I am looking at the VP of sales for some company that makes something stupid that some other stupid companies use in their completely flawed businesses. Just to be clear by “the VP” I of course mean one of 20 or 30 at this guy’s company who sell something they understand nothing about to people who know even less and I wonder how much longer before the country’s economy actually implodes like the house of cards it is. (author’s note-this was written in Early September 2008 approx. 2 weeks before the 9/19 proposed Fed. bailout of the capital markets)
The VP, who speaking mostly in retarded business jargon from the “Bi-directional exchange of value” handbook, is telling me about his kid. As he prattles on I am thinking, “But you’re so stupid how did your kid get into Stanford?” Imagining his wife must be responsible for the prodigious talents of this young man I ask about her, “So what does your wife do?” “Oh, she’s a mortgage originator.” Well that sure didn’t settle it; she’s a mortgage broker in the state that leads the developed world in creating the worst notes ever written. Then it occurs to me. Athletic scholarship. This is easy now although he is an idiot I can’t just say, “Oh did he get an athletic scholarship” it’s just cruel so I make some reference to the quarter million or so dollars he is about to be relieved of as he underwrites his son’s education. “Nope,” he says shaking his head from side to side, “full ride. My boy is a lacrosse genius.” I just repeat, “Lacrosse genius,” as I nod my head while smiling in a way that often makes my friends uneasy, but nothing nasty is to follow I’m just pleased the world makes sense to me again.
How do dumb people get rich? Acknowledging wealth in certain environments, by creating security and stability, is a necessary component of survival and continuation of species. Sales is proof of Darwinian theory in industrialized and technologically advanced societies. Geeks, creatives and all around smart people should essentially dominate wholesale in this environment leaving jocks and charming but dumb people with chameleonic personalities to languish. But this is not the case, everyone has a rich uncle with tons of money that he is basically unsure how he acquired but is happy he can now do his part to help republican candidates of all flavors. In theory there is no need for that uncle to exist anymore and he should have been eaten, however he was able to sell IBM mainframes with the computational power of air to universities in the sixties and seventies making handsome commissions but more importantly taking massive stock grants. He will explain, “IBM don’t even make nothin’ no more now that they sold that little computer makin’ business to the chinamen.” Any efforts to explain the lucrative nature of consulting, managed services and custom business solutions results in his arms waving as you simultaneously replay the business jargon you just spewed bringing back visions of the economic house of cards.
This of course gets you back to the urban apocalypse. But at least you are prepared.
Sales is the great equalizer in societies where creativity and brilliance is the major economic driver, the lacrosse genius will attend a top tier school making connections with other jocks that will serve him a lifetime as they all go on to sell things to each other in a self perpetuating cycle that without would leave the gene pool filled with too many Dungeons and Dragons players and people suffering from suicidal ideation that can’t run fast or lift heavy things.
This is also why the smartest girl in the class, who only cared about grades, drama club and becoming either Bronte sister will go on to marry the a guy who played football and shotgunned 16oz beers at State U. but is now a broker at Legg Mason. He doesn’t work all that hard now that he’s built his book giving him time to golf which helps him get new clients so he actually makes more money by working less. What transpired to keep her from marrying an economist with a degree in medieval literature and several years of modern dance experience who works for some non-profit where he develops predictive models for expediting food and water to third world countries during natural disasters is unclear but I believe it is an evolutionary trigger that keeps the gene pool from condensing. It didn't have to be a stockbroker she might have had the biker gene, well all women have the biker gene for some period of time. Specifically the biker gene is the, “he is hot, potentially dangerous and fucks me so hard my spine occasionally goes numb-but in a good way.” The actual biker population has thinned substantially and those that remain are generally posers therefore the role of biker in contemporary society is usually occupied by musicians, rogue poets or other brooding, disenfranchised, self-proclaimed geniuses who will never meet her parents. Some of these may however clean-up well go to business school and reenter the population under the guise of normalcy perhaps even fooling some ivy league graduate into marrying them and thus continue the evolutionary cycle in precisely the manner in which it is supposed to while confirming the theory of camouflage in the natural selection process as a causal method of increasing the genetic diversity of species.
Consider careers in real estate, pharmaceutical sales and anything on the brokerage side of the financial market—not the quants, they are a teaspoon of testosterone away from the non-profit modeling guy but when they are not crashing hedge funds with poorly timed swings in natural gas futures still spend way too much time on the playstation. These are the careers that in the event of the urban apocalypse, for which I am prepared, would ensure the continuity of species. Because the sales people would be able to run, hunt and build shelter moreover in the event elements of the food chain were so compromised it became necessary to resort to cannibalism the stockbrokers and realtors would have no problem eating other people in order to survive helping the rest of us acclimate to the taste of human flesh. I feel confident they would start with the lawyers.
Ummm….corporate counsel burgers. Maybe the apocalypse won’t be so bad.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Gift Return of the Prodigal Son
I am a terrible son. I am an only child, my parents were born on the same day. I do not know when their birthday is, other than in the month of February. Never have. Their anniversary, May…maybe.
I do not have DNR power of attorney for my parents.
My wife left a voice message saying she is getting cards for mother’s day should she pick one up for my Mother. Duh. Half the reason men get married is to alleviate the responsibility of buying gifts, sending cards, in general remembering things that they are supposed to, however in my case this takes on new dimension as I simply never did any of those things anyway. Marriage by default should not just allay my previously shirked responsibilities as a son…in theory it will make me better.
My wife calls to follow-up on this as I have forgotten to call her back about it. Like I said, in theory. I say of course get a card---thinking we are done. She goes on to ask if I have just decided to send flowers and if so have I already done that online. Puzzled and sensing this is a rapidly deteriorating, I say no.
She says, “Should I,” drawing out the “I” with an upward lilt, “look for something for her.”
Sweaty now and unsure of how to respond I say, “Ahhhhh, yes”
She fires back, “OK, then would she like stationary, does she journal, artisan-crafted jewelry is always nice……
“artisan-crafted Jewelry,” I yell in some combination of auction and multiple choice response….”about $30 worth” this is good I have made a decisive call, I am involved, I care.
“Well there’s nothing for $30…” she says.
Now mind you I am working, not doing anything important because most jobs today are, as observed by children, basically writing stuff, emailing and talking on the phone-pretty much what they do. What the children do not understand is that this is to solve problems and create opportunities in a bi-directional exchange of value. So I am focused--as much as my ADHD addled brain can be.
This gets me thinking how much I love those ads for ADHD from a few years ago talk about a solution looking for a problem. The low, serious voice over guy- “Have you ever been watching television and suddenly changed the channel. Have you ever had a thought in your head and out of nowhere another thought enters. You could be one of millions of people suffering…..” This while an image of a woman in a meeting is rubbing her forehead looking perplexed and/or agitated.
Jeez I have been watching TV and suddenly changed the channel and I have been thinking one thing and then had another thought enter my mind, and I assume I have rubbed my head while being both perplexed and agitated at a big whole heck of a lot of meetings. Surely this indicates I need amphetamines to conquer this debilitating malady.
How is it possible to air that ad. Seriously….and who falls for it, pausing I realize I have a half dozen friends on the stuff—who rave about it. Note to self: check strike price on Novartis and make doctor’s appt.
“Focus!” my wife yells as she tells me there is nothing for $30. In my desperate desire to get back to whatever problem solving or opportunity creating thing I am wholly engrossed by I say,
“It doesn’t matter, Jesus Christ Marcie it just doesn’t matter, get whatever you think is right, I am a terrible son I have never purchased a mother’s day gift for her, ever. No matter what it is she will know you bought it so pick something you want to get her.”
“OK”, my wife says slowly in a flat tone that indicates this spewed confessional drivel just revealed more to her about me than the past 2.5 years we have spent together ever could have. Worse, she is clearly confused as she simultaneously pities and hates me because she sees my self absorption runs so pathologically deep that it extends to the very core of my being. Not just in the cute edgy guy way she initially found sexy believing I would eventually become a great father, provider and all around good man. No, the seriously messed up way that makes her feel sorry for me and then for herself for marrying me which then makes her resent me because she is now stuck with me. But this is progress: hatred, pity, and resentment, the traditional places where all familial gift buying begins.
I was graced several hours later with a box containing the ugliest earrings I have ever seen made from something close to but not exactly fishing tackle and some unidentifiable baby blue rock thing. God-awful. This presented my next serious quandary, now there are a lot of factors at play here like, does she actually think my mother will like baby blue mystery substrate fishing tackle earrings or is she trying to teach me something. This for a recently married man is a quagmire, a proving ground, because it brings into play the wife/mother first loyalty thing. Now if my wife actually thinks my mother will like these heinous, made by one of god’s children, craft objects I need to intervene quickly and make clear what does and does not constitute an acceptable gift to my mother. If I do not we open the door to truckloads of craft objects made by hippies and “special” people. On the other hand if my wife is taking me to task and saying you need to man-up here and be a better son and get your mother a real gift because you should be ashamed of this piece of crap-what is the correct response. This is as tough a test as can be devised.
In life I have often heard it said, and believe to be true, that the right thing to do is the harder thing to do. I of course knowing the stakes took the path of least resistance, the low road perhaps. I let it ride. The shameful earrings were mailed out for the contrived holiday and received without so much as a blip. The non-acknowledgment is my mother’s not so subtle way of saying it is better to not give than to give crap my loving son lest ye wife do thine bidding. I do not think it was a test on my wife’s part. All this however made me recognize my responsibility and in the future will be more mindful, thoughtful and involved. I will be a better son-at least in theory.
See marriage is making me better.
I do not have DNR power of attorney for my parents.
My wife left a voice message saying she is getting cards for mother’s day should she pick one up for my Mother. Duh. Half the reason men get married is to alleviate the responsibility of buying gifts, sending cards, in general remembering things that they are supposed to, however in my case this takes on new dimension as I simply never did any of those things anyway. Marriage by default should not just allay my previously shirked responsibilities as a son…in theory it will make me better.
My wife calls to follow-up on this as I have forgotten to call her back about it. Like I said, in theory. I say of course get a card---thinking we are done. She goes on to ask if I have just decided to send flowers and if so have I already done that online. Puzzled and sensing this is a rapidly deteriorating, I say no.
She says, “Should I,” drawing out the “I” with an upward lilt, “look for something for her.”
Sweaty now and unsure of how to respond I say, “Ahhhhh, yes”
She fires back, “OK, then would she like stationary, does she journal, artisan-crafted jewelry is always nice……
“artisan-crafted Jewelry,” I yell in some combination of auction and multiple choice response….”about $30 worth” this is good I have made a decisive call, I am involved, I care.
“Well there’s nothing for $30…” she says.
Now mind you I am working, not doing anything important because most jobs today are, as observed by children, basically writing stuff, emailing and talking on the phone-pretty much what they do. What the children do not understand is that this is to solve problems and create opportunities in a bi-directional exchange of value. So I am focused--as much as my ADHD addled brain can be.
This gets me thinking how much I love those ads for ADHD from a few years ago talk about a solution looking for a problem. The low, serious voice over guy- “Have you ever been watching television and suddenly changed the channel. Have you ever had a thought in your head and out of nowhere another thought enters. You could be one of millions of people suffering…..” This while an image of a woman in a meeting is rubbing her forehead looking perplexed and/or agitated.
Jeez I have been watching TV and suddenly changed the channel and I have been thinking one thing and then had another thought enter my mind, and I assume I have rubbed my head while being both perplexed and agitated at a big whole heck of a lot of meetings. Surely this indicates I need amphetamines to conquer this debilitating malady.
How is it possible to air that ad. Seriously….and who falls for it, pausing I realize I have a half dozen friends on the stuff—who rave about it. Note to self: check strike price on Novartis and make doctor’s appt.
“Focus!” my wife yells as she tells me there is nothing for $30. In my desperate desire to get back to whatever problem solving or opportunity creating thing I am wholly engrossed by I say,
“It doesn’t matter, Jesus Christ Marcie it just doesn’t matter, get whatever you think is right, I am a terrible son I have never purchased a mother’s day gift for her, ever. No matter what it is she will know you bought it so pick something you want to get her.”
“OK”, my wife says slowly in a flat tone that indicates this spewed confessional drivel just revealed more to her about me than the past 2.5 years we have spent together ever could have. Worse, she is clearly confused as she simultaneously pities and hates me because she sees my self absorption runs so pathologically deep that it extends to the very core of my being. Not just in the cute edgy guy way she initially found sexy believing I would eventually become a great father, provider and all around good man. No, the seriously messed up way that makes her feel sorry for me and then for herself for marrying me which then makes her resent me because she is now stuck with me. But this is progress: hatred, pity, and resentment, the traditional places where all familial gift buying begins.
I was graced several hours later with a box containing the ugliest earrings I have ever seen made from something close to but not exactly fishing tackle and some unidentifiable baby blue rock thing. God-awful. This presented my next serious quandary, now there are a lot of factors at play here like, does she actually think my mother will like baby blue mystery substrate fishing tackle earrings or is she trying to teach me something. This for a recently married man is a quagmire, a proving ground, because it brings into play the wife/mother first loyalty thing. Now if my wife actually thinks my mother will like these heinous, made by one of god’s children, craft objects I need to intervene quickly and make clear what does and does not constitute an acceptable gift to my mother. If I do not we open the door to truckloads of craft objects made by hippies and “special” people. On the other hand if my wife is taking me to task and saying you need to man-up here and be a better son and get your mother a real gift because you should be ashamed of this piece of crap-what is the correct response. This is as tough a test as can be devised.
In life I have often heard it said, and believe to be true, that the right thing to do is the harder thing to do. I of course knowing the stakes took the path of least resistance, the low road perhaps. I let it ride. The shameful earrings were mailed out for the contrived holiday and received without so much as a blip. The non-acknowledgment is my mother’s not so subtle way of saying it is better to not give than to give crap my loving son lest ye wife do thine bidding. I do not think it was a test on my wife’s part. All this however made me recognize my responsibility and in the future will be more mindful, thoughtful and involved. I will be a better son-at least in theory.
See marriage is making me better.
Byzantine Institutional Bureaucracy
I am sending an email to find out the status of a budget item for a final report I owe. I have asked for this ten business days ago. I have been told for six of those days “tomorrow.” It was four numbers, I gave them the four numbers they just needed to enter the four numbers I gave them into a form I had also provided. Oh I hear you. Because they have to do it. Because it’s the rule.
I work at a large research university; let’s call it MIT. Having come form a world where to get something done meant doing it I was astonished early on to discover what true institutional bureaucracy was-a Chinese puzzle box of competing, contradicting and redundant fiefdoms. In the first year I was developing my project I kept it as far away from the Institute’s administrative process as I could. I used to tell people my affiliation with the institute was me running along the side of the building grazing it gently with my fingertips. I certainly needed the clout the MIT brand provided I just didn’t want my nimble young project consumed by the Byzantine bureaucratic quagmire that lay inside waiting to crush it.
Although now I am worn down and bitter which seems to be the thing bureaucracies do most efficiently I was not always that way. In the early days on the occasion I was required to use the institute’s protocols to get something done I was merely fascinated by the process. Like watching ants carry stuff. If say my heating unit were not functioning properly I would have to call the administrative office speaking first with an underling before clawing my way to the department’s head administrator. The request, “Please help me, I am freezing and will perish soon as the heating unit is not working,” had to be verified as legitimate. This required someone from the administrative office to accompany me back to my office, jiggle something, return and say, “The heating unit is not working.” This had a bizarre effect as first I am stunned that I need to be chaperoned by an 18 year old temp who stands as the gatekeeper to my comfort and second that I am grateful when they confirm my complaint as legitimate. “Oh thank you kind sir and may I compliment your regal Iron Maiden concert tee, for it is your generous overture which allows my pathetic quips be seen as legitimate.” Confused I shake of my Stockholm syndrome. Upon regaining my faculties I had to assume the verification process was to quell the drumbeat of false claims issued by people whose real agenda is to have men wearing dusty clothes in their office who discuss snowmobiles.
I see this often and it is always a wonderful and entertaining contrast to watch especially at a place like MIT. You have a down to earth, union guy and a nuclear physicist discussing plumbing. In fairness they are each experts in the problem. There is a stilted conversation about traffic or weather, the professor trying to seem natural and like he is enjoying the exchange but he is talking to the guy that beat the crap out of him in grades 2-9. All he really wants to think about is his research on fluid dynamics that will solve rising sea levels by creating floating levees around vulnerable arcapelogos and that his chainmail is repaired for this weekends Battle of Grunswald where his shire is heavily favored. On the other side you have this good guy who knows he is not dealing with exactly his ilk because this guy sort of reminds him of that retard he used to beat the crap out of for wearing a cape. Discussions of football and ATVs are out of question except as examples kinetic transfer. But mostly he wishes his buddy were there so he could excuse himself to poop because the buffalo wings and rice krispy treats he had for lunch weren’t getting along.
So I receive an email from my office asking me to describe the problem so they can describe the problem to someone in another office who will complete the form that describes the problem so the person who decides who needs to fix the problem can describe the problem to the person assigned to fix it. Since I had just been chaperoned by someone I thought perhaps that person could verify the no heat thing to the other person in the room who just sent me the email and who heard me say I had no heat before the whole confirmation process began. Alas, no.
I describe the problem in my email reply.
The heater does not seem to be functioning, I turn it on and instead of warm air the air is cool consequently I do not have heat.
I have learned it is important to be specific but not be too detailed in the description. Too simple a report like “no heat” gets a flurry of useful suggestions such as, “ did you turn it on” Not being the eighty year old sitting in front of their first Dell, I respond “yes the power button has been activated.” On the other hand provide too much information or get too specific you arouse suspicion “I believe the problem is related to a release value malfunctioning causing a vapor lock in the supply line.” Now the gatekeeper becomes a bit caddy thinking to him or herself, “so you think you know something about HVAC-guess you’re a real smart guy well maybe you can just fix it yourself” leaving you at the bottom of the list and when help finally does arrive they’ve sent the new guy who learned the trade while in prison. He will tell you all about his time inside in a way that is both sweet and oddly subservient but that leaves you thoroughly on edge as you are keenly aware this man would gouge your eyes out with his thumbs if you moved too quickly.
Now of course you only know about the vapor lock issue not because of your fluid dynamics prowess like nuclear physicist next door but because it happens about eight times a year. To implement a lasting fix requires the expenditure of some amount of money that exceeds that line item in some standards guide produced by the US Navy by $108. To green light that requires some massive amount of paper work because the $108 must come from a different account under the watchful eye of some other gatekeepers who hold a grudge against your department for some perceived slight in recognizing their authority in addressing matters just such as this. That may have been me.
Corporate structures and their uglier cousin institutional bureaucracies were developed to establish protocols for repeatable tasks and too create systems that removed inefficiencies by reducing mistakes.
To remove inefficiency.
I estimate based on my lost time, the mechanics time and time required to push it through the system that each of these band-aid fixes costs about $500. It happens eight times a year and has gone on for 3 years. $12,000.
Oh good, I am told I will have my budget report tomorrow. Perfect.
I work at a large research university; let’s call it MIT. Having come form a world where to get something done meant doing it I was astonished early on to discover what true institutional bureaucracy was-a Chinese puzzle box of competing, contradicting and redundant fiefdoms. In the first year I was developing my project I kept it as far away from the Institute’s administrative process as I could. I used to tell people my affiliation with the institute was me running along the side of the building grazing it gently with my fingertips. I certainly needed the clout the MIT brand provided I just didn’t want my nimble young project consumed by the Byzantine bureaucratic quagmire that lay inside waiting to crush it.
Although now I am worn down and bitter which seems to be the thing bureaucracies do most efficiently I was not always that way. In the early days on the occasion I was required to use the institute’s protocols to get something done I was merely fascinated by the process. Like watching ants carry stuff. If say my heating unit were not functioning properly I would have to call the administrative office speaking first with an underling before clawing my way to the department’s head administrator. The request, “Please help me, I am freezing and will perish soon as the heating unit is not working,” had to be verified as legitimate. This required someone from the administrative office to accompany me back to my office, jiggle something, return and say, “The heating unit is not working.” This had a bizarre effect as first I am stunned that I need to be chaperoned by an 18 year old temp who stands as the gatekeeper to my comfort and second that I am grateful when they confirm my complaint as legitimate. “Oh thank you kind sir and may I compliment your regal Iron Maiden concert tee, for it is your generous overture which allows my pathetic quips be seen as legitimate.” Confused I shake of my Stockholm syndrome. Upon regaining my faculties I had to assume the verification process was to quell the drumbeat of false claims issued by people whose real agenda is to have men wearing dusty clothes in their office who discuss snowmobiles.
I see this often and it is always a wonderful and entertaining contrast to watch especially at a place like MIT. You have a down to earth, union guy and a nuclear physicist discussing plumbing. In fairness they are each experts in the problem. There is a stilted conversation about traffic or weather, the professor trying to seem natural and like he is enjoying the exchange but he is talking to the guy that beat the crap out of him in grades 2-9. All he really wants to think about is his research on fluid dynamics that will solve rising sea levels by creating floating levees around vulnerable arcapelogos and that his chainmail is repaired for this weekends Battle of Grunswald where his shire is heavily favored. On the other side you have this good guy who knows he is not dealing with exactly his ilk because this guy sort of reminds him of that retard he used to beat the crap out of for wearing a cape. Discussions of football and ATVs are out of question except as examples kinetic transfer. But mostly he wishes his buddy were there so he could excuse himself to poop because the buffalo wings and rice krispy treats he had for lunch weren’t getting along.
So I receive an email from my office asking me to describe the problem so they can describe the problem to someone in another office who will complete the form that describes the problem so the person who decides who needs to fix the problem can describe the problem to the person assigned to fix it. Since I had just been chaperoned by someone I thought perhaps that person could verify the no heat thing to the other person in the room who just sent me the email and who heard me say I had no heat before the whole confirmation process began. Alas, no.
I describe the problem in my email reply.
The heater does not seem to be functioning, I turn it on and instead of warm air the air is cool consequently I do not have heat.
I have learned it is important to be specific but not be too detailed in the description. Too simple a report like “no heat” gets a flurry of useful suggestions such as, “ did you turn it on” Not being the eighty year old sitting in front of their first Dell, I respond “yes the power button has been activated.” On the other hand provide too much information or get too specific you arouse suspicion “I believe the problem is related to a release value malfunctioning causing a vapor lock in the supply line.” Now the gatekeeper becomes a bit caddy thinking to him or herself, “so you think you know something about HVAC-guess you’re a real smart guy well maybe you can just fix it yourself” leaving you at the bottom of the list and when help finally does arrive they’ve sent the new guy who learned the trade while in prison. He will tell you all about his time inside in a way that is both sweet and oddly subservient but that leaves you thoroughly on edge as you are keenly aware this man would gouge your eyes out with his thumbs if you moved too quickly.
Now of course you only know about the vapor lock issue not because of your fluid dynamics prowess like nuclear physicist next door but because it happens about eight times a year. To implement a lasting fix requires the expenditure of some amount of money that exceeds that line item in some standards guide produced by the US Navy by $108. To green light that requires some massive amount of paper work because the $108 must come from a different account under the watchful eye of some other gatekeepers who hold a grudge against your department for some perceived slight in recognizing their authority in addressing matters just such as this. That may have been me.
Corporate structures and their uglier cousin institutional bureaucracies were developed to establish protocols for repeatable tasks and too create systems that removed inefficiencies by reducing mistakes.
To remove inefficiency.
I estimate based on my lost time, the mechanics time and time required to push it through the system that each of these band-aid fixes costs about $500. It happens eight times a year and has gone on for 3 years. $12,000.
Oh good, I am told I will have my budget report tomorrow. Perfect.
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