. He tried to reassure Mr. H. about this, but Mr. H. remained unconvinced. Perhaps Buck was naïve.
In general, though, Mr. H. utilized Buck’s consulting services beyond the scope of the contract. Just the previous morning, in fact, Mr. H. had asked Buck for advice on finding a trustworthy general contractor to repair some recent and extensive damage done to his deck by a violent storm. He was being careful to balance the need to quickly remediate the eye-sore that his deck was inflicting upon his neighbors with the caution that was necessary to avoid being victimized by a crooked and/or incompetent general contractor. Buck would be the first to admit that if left to his own devices, he himself would end up being victimized under similar circumstances. He was nearly certain that he had been cheated many times over the years by various and sundry automobile mechanics. This time was different, though. This time it was a client, and one he was coming to regard as a friend.
Buck quickly sprang into action, applying the time-honored tools of the consultant: technology and personal network. A quick call to Mrs. 99 on her mobile phone set the wheels in motion. She agreed to poll her peers at a social club engagement later that same evening, and also to touch base with two of their neighbors who had recently had significant work of the same sort done. Buck would have good answers for Mr. H. in a very aggressive timeframe, further solidifying the relationship with his client. This could prove very useful if his client ever found out about the blog.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Why the Panthers Are 0-2
Buck was not worried about the Carolina Panthers’ two losses to open the 2006 NFL season. He knew that they had everyone fooled, lulling other teams into a false sense of security with a series of "unexpected" losses at the start of the season. Steve Smith's fake hammy injury was a brilliant ploy, and coach John Fox was a genius. Buck could only shake his head and smile in admiration of the beauty of the plan. They would open the season 0-4, then head to Cleveland and start bashing heads. Sure, three of their first four games were against division opponents, and that would make it extremely difficult to win the division. But winning the division had never been the plan. Since when had Carolina ever been an effective team as the favorite? No, they needed to be the underdogs. They needed to be disrespected in the press, fueling a visceral rage demanding release through brutal, repeated hammerings delivered with hot-blooded fury against any players unfortunate enough to try to stand in their way. Only then would the world witness true Carolina football.
“The botched punt return,” he typed, trying to make himself believe his own nonsense, “says it all. They had the Vikings on the ropes, but the score was still reasonably close. Then they tried to execute a trick special teams play deep in their own territory. Such risky tactics are not characteristic of John Fox football. Yet the evidence available through a simple perusal of the post-game interviews indicate that Chris Gamble’s ill-fated pass attempt was not something the usually reliable player improvised on the spur of the moment. The play was called from the sidelines.”
Buck concluded that since the trick play was too unlike anything John Fox was prone to call under the given circumstances, and since Gamble normally executed well, the play and its poor execution must have been intended to throw the game away. After that it was a simple matter to act fooled by the fake field goal that Minnesota used to throw a touchdown pass.
His buddy Al saw the situation differently. They’re overrated, he quietly explained to Buck, and what’s worse, they believed the hype about themselves in the press. The truth is that when people assess this year’s Carolina squad, they’re remembering the 2003 Superbowl team and have failed to recognize several key differences between that great team and this one:
“The botched punt return,” he typed, trying to make himself believe his own nonsense, “says it all. They had the Vikings on the ropes, but the score was still reasonably close. Then they tried to execute a trick special teams play deep in their own territory. Such risky tactics are not characteristic of John Fox football. Yet the evidence available through a simple perusal of the post-game interviews indicate that Chris Gamble’s ill-fated pass attempt was not something the usually reliable player improvised on the spur of the moment. The play was called from the sidelines.”
Buck concluded that since the trick play was too unlike anything John Fox was prone to call under the given circumstances, and since Gamble normally executed well, the play and its poor execution must have been intended to throw the game away. After that it was a simple matter to act fooled by the fake field goal that Minnesota used to throw a touchdown pass.
His buddy Al saw the situation differently. They’re overrated, he quietly explained to Buck, and what’s worse, they believed the hype about themselves in the press. The truth is that when people assess this year’s Carolina squad, they’re remembering the 2003 Superbowl team and have failed to recognize several key differences between that great team and this one:
- The 2003 squad had a solid offensive line that both protected Delhomme and allowed the establishment of an up-the-middle rushing game. They were successful because the line consisted of the right personnel who happened to have been working together for multiple seasons. Familiarity is critical in an O-line. The new line doesn’t have it yet, and with Travell Wharton out the situation has only gotten worse. So Delhomme, who can thread the eye of a needle (but only when the game is on the line), will continue to be forced into making bonehead decisions.
- The 2003 squad was doping up, and this year's squad (presumably) is not.
- In '03 they had both Steve Smith AND Mushin Mohammad. A speedy, elusive guy for breaking tackles after the quick catch, and a big guy completely unafraid to extend himself vertically in heavy traffic and sustain the inevitable post-reception bruising hits. This combination of players was perfect for a hot-headed and sometimes shaky QB like Delhomme.
- Ricky Manning. Sometimes suspect, but always great for a few big defensive takeaways. Of all the teams he could go to, did it have to be the Bears? Like their defense needed the help.
I got news for you buddy, Al said with real sympathy, Carolina’s going 0-4 to start the season, then they’ll finally get a win against the Browns. After that, the Ravens will knock the hope right out of them, and Cincinnati and Dallas will bury them, leaving them at a dismal 1-7 when their divisional rivals from Tampa come calling. Maybe they’ll win that game and the next one against the Rams, but at best they can hope to win only half of the remaining games, so they’ll be making their January vacation plans well in advance of ending the season 6-10.
Buck couldn’t believe his ears, but he rarely listened to Al anyway. True, Buck had never really believed his own inane story of the Panthers throwing the game, but he chose to remain bullish on his favorite team’s chances. They had played well, after all, but they’d blown a few plays late in the game and that had made the difference. The season was still young, though. There was still hope.
And Steve Smith wouldn’t be out forever.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Like Kubla Khan
Buck had the makings of a really good song stirring in his head. It needed to get out, so he opened up Notepad and began to channel his anger and confusion over recent personal events into words and rhythms with dark guitars heavy with the throaty, natural harmonic distortion that only all-vacuum tube amplification could render. The words themselves started pouring out, spilling onto the screen from some bleeding wound in his mind, a window that peered into someplace else, an un-place where thoughts and ideas exist independently of their thinkers, and whoever gets to them first claims them as their own. Raw emotions and truths are bottled up in this other realm, too many to be contained, all straining for release. For those who know how to open their minds to them they will gladly come through, suffering imperfect but necessary translation into the media of images, sounds, ideas and words that our minds are capable of shaping and at least trying to comprehend.
Words might begin with a trickle, dripping through to the mind one by one, but you can’t force them, can’t make the mistake of digging for them or you’ll destroy the truth. They have to come of their own free will, and will greedily accept any invitation offered by an open mind, be it a mind at peace or a mind in turmoil. Only then will they flow freely and eventually burst forth in a raging deluge through the rent fabric of the dividing layer.
Buck had written maybe fifteen words of his angry song when his client approached him from behind and requested a series of meetings. Quick as a flash and a keyboard shortcut the Notepad application disappeared to the bottom of the Windows stack, and Buck’s mind was rudely yanked back to the tedium he had naively come to accept as “reality.” Another three minutes and the deed was done; meetings were arranged, wheels were set in motion, and the appearance of usefulness had been cultivated. Buck had “added value,” and sooner or later word would get back to his masters at his parent firm. They would later offer Buck positively effusive verbal and written feedback, all the while keeping something trivial in their back pockets as justification for a smaller salary adjustment come review time.
As the client stalked away on his continuing quest for corporate glory, Buck returned to his song to find that the window had closed. Enough of his emotional energy had been dispelled with those first fifteen words that even the smallest interruption by a single Cubopolis agent had been sufficient to close that particular window and shroud it in the fog of ordinary office concerns. Buck knew from experience that this particular rupture into the realm of his muse would prove difficult to find and reopen again. So he forced a quick ending to the lyrics he had captured, called them a poem instead of a song, and decided to save the instrumental aspects imprinted on his brain for another song, another day, when he would have more ample opportunity to set it free.
Unbelievable
Look what you've done to her
Unthinkable
And for what gain?
The pain that you gave is
unforgivable
Did you think of her?
Or the kids
when she beat you
but now the
window’s closed
and my rage it gets caged
for now it’s not
releasable.
Words might begin with a trickle, dripping through to the mind one by one, but you can’t force them, can’t make the mistake of digging for them or you’ll destroy the truth. They have to come of their own free will, and will greedily accept any invitation offered by an open mind, be it a mind at peace or a mind in turmoil. Only then will they flow freely and eventually burst forth in a raging deluge through the rent fabric of the dividing layer.
Buck had written maybe fifteen words of his angry song when his client approached him from behind and requested a series of meetings. Quick as a flash and a keyboard shortcut the Notepad application disappeared to the bottom of the Windows stack, and Buck’s mind was rudely yanked back to the tedium he had naively come to accept as “reality.” Another three minutes and the deed was done; meetings were arranged, wheels were set in motion, and the appearance of usefulness had been cultivated. Buck had “added value,” and sooner or later word would get back to his masters at his parent firm. They would later offer Buck positively effusive verbal and written feedback, all the while keeping something trivial in their back pockets as justification for a smaller salary adjustment come review time.
As the client stalked away on his continuing quest for corporate glory, Buck returned to his song to find that the window had closed. Enough of his emotional energy had been dispelled with those first fifteen words that even the smallest interruption by a single Cubopolis agent had been sufficient to close that particular window and shroud it in the fog of ordinary office concerns. Buck knew from experience that this particular rupture into the realm of his muse would prove difficult to find and reopen again. So he forced a quick ending to the lyrics he had captured, called them a poem instead of a song, and decided to save the instrumental aspects imprinted on his brain for another song, another day, when he would have more ample opportunity to set it free.
Unbelievable
Look what you've done to her
Unthinkable
And for what gain?
The pain that you gave is
unforgivable
Did you think of her?
Or the kids
when she beat you
but now the
window’s closed
and my rage it gets caged
for now it’s not
releasable.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Fraud Complex
As Buck’s ship accelerated into the black hole, his unconscious perception of self-awareness decelerated, effectively stretching the duration of the dream he believed to be his real life to a point approaching infinity.
In short, Buck had become immortal, at least as a perceiver of events within his own mind. Naturally he was unaware of this as he slumbered in blissful ignorance in a state of suspended stasis, courtesy of his ship’s Lifenet system. He did not know that the supposed events of his life were in fact illusions fed to him by the system’s programming. Therefore he still believed himself to be an ordinary mortal and subject to the laws of nature as he understood them.
One of those laws went something like this: if you can produce at least one item of real work per day, then people around you will assume that you are working your ass off for the whole day and are highly productive. In accordance with that law, Buck had gone above and beyond the call of duty and performed a dizzying array of high profile tasks all before 10:30 AM. He had made several quick updates to the dreaded By-the-Nanosecond schedule, sent out numerous meeting invitations via email that suggested Buck was a more farsighted planner than he really was, and tackled a few testing issues in a manner indicative of someone who actually understood the true nature of the issues better than he really did. Perception was key, however, another natural law with which Buck was well accustomed. Today he was giving out that certain productive vibe that had historically resulted in clients asking for him by name and periodically attempting to persuade him to leave his parent firm and join them in the rank and file of the corporate hell known generically in this space as Cubopolis.
“Interestingly,” he typed furiously into his blog while avoiding a task he was loath to begin, “Buck classified himself as someone with a ‘fraud complex.’ A person with a fraud complex always assumes that someone is going to find out that he is really a fraud. The fraud does not believe that he is being fairly compensated for his work; instead, he feels he is being overcompensated. He worries that if people discover how exceedingly simple his job really is, they will fire him and replace him with a legitimate professional willing to do the same job for half the money.”
The irony that he had both a fraud complex and a chronic predilection for procrastination was not lost on Buck. That he was extemporizing on this irony during business hours was itself reinforcing the destructive fraud complex that gradually eroded his self-esteem and slowly filled a deep well of shame within him that threatened to spill over one day into every facet of his life. “If he could just let go of this blog for twenty minutes,” he wrote, “then he’d get the job done, feel a little better about himself, and be a real professional for a change, if just for a few moments, completing ahead of schedule a relatively simple task that others perceived to be challenging, time-consuming, and worthy of substantial financial compensation.”
With sudden inspiration and sense of purpose he decided to go for it, but first he had to actually publish the blog entry, further procrastinating the task at hand. After all, he rationalized, wouldn’t it be a waste to have captured these thoughts in the blog only to leave them forever to decay on some laptop hard drive? That the blog itself was a waste of time and would never be read by a single human being other than himself also occurred to him. But this realization and associated sense of waste would have been even more poignant had he understood the true context of his situation, i.e., that he was effectively immortal. “If you were immortal,” Buck asked rhetorically to the total of zero people who visited his blog site, “would you waste your time on writing a blog?”
In short, Buck had become immortal, at least as a perceiver of events within his own mind. Naturally he was unaware of this as he slumbered in blissful ignorance in a state of suspended stasis, courtesy of his ship’s Lifenet system. He did not know that the supposed events of his life were in fact illusions fed to him by the system’s programming. Therefore he still believed himself to be an ordinary mortal and subject to the laws of nature as he understood them.
One of those laws went something like this: if you can produce at least one item of real work per day, then people around you will assume that you are working your ass off for the whole day and are highly productive. In accordance with that law, Buck had gone above and beyond the call of duty and performed a dizzying array of high profile tasks all before 10:30 AM. He had made several quick updates to the dreaded By-the-Nanosecond schedule, sent out numerous meeting invitations via email that suggested Buck was a more farsighted planner than he really was, and tackled a few testing issues in a manner indicative of someone who actually understood the true nature of the issues better than he really did. Perception was key, however, another natural law with which Buck was well accustomed. Today he was giving out that certain productive vibe that had historically resulted in clients asking for him by name and periodically attempting to persuade him to leave his parent firm and join them in the rank and file of the corporate hell known generically in this space as Cubopolis.
“Interestingly,” he typed furiously into his blog while avoiding a task he was loath to begin, “Buck classified himself as someone with a ‘fraud complex.’ A person with a fraud complex always assumes that someone is going to find out that he is really a fraud. The fraud does not believe that he is being fairly compensated for his work; instead, he feels he is being overcompensated. He worries that if people discover how exceedingly simple his job really is, they will fire him and replace him with a legitimate professional willing to do the same job for half the money.”
The irony that he had both a fraud complex and a chronic predilection for procrastination was not lost on Buck. That he was extemporizing on this irony during business hours was itself reinforcing the destructive fraud complex that gradually eroded his self-esteem and slowly filled a deep well of shame within him that threatened to spill over one day into every facet of his life. “If he could just let go of this blog for twenty minutes,” he wrote, “then he’d get the job done, feel a little better about himself, and be a real professional for a change, if just for a few moments, completing ahead of schedule a relatively simple task that others perceived to be challenging, time-consuming, and worthy of substantial financial compensation.”
With sudden inspiration and sense of purpose he decided to go for it, but first he had to actually publish the blog entry, further procrastinating the task at hand. After all, he rationalized, wouldn’t it be a waste to have captured these thoughts in the blog only to leave them forever to decay on some laptop hard drive? That the blog itself was a waste of time and would never be read by a single human being other than himself also occurred to him. But this realization and associated sense of waste would have been even more poignant had he understood the true context of his situation, i.e., that he was effectively immortal. “If you were immortal,” Buck asked rhetorically to the total of zero people who visited his blog site, “would you waste your time on writing a blog?”
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
In Memoriam
Buck 99 wasn’t sure how to handle a serious topic in his new blog, but he felt certain that he should make the effort regardless. You see, Buck was what you might call a “Herpetologist-wannabe.” He loved reptiles, all kinds, but especially snakes. Buck frequently found himself on small detours from his fitness walks and bicycle rides to explore creek beds and marshy areas in search of slippery, slimy things, and in recent months he had gotten better at spotting his quarry. He was even known on occasion to gently handle the snakes he found, though only after he was able to make a positive identification of the species. Buck was a practical man, after all, and always considered the interests of the lovely Mrs. 99 and their children before putting himself in mortal jeopardy for nothing more than simple amusement.
Thus it was with great sadness that he learned of the tragic death of Steve Irwin, a.k.a. “The Crocodile Hunter.” Man, that was just plain awful news in general, but it hit Buck particularly hard because of the shared interest in reptiles. Irwin had a family too, but he sometimes took terrible risks. Yet he took these risks for a great purpose. Irwin did so much for wildlife awareness around the world, helping people to better understand and appreciate these beautiful creatures, and would have accomplished much more given time. Alas, others like him will have to answer the call, but there will never be another quite like him, with his infectious enthusiasm and wild personality. He was completely unpredictable, and you couldn’t take your eyes off him, wondering what crazy stunt he was going to do next. There will never be another Steve Irwin.
He will be sorely missed, and may his legacy continue and thrive.
Thus it was with great sadness that he learned of the tragic death of Steve Irwin, a.k.a. “The Crocodile Hunter.” Man, that was just plain awful news in general, but it hit Buck particularly hard because of the shared interest in reptiles. Irwin had a family too, but he sometimes took terrible risks. Yet he took these risks for a great purpose. Irwin did so much for wildlife awareness around the world, helping people to better understand and appreciate these beautiful creatures, and would have accomplished much more given time. Alas, others like him will have to answer the call, but there will never be another quite like him, with his infectious enthusiasm and wild personality. He was completely unpredictable, and you couldn’t take your eyes off him, wondering what crazy stunt he was going to do next. There will never be another Steve Irwin.
He will be sorely missed, and may his legacy continue and thrive.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Into the Rabbit Hole
Buck was on a roll. He had successfully put off trying to figure out where his old 401K account resided by placing a phone call to a major online wholesaler to arrange to return a faulty specialty computer product. Since Buck limited himself to a maximum of one personal administrative task per day, the 401K would have to wait until tomorrow.
Administrative tasks in the workplace were another matter entirely. He was manifestly unable to avoid doing those. Procrastination and general apathy toward his work in general had cost him the promotions necessary to reach the level at which the corporation would assign him an administrative assistant. Not that he didn’t take pride in his work; to the contrary, he was exceptionally detail oriented and produced only the finest quality deliverables. But the energy and the interest to take it to the next level, to play the game with cold-blooded intensity and call it leadership, these he had not done, and so he was on his own. Yet today he sliced and diced his way through email-based invitations and room reservations, securing teleconference numbers, identifying key players, and diplomatically applying guilt and guile to enforce attendance every step of the way.
Buck had also set himself up nicely to score later that night with the lovely and talented Mrs. 99. Two nights in a row she’d known he was ready and primed, but when she hadn’t delivered the goods, he’d played it cool, giving her the time and space she needed. He knew she was exhausted from preparing the kids to return to school, and it was a no-brainer for him to factor in her emotional strain from dealing with a house about to empty itself. She deserved a break. His patience would soon pay off, though, as it always did.
He paused in the middle of this blog entry to fire off another meeting invitation. Then the “out-of-office” replies started rolling in. Yeah, right, he thought, as if there really was such a thing as truly being out of the office, away from work. You could take the man out of the office, but you couldn’t take the office out of the man. It haunts him in every corner of his life, a shady figure that fades to a shimmer of dimness on Friday afternoon, but gradually expands into focus from that point forth, or suddenly leaps out in ambush with a sharp ring tone occasionally accompanied by a jolting vibration at one’s hip. If the office wants you, it will have you, whenever it wants and wherever you are, no matter what it is exactly that you think you’re actually doing at the moment.
He pondered the nature of the blog, and its future. Was it a waste of his time? Undoubtedly. Would people read it? Probably not. Was it cathartic? Only time would tell. Should he use it as a means to practice writing fiction in the hopes that one day he might become an author as he always dreamed? Sure, he thought. Why not?
It was precisely then, as Buck considered these thoughts, that his vessel slid quietly into a black hole’s gravity well due to a bug in the custom code he had written and introduced into the ship’s navcom system just last week. The navcom system failed to even register the error, so the alarm didn’t sound and the primary thrusters failed to engage (it wouldn’t have mattered: contrary to what common sense might suggest, trying to thrust one’s way out of a black hole only speeds up the inevitable). The ship’s other core systems were unaware of the threat, so the Lifenet system had no reason to wake him and alert him to the danger. Thus Buck would continue on in deep-sleep stasis, living a dream fed to him programmatically by Lifenet in which he believed himself to be a professional project manager on Earth in the early 21st century B.A. (a dream he would not have selected for himself…Buck had selected “Hawaiian surfer” from the menu, but his buddy e-Taco had played a prank and made a switch behind the scenes). He would live this dream until he was crushed into cosmic pulp by the mass of twenty suns inhabiting a twisted fragment of space the size of a single tennis ball. Although he would first be ripped apart and then compressed to the size of a single electron within seven seconds, the nature of the unconscious mind and the effects of space-time distortions upon it would allow the dream to seem much longer than the events conspiring to destroy the dreamer…
Administrative tasks in the workplace were another matter entirely. He was manifestly unable to avoid doing those. Procrastination and general apathy toward his work in general had cost him the promotions necessary to reach the level at which the corporation would assign him an administrative assistant. Not that he didn’t take pride in his work; to the contrary, he was exceptionally detail oriented and produced only the finest quality deliverables. But the energy and the interest to take it to the next level, to play the game with cold-blooded intensity and call it leadership, these he had not done, and so he was on his own. Yet today he sliced and diced his way through email-based invitations and room reservations, securing teleconference numbers, identifying key players, and diplomatically applying guilt and guile to enforce attendance every step of the way.
Buck had also set himself up nicely to score later that night with the lovely and talented Mrs. 99. Two nights in a row she’d known he was ready and primed, but when she hadn’t delivered the goods, he’d played it cool, giving her the time and space she needed. He knew she was exhausted from preparing the kids to return to school, and it was a no-brainer for him to factor in her emotional strain from dealing with a house about to empty itself. She deserved a break. His patience would soon pay off, though, as it always did.
He paused in the middle of this blog entry to fire off another meeting invitation. Then the “out-of-office” replies started rolling in. Yeah, right, he thought, as if there really was such a thing as truly being out of the office, away from work. You could take the man out of the office, but you couldn’t take the office out of the man. It haunts him in every corner of his life, a shady figure that fades to a shimmer of dimness on Friday afternoon, but gradually expands into focus from that point forth, or suddenly leaps out in ambush with a sharp ring tone occasionally accompanied by a jolting vibration at one’s hip. If the office wants you, it will have you, whenever it wants and wherever you are, no matter what it is exactly that you think you’re actually doing at the moment.
He pondered the nature of the blog, and its future. Was it a waste of his time? Undoubtedly. Would people read it? Probably not. Was it cathartic? Only time would tell. Should he use it as a means to practice writing fiction in the hopes that one day he might become an author as he always dreamed? Sure, he thought. Why not?
It was precisely then, as Buck considered these thoughts, that his vessel slid quietly into a black hole’s gravity well due to a bug in the custom code he had written and introduced into the ship’s navcom system just last week. The navcom system failed to even register the error, so the alarm didn’t sound and the primary thrusters failed to engage (it wouldn’t have mattered: contrary to what common sense might suggest, trying to thrust one’s way out of a black hole only speeds up the inevitable). The ship’s other core systems were unaware of the threat, so the Lifenet system had no reason to wake him and alert him to the danger. Thus Buck would continue on in deep-sleep stasis, living a dream fed to him programmatically by Lifenet in which he believed himself to be a professional project manager on Earth in the early 21st century B.A. (a dream he would not have selected for himself…Buck had selected “Hawaiian surfer” from the menu, but his buddy e-Taco had played a prank and made a switch behind the scenes). He would live this dream until he was crushed into cosmic pulp by the mass of twenty suns inhabiting a twisted fragment of space the size of a single tennis ball. Although he would first be ripped apart and then compressed to the size of a single electron within seven seconds, the nature of the unconscious mind and the effects of space-time distortions upon it would allow the dream to seem much longer than the events conspiring to destroy the dreamer…
Friday, September 01, 2006
A Day in the Life
“The crisis du jour was pain in his shoulder,” Buck wrote in his blog, referring to himself in the third person, “compounded by an aggravating blister on the inside sole of his right foot caused by his sneakers being too tight. They were too tight because of the new gel inserts he had placed in his shoes in a vain attempt to alleviate the sharp discomfort of the bone spur in his left heel. The bone spur had gotten worse in recent weeks due to increased activity playing both tennis and basketball. True, his overall fitness was improving, but he really had no business playing either of those sports lately, what with the re-emergence of the impingement in his right shoulder rotator cuff and the arthritis in his collar bone AC joint and all. Plus, wasn’t he supposed to be resting to recover from the chronic upper-middle back spasms that had driven him to go on hiatus from tennis, basketball, and playing electric bass with two local rock bands in the first place?”
He abruptly switched windows on his laptop computer in disgust at what he had written, and at what had become of his body. It was just as well, he thought. It was time to get back to work anyways. He had important work to do. It was absolutely critical that he complete the By-the-nanosecond project schedule on time. There was a meeting that afternoon - correction, a “pull-up”- to discuss the approach they would be using at the Tuesday "deep dive" session which they would use to prepare for the deliverable review meeting on Thursday. Yes, it was a meeting to prepare for a meeting to prepare for a meeting. Typical fare in Cubopolis. And he just knew someone was going to ask him why these three meetings weren’t themselves represented as line items in the schedule that was the deliverable that was going to be discussed at the meetings. Should a by-the-minute schedule include the details of its own creation? Should project management deliverables be updated retroactively with tasks such as these if the tasks in question had already been completed? These were philosophical questions over which even reasonable people could sometimes disagree. What made it worse was that there were no reasonable people around that day. Some days it seemed like there never were.
He consumed another swig of a non-caffeinated concoction of carbonated water, caramel color, Aspartame™, and several additional unpronounceable ingredients certain to shorten his lifespan with some form of cancer. Not that he had any illusions of outliving his debts to retire in comfort or anything. Three college-bound daughters, a hefty mortgage, and his own seemingly uncontrollable spending habits were already lining up nicely to rain on that parade. His tendency toward procrastination was also a major contributing factor. After ten months with a new firm he still had yet to roll over his 401K from his previous employer into the new plan. God only knew how the funds in his old 401K were invested, or how those investments were performing. Just thinking about it paralyzed him into inaction. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to have control of his finances, or that he didn’t want to become wealthy before his tragic, cancerous death. Quite the contrary, in fact. No, it was because of the administrative nightmare that awaited him. He needed the forms, and those had to be ordered online. What was his user ID? What was his password? He had no clue. It had been too long, and being a stickler for security, he’d played by the rules and never written his passwords down. So he would have to call the trust company (good luck remembering who that might be or what their phone number was) and request a new password. After waiting on hold for twenty minutes, they would send him a new password by snail-mail to the address currently on file, which was probably his old address in another town, some 300 miles away. He’d been through this mess before, when he waited four years before rolling over a 401K after a previous employment change. That traumatic episode had devoured three weeks of his life, three weeks he had lost in a twisted vortex of bureaucratic despair. Some people don’t learn from their mistakes. He was one of them.
It was with a detached sense of guilt that he swallowed some more of his beverage. Although it contained no sugar and no caffeine (two well-documented evils), the beverage was not strictly on the Twigs ‘n’ Berries™ diet. The doctor had had many unkind words for the powerful soft drink lobby and their so-called studies on the harmlessness of the artificial sweetener ingredient she regarded as poison. Screw it, he thought. It tasted good, and he deserved it. He had been good. Not perfect, but good. He decided not to identify the beverage by name in the blog, however, since he would probably not be compensated for product placement. But if the blog ever became publishable as an autobiography, then he might receive inquiries, perhaps even some offers from the major soft drink companies, and if the price was right, a second edition could make everyone happy. He could be bought. He could even switch brands, if it came down to that. He was not ashamed.
The drink was getting too warm. It had lost that frosty coolness, and the emptiness he felt was palpable, like when an old friend fades away, or an infatuation dies. Something special was gone forever, but at least he’d finally gotten to use the word “palpable,” albeit rather clumsily. Too much typing between swigs, he thought, and time was flying by at an alarming pace. A glance at the clock elicited a pang of guilt over the wasted time his client was paying him for. He swiftly made a token update to a line item in the schedule and vowed to make it up to them later.
He felt an aching in his left leg as it slowly lost circulation due to his sitting position. It was either the leg or his ass that would go numb, he knew from experience, depending on which way he sat. He made a command decision and switched positions for awhile. He would switch back later after his ass fell asleep. The problem was balancing the keyboard in his lap. He had it down there because one of his doctors had advised him to keep his arms low and rested so that the muscles in his back wouldn’t exhaust themselves over the course of the day, delaying the healing which would allegedly one day occur. Then, a temporary loss of network connectivity, probably related to tropical depression Eduardo outside, and the helpless feeling associated with knowing he had forgotten to save his changes, washed over him like a wave of raw anguish. Rookie mistake, he chided himself angrily. He had a history of being hard on himself.
Then, out of the blue, a funny thought occurred to him: hurricanes and tropical storms always received names, just like people. How come they didn’t get nicknames like people too? There had been a Hurricane Charles, he was reasonably sure, but why hadn’t anyone called it The Chuckster? Or how about Katrina, the one that devastated New Orleans two years ago? Maybe from now on she could be referred to as "Hurricane Nasty Bitch." Hell, that would be being generous. Hurricanes Dickhead and Assclown are also memorable national disasters that come to mind. What a bunch of jerks those guys were, huh? Hey, is this thing on? These are the jokes, folks!
[Publisher’s note: we do not condone Buck 99’s profanity, but feel it is appropriate, in the interest of free speech, to leave his comments unedited as he originally intended them. That, and we want to find out what he can get away with on this site. Stay tuned.]
He abruptly decided not to quit his day job to become a comedian. No, far better and more financially sound to keep the day job and become a writer.
There was a brief but pleasant interlude when he received an email from one of his friends, whom we shall call E-Taco. E-Taco had picked up on the negative vibe our protagonist was putting out that day. His mood wasn’t really as bad as his buddy had perceived, though. The writing was cathartic, and the time appeared to be passing very rapidly, after all. He would be home for the three day weekend in no time, with plenty of time to procrastinate completion of the study group assignment he’d just received from his employer via the company email. Nothing like work on a holiday weekend to keep the mind sharp, he thought. Besides, the study group was a means to an end. Upon completion of the class and passing the certification exam, he could finally escape the terrifying world of project management and return to the frustrating but relatively benign realm of software application design and development. He would rather fight seemingly insurmountable engineering obstacles and defects than be stabbed in the back by politically savvy, power hungry middle-management ladder-climbers any day of the week. That, and he had developed a keen hatred of a certain project management software tool provided by a major software provider operating out of the Pacific Northwest region. If the makers of that tool wanted him to cast aside that hatred and embrace the tool in a public arena such as, say, this space, then they would need to reach out to his agent and discuss a product placement advertisement deal, as well as fix some of the many annoying “features” of their product.
The email from E-Taco suggested that our protagonist should abandon the Twigs ‘n’ Berries™ diet in favor of nachos, onion dip, and beer. Our protagonist decided that this was not a wise course of action. After all, hadn’t he just received the “Energizer Bunny” award at the Hoops Hotline awards cook-out just last night? The award was given to him for having the most energy at both ends of the court. He had accepted the award humbly and cracked a joke about thanking The Academy, all the while inwardly feeling proud of having received this superficially meaningless award. To him, it was a testimony to how far he had come in five months since the lifestyle change, proof that his energy and overall fitness really had improved. He celebrated along with the others as they received their own awards, his second light beer of the evening grasped firmly in one hand, his plateful of carrots and hommus in the other. He even tried a little onion dip with some baked chips, and it was good. He was a little buzzed when he got home later that evening, though, and made some poor decisions regarding a box of delicious, satisfying, whole grain crackers and the quantity of which should be consumed at a single sitting. Although his weight was up on the scales the next morning, he would happily endorse the manufacturers of these fine crackers at a discount rate if they can guess who they are.
Besides, he knew that going off the new lifestyle would be a major financial misstep. He had just spent a mint on new clothes from two leading men’s clothing specialty stores. Although he prefers one of the stores over the other because of the cut of the legs on their slacks, he would gladly endorse whichever one offers the more lucrative deal, then use the funds to secretly purchase his slacks from the preferred vendor if necessary. He had also developed a positive self-image for the first time in his life. He liked the way he looked. He always took a few extra moments during bathroom breaks to admire his reflection in the mirror. Not with vanity or even pride, really, but more with a sense of pleasant surprise that hasn't worn off yet.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the globe, night had fallen, and millions upon millions of hot, naked Asian chicks were busy getting it on. This final sentiment brought to you by E-Taco.
He abruptly switched windows on his laptop computer in disgust at what he had written, and at what had become of his body. It was just as well, he thought. It was time to get back to work anyways. He had important work to do. It was absolutely critical that he complete the By-the-nanosecond project schedule on time. There was a meeting that afternoon - correction, a “pull-up”- to discuss the approach they would be using at the Tuesday "deep dive" session which they would use to prepare for the deliverable review meeting on Thursday. Yes, it was a meeting to prepare for a meeting to prepare for a meeting. Typical fare in Cubopolis. And he just knew someone was going to ask him why these three meetings weren’t themselves represented as line items in the schedule that was the deliverable that was going to be discussed at the meetings. Should a by-the-minute schedule include the details of its own creation? Should project management deliverables be updated retroactively with tasks such as these if the tasks in question had already been completed? These were philosophical questions over which even reasonable people could sometimes disagree. What made it worse was that there were no reasonable people around that day. Some days it seemed like there never were.
He consumed another swig of a non-caffeinated concoction of carbonated water, caramel color, Aspartame™, and several additional unpronounceable ingredients certain to shorten his lifespan with some form of cancer. Not that he had any illusions of outliving his debts to retire in comfort or anything. Three college-bound daughters, a hefty mortgage, and his own seemingly uncontrollable spending habits were already lining up nicely to rain on that parade. His tendency toward procrastination was also a major contributing factor. After ten months with a new firm he still had yet to roll over his 401K from his previous employer into the new plan. God only knew how the funds in his old 401K were invested, or how those investments were performing. Just thinking about it paralyzed him into inaction. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to have control of his finances, or that he didn’t want to become wealthy before his tragic, cancerous death. Quite the contrary, in fact. No, it was because of the administrative nightmare that awaited him. He needed the forms, and those had to be ordered online. What was his user ID? What was his password? He had no clue. It had been too long, and being a stickler for security, he’d played by the rules and never written his passwords down. So he would have to call the trust company (good luck remembering who that might be or what their phone number was) and request a new password. After waiting on hold for twenty minutes, they would send him a new password by snail-mail to the address currently on file, which was probably his old address in another town, some 300 miles away. He’d been through this mess before, when he waited four years before rolling over a 401K after a previous employment change. That traumatic episode had devoured three weeks of his life, three weeks he had lost in a twisted vortex of bureaucratic despair. Some people don’t learn from their mistakes. He was one of them.
It was with a detached sense of guilt that he swallowed some more of his beverage. Although it contained no sugar and no caffeine (two well-documented evils), the beverage was not strictly on the Twigs ‘n’ Berries™ diet. The doctor had had many unkind words for the powerful soft drink lobby and their so-called studies on the harmlessness of the artificial sweetener ingredient she regarded as poison. Screw it, he thought. It tasted good, and he deserved it. He had been good. Not perfect, but good. He decided not to identify the beverage by name in the blog, however, since he would probably not be compensated for product placement. But if the blog ever became publishable as an autobiography, then he might receive inquiries, perhaps even some offers from the major soft drink companies, and if the price was right, a second edition could make everyone happy. He could be bought. He could even switch brands, if it came down to that. He was not ashamed.
The drink was getting too warm. It had lost that frosty coolness, and the emptiness he felt was palpable, like when an old friend fades away, or an infatuation dies. Something special was gone forever, but at least he’d finally gotten to use the word “palpable,” albeit rather clumsily. Too much typing between swigs, he thought, and time was flying by at an alarming pace. A glance at the clock elicited a pang of guilt over the wasted time his client was paying him for. He swiftly made a token update to a line item in the schedule and vowed to make it up to them later.
He felt an aching in his left leg as it slowly lost circulation due to his sitting position. It was either the leg or his ass that would go numb, he knew from experience, depending on which way he sat. He made a command decision and switched positions for awhile. He would switch back later after his ass fell asleep. The problem was balancing the keyboard in his lap. He had it down there because one of his doctors had advised him to keep his arms low and rested so that the muscles in his back wouldn’t exhaust themselves over the course of the day, delaying the healing which would allegedly one day occur. Then, a temporary loss of network connectivity, probably related to tropical depression Eduardo outside, and the helpless feeling associated with knowing he had forgotten to save his changes, washed over him like a wave of raw anguish. Rookie mistake, he chided himself angrily. He had a history of being hard on himself.
Then, out of the blue, a funny thought occurred to him: hurricanes and tropical storms always received names, just like people. How come they didn’t get nicknames like people too? There had been a Hurricane Charles, he was reasonably sure, but why hadn’t anyone called it The Chuckster? Or how about Katrina, the one that devastated New Orleans two years ago? Maybe from now on she could be referred to as "Hurricane Nasty Bitch." Hell, that would be being generous. Hurricanes Dickhead and Assclown are also memorable national disasters that come to mind. What a bunch of jerks those guys were, huh? Hey, is this thing on? These are the jokes, folks!
[Publisher’s note: we do not condone Buck 99’s profanity, but feel it is appropriate, in the interest of free speech, to leave his comments unedited as he originally intended them. That, and we want to find out what he can get away with on this site. Stay tuned.]
He abruptly decided not to quit his day job to become a comedian. No, far better and more financially sound to keep the day job and become a writer.
There was a brief but pleasant interlude when he received an email from one of his friends, whom we shall call E-Taco. E-Taco had picked up on the negative vibe our protagonist was putting out that day. His mood wasn’t really as bad as his buddy had perceived, though. The writing was cathartic, and the time appeared to be passing very rapidly, after all. He would be home for the three day weekend in no time, with plenty of time to procrastinate completion of the study group assignment he’d just received from his employer via the company email. Nothing like work on a holiday weekend to keep the mind sharp, he thought. Besides, the study group was a means to an end. Upon completion of the class and passing the certification exam, he could finally escape the terrifying world of project management and return to the frustrating but relatively benign realm of software application design and development. He would rather fight seemingly insurmountable engineering obstacles and defects than be stabbed in the back by politically savvy, power hungry middle-management ladder-climbers any day of the week. That, and he had developed a keen hatred of a certain project management software tool provided by a major software provider operating out of the Pacific Northwest region. If the makers of that tool wanted him to cast aside that hatred and embrace the tool in a public arena such as, say, this space, then they would need to reach out to his agent and discuss a product placement advertisement deal, as well as fix some of the many annoying “features” of their product.
The email from E-Taco suggested that our protagonist should abandon the Twigs ‘n’ Berries™ diet in favor of nachos, onion dip, and beer. Our protagonist decided that this was not a wise course of action. After all, hadn’t he just received the “Energizer Bunny” award at the Hoops Hotline awards cook-out just last night? The award was given to him for having the most energy at both ends of the court. He had accepted the award humbly and cracked a joke about thanking The Academy, all the while inwardly feeling proud of having received this superficially meaningless award. To him, it was a testimony to how far he had come in five months since the lifestyle change, proof that his energy and overall fitness really had improved. He celebrated along with the others as they received their own awards, his second light beer of the evening grasped firmly in one hand, his plateful of carrots and hommus in the other. He even tried a little onion dip with some baked chips, and it was good. He was a little buzzed when he got home later that evening, though, and made some poor decisions regarding a box of delicious, satisfying, whole grain crackers and the quantity of which should be consumed at a single sitting. Although his weight was up on the scales the next morning, he would happily endorse the manufacturers of these fine crackers at a discount rate if they can guess who they are.
Besides, he knew that going off the new lifestyle would be a major financial misstep. He had just spent a mint on new clothes from two leading men’s clothing specialty stores. Although he prefers one of the stores over the other because of the cut of the legs on their slacks, he would gladly endorse whichever one offers the more lucrative deal, then use the funds to secretly purchase his slacks from the preferred vendor if necessary. He had also developed a positive self-image for the first time in his life. He liked the way he looked. He always took a few extra moments during bathroom breaks to admire his reflection in the mirror. Not with vanity or even pride, really, but more with a sense of pleasant surprise that hasn't worn off yet.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the globe, night had fallen, and millions upon millions of hot, naked Asian chicks were busy getting it on. This final sentiment brought to you by E-Taco.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)