It was just somewhere to be for a year. Maybe two.
That's what Stan told himself when he took the job. He didn't know what he wanted to do or where he wanted to go or what he intended his life eventually to become. But he knew this job wasn't it. Two years, max. Hell, six months if he could find something else that paid a little better.
At the one year mark he told himself he had six months to find another job or else quit. He told himself the same at the two year mark. Then at the three year mark he stopped giving himself six months to quit.
Stan got married in the summer of his eighth year on the job. His first son was born in the winter of his tenth year. He and his wife bought a house six months later.
By the time he'd reached fifteen years at the same job Stan was going gray at the temples, and he wondered where the time had gone. Fourteen years longer on the job than he'd intended, and still no end in sight. There was college to plan for, and weddings for his three kids, and then retirement. His one year on the job looked like it was going to stretch into thirty.
Then the economy tanked and Stan got laid off while some overpaid bastard took home millions in undeserved income. Stan foundered on unemployment - he'd never learned a skill marketable outside his company - and let himself feel emasculated while his wife shouldered the burden of being the family breadwinner.
But one day Stan realized something. He wasn't shackled any longer. He was a free man. He could do anything. Literally. Follow his bliss. Find his passion. Indulge in the way he never had before. He found a new career.
Stan never made millions, but he provided for his family and he held his head up and answered proudly when people asked him what he did for a living. And that was something he never could do before.
Showing posts with label jobs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jobs. Show all posts
Monday, March 14, 2011
Friday, December 10, 2010
Journal Of Unsurprising Research
I was reading in Scientific American* a few months back that researchers had sequenced the Neanderthal genome and then compared it with modern humans'. Their conclusion was that, at some time in the past, before Neanderthals died out completely, humans and Neanderthals interbred.
This is a surprise?
I applaud the effort the researchers went to, it's not easy getting genetic material from 60,000 year old bones, but I could have pointed them to any number of bullies and malcontents from my middle school and high school years to prove the caveman-interbreeding hypothesis. Low-browed and thick-limbed, dim-witted and guttural, these guys were throwbacks to pre-history, when strength and cruelty were needed instead of compassion and insight.
I remember one guy in particular, a year ahead of me in middle school, who was on the football team. Keep in mind that we were, what?, twelve? thirteen? And already this guy was covered in a carpet of body hair so thick that he looked like a chimp on the run. Or a Neanderthal, now that I've read the research. It was astonishing, he even had wiry hair on the second knuckle of his fingers. Put him in wolf fur and give him a spear to jab into a mastodon and I think he would have been right at home.
What I'm saying is I already knew what these researchers have proved. So I got to thinking, what other non-surprises do scientists have in store for us? Fire is hot? UFOs are real? Cats want to murder their owners and eat their eyeballs? These are all well-established propositions.
Scientists should get extra points for coming up with new stuff. Like the universe is held together with twine. Space-twine, sure, but it's still twine. Or proving that your face really will stick like that, just like your mother said.
See? I should be a scientist, there's lots of stuff I could test. They make a pretty good living. There's got to be a lot of millionaire scientists, right?
* yeah, I like reading about science stuff, so what? Don't you oppress me...
This is a surprise?
I applaud the effort the researchers went to, it's not easy getting genetic material from 60,000 year old bones, but I could have pointed them to any number of bullies and malcontents from my middle school and high school years to prove the caveman-interbreeding hypothesis. Low-browed and thick-limbed, dim-witted and guttural, these guys were throwbacks to pre-history, when strength and cruelty were needed instead of compassion and insight.
I remember one guy in particular, a year ahead of me in middle school, who was on the football team. Keep in mind that we were, what?, twelve? thirteen? And already this guy was covered in a carpet of body hair so thick that he looked like a chimp on the run. Or a Neanderthal, now that I've read the research. It was astonishing, he even had wiry hair on the second knuckle of his fingers. Put him in wolf fur and give him a spear to jab into a mastodon and I think he would have been right at home.
What I'm saying is I already knew what these researchers have proved. So I got to thinking, what other non-surprises do scientists have in store for us? Fire is hot? UFOs are real? Cats want to murder their owners and eat their eyeballs? These are all well-established propositions.
Scientists should get extra points for coming up with new stuff. Like the universe is held together with twine. Space-twine, sure, but it's still twine. Or proving that your face really will stick like that, just like your mother said.
See? I should be a scientist, there's lots of stuff I could test. They make a pretty good living. There's got to be a lot of millionaire scientists, right?
* yeah, I like reading about science stuff, so what? Don't you oppress me...
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
An Earnest Visit
It was two in the morning, and night smells filtered through my open window. Earth, dew, the flinty sharpness from the concrete and asphalt of the city.
An ember flared at the foot of my bed and showed briefly a man's lined, weathered face. White whiskers, brown eyes. A sharp, spicy waft of pipe smoke settled over me.
"You're troubled, son." His voice was strong and tough. Raspy. A smoker's voice.
"I suppose," I replied. "Enough to see ghosts."
The ember flared and the man exhaled more smoke. "Not just anybody gets a visit from Papa."
"I'm honored," I said, trying not to cough for all the smoke. "Sir."
"Better to be honest," he said. "Explain yourself."
"I wish I could," I said. "It's tough to put into words."
"Let me guess," he said, lips wrapped around his pipe stem. "You want in the ring but there's no bull to fight."
"Something like that," I replied. "More like I don't even know where the ring is or how to go about finding it."
The orange ember moved up and down as he nodded thoughtfully.
"I just wish… there's got to be something more I can do," I said.
"You're being wasted where you are." He wasn't asking.
"More like passed over," I said. "Passed by. I suppose I should feel lucky to have a job, but…"
"It's not enough." His growl was a living thing that bounded across the room. "A man can die on his feet in a moment, or he can die a little every year sitting in an office chair. Which one are you headed for?"
"I'd rather not die at all," I replied. "I'd rather accomplish something worthwhile. Make my mark. Let the world know that I do something that matters."
"You want to toss in your line and fight a marlin for its life."
I thought about that for a moment. "Yeah."
"Then do it." Papa took a deep drag on his pipe, leaving his face illuminated long enough for me to see the spark in his eyes. "A man isn't alive unless he's testing his limits."
I shook my head. Sighed. "The deck's stacked against me."
"Don't let the house set the rules," Papa replied. "Play your own game. Make everyone else catch up to you. That's what I did."
"How am I supposed to do that?" I hung my head. Hopeless.
The ember flared and his eyes sparked again. "You'll figure it out. The smart ones always do."
The ember faded and the man faded. The pipe smoke remained.
An ember flared at the foot of my bed and showed briefly a man's lined, weathered face. White whiskers, brown eyes. A sharp, spicy waft of pipe smoke settled over me.
"You're troubled, son." His voice was strong and tough. Raspy. A smoker's voice.
"I suppose," I replied. "Enough to see ghosts."
The ember flared and the man exhaled more smoke. "Not just anybody gets a visit from Papa."
"I'm honored," I said, trying not to cough for all the smoke. "Sir."
"Better to be honest," he said. "Explain yourself."
"I wish I could," I said. "It's tough to put into words."
"Let me guess," he said, lips wrapped around his pipe stem. "You want in the ring but there's no bull to fight."
"Something like that," I replied. "More like I don't even know where the ring is or how to go about finding it."
The orange ember moved up and down as he nodded thoughtfully.
"I just wish… there's got to be something more I can do," I said.
"You're being wasted where you are." He wasn't asking.
"More like passed over," I said. "Passed by. I suppose I should feel lucky to have a job, but…"
"It's not enough." His growl was a living thing that bounded across the room. "A man can die on his feet in a moment, or he can die a little every year sitting in an office chair. Which one are you headed for?"
"I'd rather not die at all," I replied. "I'd rather accomplish something worthwhile. Make my mark. Let the world know that I do something that matters."
"You want to toss in your line and fight a marlin for its life."
I thought about that for a moment. "Yeah."
"Then do it." Papa took a deep drag on his pipe, leaving his face illuminated long enough for me to see the spark in his eyes. "A man isn't alive unless he's testing his limits."
I shook my head. Sighed. "The deck's stacked against me."
"Don't let the house set the rules," Papa replied. "Play your own game. Make everyone else catch up to you. That's what I did."
"How am I supposed to do that?" I hung my head. Hopeless.
The ember flared and his eyes sparked again. "You'll figure it out. The smart ones always do."
The ember faded and the man faded. The pipe smoke remained.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Metaphorical Elevator
I'm a pretty quick study, I can catch a clue like a major league outfielder, but sometimes... sometimes I'm a little slow on the uptake. Every so often it takes me a little while. Like maybe a few months. Let me 'splain.
Regular readers my know the elevator in my building is broken. Has been for months, and it's been so long I don' t think the landlady has any plans to get it fixed. As a matter of fact, the elevator stopped working when I went back to Texas for my father's funeral, that same weekend, and I've been trudging up the stairs ever since I got back.
It didn't strike me until yesterday that this is one big metaphor. Lugging my groceries, my fencing gear and everything else up the stairs day after day, week after week, month after month, it's the Universe letting me know how things are going to be from now on. If I want to achieve something, if I want to make my mark, I'm going to have to struggle one step at a time. No more easy ride, no more lift to the top.
Not that I was at the top, mind you, but I was far from the bottom. I had it pretty good, a corporate job, cable TV, more than enough to eat. Waaaay more than enough. Comfortable. Too comfortable. I was on the elevator.
But now that I've been 'between assignments' for a while - forced to use the stairs - I kind of like it. Sure, there's less security, but I've traded real achievement for security for far too long. Traded giddy risk for dull certainty. But you know what dull certainty gets you at the end of it all? Same thing giddy risk does, a one-way ticket to the other side. And I think I'd prefer my life's journey electrifying rather than stultifying, thank you very much. It's time to make my own way, time to forge my own path. Create jobs for others instead of begging for one myself. 'Cause that really sucks, let me tell you.
Like playing the craps table in Vegas, the only way to win big is to bet big. Fortuna audaces iuvat, as the Romans said. 'Fortune favors the brave.'
After all, with my father gone, I am the man of the house now. Better start acting like it.
Regular readers my know the elevator in my building is broken. Has been for months, and it's been so long I don' t think the landlady has any plans to get it fixed. As a matter of fact, the elevator stopped working when I went back to Texas for my father's funeral, that same weekend, and I've been trudging up the stairs ever since I got back.
It didn't strike me until yesterday that this is one big metaphor. Lugging my groceries, my fencing gear and everything else up the stairs day after day, week after week, month after month, it's the Universe letting me know how things are going to be from now on. If I want to achieve something, if I want to make my mark, I'm going to have to struggle one step at a time. No more easy ride, no more lift to the top.
Not that I was at the top, mind you, but I was far from the bottom. I had it pretty good, a corporate job, cable TV, more than enough to eat. Waaaay more than enough. Comfortable. Too comfortable. I was on the elevator.
But now that I've been 'between assignments' for a while - forced to use the stairs - I kind of like it. Sure, there's less security, but I've traded real achievement for security for far too long. Traded giddy risk for dull certainty. But you know what dull certainty gets you at the end of it all? Same thing giddy risk does, a one-way ticket to the other side. And I think I'd prefer my life's journey electrifying rather than stultifying, thank you very much. It's time to make my own way, time to forge my own path. Create jobs for others instead of begging for one myself. 'Cause that really sucks, let me tell you.
Like playing the craps table in Vegas, the only way to win big is to bet big. Fortuna audaces iuvat, as the Romans said. 'Fortune favors the brave.'
After all, with my father gone, I am the man of the house now. Better start acting like it.
Friday, May 21, 2010
This Is A Job?
Right now I'm working down on the Miracle Mile, Wilshire Boulevard, in the Variety Building. This is one of those places where they don't really have enough parking spaces for everyone in the building, so what they do is park two deep. You get there early enough in the morning and you pull into an extra-long parking space, leaving room for someone to pull in behind you.
This prompts the question: 'if someone parks behind me, how the hell do I get out?' Rather than waiting for someone to come down and move their car, the building employs several people whose job it is to take keys from the second-rank parkers and move those cars when the first-rank parkers want to get out. They come on at 9 AM and leave at 6 PM.
It was only today that I thought about how terrible that job must be. The guy on 'B' level, where I usually park, seems cheerful enough, but his job - for 9 hours a day - is to sit in a dank, exhaust-befumed parking garage and move cars around. That can't be pleasant, and it can't be fun. Sure, he's not stuck in a cube like the people in the 20+ stories above, and he doesn't bring his work home with him, but still.
There's always a way to earn a buck, and some ways are better than others, but it seems to me that parking-garage car-mover has to be on the lower end of the list. Construction work is harder, certainly, as would being a garbageman or a window cleaner, but at least those guys get outside, and their work provides them a sense of accomplishment. Hell, even a fast-food job seems like it would be more rewarding.
Maybe I'll get my 'B'-level guy something. A snack might work. Or a thank-you card.
COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes back - 36 minutes, got out early.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 50 days
This prompts the question: 'if someone parks behind me, how the hell do I get out?' Rather than waiting for someone to come down and move their car, the building employs several people whose job it is to take keys from the second-rank parkers and move those cars when the first-rank parkers want to get out. They come on at 9 AM and leave at 6 PM.
It was only today that I thought about how terrible that job must be. The guy on 'B' level, where I usually park, seems cheerful enough, but his job - for 9 hours a day - is to sit in a dank, exhaust-befumed parking garage and move cars around. That can't be pleasant, and it can't be fun. Sure, he's not stuck in a cube like the people in the 20+ stories above, and he doesn't bring his work home with him, but still.
There's always a way to earn a buck, and some ways are better than others, but it seems to me that parking-garage car-mover has to be on the lower end of the list. Construction work is harder, certainly, as would being a garbageman or a window cleaner, but at least those guys get outside, and their work provides them a sense of accomplishment. Hell, even a fast-food job seems like it would be more rewarding.
Maybe I'll get my 'B'-level guy something. A snack might work. Or a thank-you card.
COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes back - 36 minutes, got out early.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 50 days
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
More From The World Of Work
First, let me say that the work itself is not bad, it's something I can do and it's something I'm good at. And the people seem nice too, at least after 3 days on the job. But the nice might be part of the problem.
I'm gonna get fat. Okay, fatter, but you know what I mean. The HR lady has candy. Lots of candy. The developers have snacks. And today someone who works remotely was in the office and they bought pies. I'm going to have to develop much, much, much stronger willpower. I don't want to be worthless and weak. But for God's sake, it was free pie...
And I'm tired now. Not bone tired, not up-for-three-days tired, but more tired than I have been in quite a while. It's getting me down.
COMMUTE: there - 35 minutes back - 40 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 87 days
I'm gonna get fat. Okay, fatter, but you know what I mean. The HR lady has candy. Lots of candy. The developers have snacks. And today someone who works remotely was in the office and they bought pies. I'm going to have to develop much, much, much stronger willpower. I don't want to be worthless and weak. But for God's sake, it was free pie...
And I'm tired now. Not bone tired, not up-for-three-days tired, but more tired than I have been in quite a while. It's getting me down.
COMMUTE: there - 35 minutes back - 40 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 87 days
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Held Hostage
I was telling a friend of mine just last night that even though I've re-entered the workforce - go me! - it's only grudgingly. Given all the bad that's happening in the world I've got it pretty good, no one's shooting at me or trying to chop my hands off for voting or anything like that. I really have nothing to complain about.
But I'm gonna.
The office is about 16 miles from my house. Which, in Texas terms, would mean about a 15 to 20 minute commute. But not in LA. The office is on the Miracle Mile, which means it's not easy to get there from anywhere else in the LA area. It takes me 35 minutes at the very least, 50 minutes on a bad day. Insane in the membrane. I've been away from any sort of commute for a year, and I honestly don't see how I once made a 50 minute commute regularly.
Being in the office for eight to nine hours a day - absent the commute - feels like I'm being held hostage. Or being punished. Seriously. I feel like a fifth-grader staring out the window on a fabulous Spring day.
I had several meeting today, with various members of the team, sales, marketing, technology, several hours all together. While the meetings did help with the work I need to do, I don't miss meetings. At. All. To say that I'd rather have someone hit me in the back of the head with a nail-studded two-by-four than attend another meeting is understating things. I remember there were people at my previous jobs who did nothing but attend meetings, all day, every day. I just don't see how they did it.
And then I have to get back in the swing of bringing my lunch to work, which means I have to buy stuff for sandwiches, get chips and carrot sticks, all that kind of thing. And preparing all that stuff takes even more time out of my day...
Crap.
Now I'm starting to sound like a 'friend' of mine who has never held a real job in his entire life, and thinks the world owes him a living just by virtue of him being alive. I guess it's time to get involved in a multi-level marketing scheme and get evicted from a home I could never afford in the first place.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 88 days
But I'm gonna.
The office is about 16 miles from my house. Which, in Texas terms, would mean about a 15 to 20 minute commute. But not in LA. The office is on the Miracle Mile, which means it's not easy to get there from anywhere else in the LA area. It takes me 35 minutes at the very least, 50 minutes on a bad day. Insane in the membrane. I've been away from any sort of commute for a year, and I honestly don't see how I once made a 50 minute commute regularly.
Being in the office for eight to nine hours a day - absent the commute - feels like I'm being held hostage. Or being punished. Seriously. I feel like a fifth-grader staring out the window on a fabulous Spring day.
I had several meeting today, with various members of the team, sales, marketing, technology, several hours all together. While the meetings did help with the work I need to do, I don't miss meetings. At. All. To say that I'd rather have someone hit me in the back of the head with a nail-studded two-by-four than attend another meeting is understating things. I remember there were people at my previous jobs who did nothing but attend meetings, all day, every day. I just don't see how they did it.
And then I have to get back in the swing of bringing my lunch to work, which means I have to buy stuff for sandwiches, get chips and carrot sticks, all that kind of thing. And preparing all that stuff takes even more time out of my day...
Crap.
Now I'm starting to sound like a 'friend' of mine who has never held a real job in his entire life, and thinks the world owes him a living just by virtue of him being alive. I guess it's time to get involved in a multi-level marketing scheme and get evicted from a home I could never afford in the first place.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 88 days
Monday, March 29, 2010
Tales From My Past - Truck Driver
A while back I worked on a military base, and not too far from that base was one of those truck driving schools. If you stay up late enough at night you see ads for them on TV, sometimes in them middle of the day when proper folks are holed up in their cubicles, slaving away for the Man.
Anyway, I had always wanted to learn how to drive an 18-wheeler, you never know when something like that is going to come in handy. You're at a party, for instance, and the host decides to pack up and move right then, and needs someone who knows how to drive a truck. I would be the only one to raise my hand when the frantic question comes 'anybody here know how to drive a big rig?'
I was interested enough to write the number down from the billboard as I drove in one morning, and I called them that afternoon. The guy on the other end was kind of disinterested, bored almost, when he answered the phone. I told him I wanted to learn how to drive a rig, and asked how much it cost to learn.
He asked me if I had a valid driver's license. I said I did. His voice perked up and he got a little interested.
He asked me how many moving violations I'd ever had. I told him none. He got more interested in the conversation.
He asked me how many misdemeanor offenses I'd been convicted of or plead guilty to. I told him none. He got far more interested.
He asked me how many felony convictions I'd ever had or plead guilty to. I told him none. He got downright excited.
I could almost see him dancing around his office as he explained to me that someone with my clean record could practically write his own ticket, that once I made it through truck driver's school I could find a gig with almost any major company in the nation. And if the stars aligned and everything worked out, I might be able to get that company to remit me the cost of school, assuming, of course, that I kept a clean record as a professional driver.
It was at this point that I became uncomfortable. I didn't want to become a professional driver, I'm happy with my Class C. All I ever wanted was to know how to drive a big rig, not to actually do it for a living. The guy on the other end of the phone was ready with career placement for a career I didn't want. Still, I was willing to play along, I said I still didn't know how much it cost, and that was the deciding factor. The wheels in my mind were turning, and I figured I could just pay for the classes and then not show up on test day or something.
The guy let the guillotine drop. Fifty-five hundred dollars. With no financial aid to speak of. Holy crap, I was thinking it was a couple hundred bucks, tops. Like driver's ed in high school or something. I told the guy I'd have to think about it, I didn't know if I could get my hands on that kind of money. At least I wasn't lying about that part. When he hung up I could feel his disappointment radiating out through the phone line.
To this day I still don't know how to drive an 18-wheeler. Maybe if I did I'd be employed right now.
Anyway, I had always wanted to learn how to drive an 18-wheeler, you never know when something like that is going to come in handy. You're at a party, for instance, and the host decides to pack up and move right then, and needs someone who knows how to drive a truck. I would be the only one to raise my hand when the frantic question comes 'anybody here know how to drive a big rig?'
I was interested enough to write the number down from the billboard as I drove in one morning, and I called them that afternoon. The guy on the other end was kind of disinterested, bored almost, when he answered the phone. I told him I wanted to learn how to drive a rig, and asked how much it cost to learn.
He asked me if I had a valid driver's license. I said I did. His voice perked up and he got a little interested.
He asked me how many moving violations I'd ever had. I told him none. He got more interested in the conversation.
He asked me how many misdemeanor offenses I'd been convicted of or plead guilty to. I told him none. He got far more interested.
He asked me how many felony convictions I'd ever had or plead guilty to. I told him none. He got downright excited.
I could almost see him dancing around his office as he explained to me that someone with my clean record could practically write his own ticket, that once I made it through truck driver's school I could find a gig with almost any major company in the nation. And if the stars aligned and everything worked out, I might be able to get that company to remit me the cost of school, assuming, of course, that I kept a clean record as a professional driver.
It was at this point that I became uncomfortable. I didn't want to become a professional driver, I'm happy with my Class C. All I ever wanted was to know how to drive a big rig, not to actually do it for a living. The guy on the other end of the phone was ready with career placement for a career I didn't want. Still, I was willing to play along, I said I still didn't know how much it cost, and that was the deciding factor. The wheels in my mind were turning, and I figured I could just pay for the classes and then not show up on test day or something.
The guy let the guillotine drop. Fifty-five hundred dollars. With no financial aid to speak of. Holy crap, I was thinking it was a couple hundred bucks, tops. Like driver's ed in high school or something. I told the guy I'd have to think about it, I didn't know if I could get my hands on that kind of money. At least I wasn't lying about that part. When he hung up I could feel his disappointment radiating out through the phone line.
To this day I still don't know how to drive an 18-wheeler. Maybe if I did I'd be employed right now.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Symbolically Speaking
I want a symbol, something that people could look and instantly know me.
Everything memorable has a symbol. Apple has their logo with the bite taken out, Chevy has the bow-tie, NBC has the peacock, the World Wildlife Fund has that panda. Even the Nazis had their swastika, memorable doesn't necessarily mean good.
So I need some kind of symbol. I could use it instead of a signature, like those red symbol things they use in China. Even better, I could plaster it across my chest like the red 'S' that Superman wears. See? Another instantly recognizable symbol.
Problem is, I'm completely at a loss for a suitable image. I need something that screams 'me.' Not screams in a flaming, flamboyant way, don't get the wrong idea; I need something that screams in a manly, entirely hetero-appropriate way. Maybe a monkey wrench?
Hmm... what says 'unemployed middle-aged white guy?' A sink full of dishes? An unmade bed? A guy asleep on the couch in his underwear?
I'm willing to take suggestions.
Everything memorable has a symbol. Apple has their logo with the bite taken out, Chevy has the bow-tie, NBC has the peacock, the World Wildlife Fund has that panda. Even the Nazis had their swastika, memorable doesn't necessarily mean good.
So I need some kind of symbol. I could use it instead of a signature, like those red symbol things they use in China. Even better, I could plaster it across my chest like the red 'S' that Superman wears. See? Another instantly recognizable symbol.
Problem is, I'm completely at a loss for a suitable image. I need something that screams 'me.' Not screams in a flaming, flamboyant way, don't get the wrong idea; I need something that screams in a manly, entirely hetero-appropriate way. Maybe a monkey wrench?
Hmm... what says 'unemployed middle-aged white guy?' A sink full of dishes? An unmade bed? A guy asleep on the couch in his underwear?
I'm willing to take suggestions.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Off The Grid?
I have friends in Australia who recently made the investment in wind and solar power, enough that they took their house entirely off the grid. That's right, no bill from Australian Con Ed, or whatever they call it over there. They also collect rainwater that they use on their plants and to wash clothes, so they're really close to being entirely self-sufficient, no reliance on local utilities at all.
I know what you're thinking, good for them, but how many people have the time, money, or perseverance to see that sort of thing through? Aren't we all still stuck on the grid?
Not so fast. I've been reading Scientific American, listening to NPR, surfing the web and generally paying attention to things, and I think as a society we're pretty close to a major change in infrastructure.
Just like the Internet changed content delivery for all media - music especially - there is a coming revolution in the way homes will generate and store power that will have effects far beyond keeping the porch light on. There are now solar generators in development that will electrolyze water, putting they hydrogen produced into fuel cells stored underground. Already there are smaller-sized wind generators that produce more than enough wattage to power a home. Jay Leno has several of these wind generators, as a matter of fact, he uses them to power his gigantic warehouses full of expensive cars, and the excess he feeds back into the grid. One of the richest men on television actually gets a check back from SoCal Edison every month.
Just like the Internet took content generation out of the hands of a very small number of producers, publishers, and record labels, in the next few years we're going to see immense changes in the way power is generated.
So what?
It's a growth industry, for one, so if you're an investor - or job-seeker - that's something to look at. It's also a vast, inevitable unknown. When suburban communities, office buildings, and baseball stadiums regularly generate far more power than they consume, what will happen to the utilities? Will they go out of business? Will they change their business to something else? What are we going to do with all that extra energy?
Interesting times.
I know what you're thinking, good for them, but how many people have the time, money, or perseverance to see that sort of thing through? Aren't we all still stuck on the grid?
Not so fast. I've been reading Scientific American, listening to NPR, surfing the web and generally paying attention to things, and I think as a society we're pretty close to a major change in infrastructure.
Just like the Internet changed content delivery for all media - music especially - there is a coming revolution in the way homes will generate and store power that will have effects far beyond keeping the porch light on. There are now solar generators in development that will electrolyze water, putting they hydrogen produced into fuel cells stored underground. Already there are smaller-sized wind generators that produce more than enough wattage to power a home. Jay Leno has several of these wind generators, as a matter of fact, he uses them to power his gigantic warehouses full of expensive cars, and the excess he feeds back into the grid. One of the richest men on television actually gets a check back from SoCal Edison every month.
Just like the Internet took content generation out of the hands of a very small number of producers, publishers, and record labels, in the next few years we're going to see immense changes in the way power is generated.
So what?
It's a growth industry, for one, so if you're an investor - or job-seeker - that's something to look at. It's also a vast, inevitable unknown. When suburban communities, office buildings, and baseball stadiums regularly generate far more power than they consume, what will happen to the utilities? Will they go out of business? Will they change their business to something else? What are we going to do with all that extra energy?
Interesting times.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I never run any red lights at intersections where they have those traffic cameras. It's not because I'm afraid of getting a ticket, though, I'm just worried about getting a bad picture.
I've seen photos taken from those cameras, they're really sharp and in focus and capture the essence of the driver. Usually people I've seen look angry, a few of them look distracted. Some look gassy.
I would be picking my nose. Which, while everybody does it, in a photograph is just gross. It would be just my luck to blow through one of those intersections and have the camera snap a frame while my index finger is two knuckles deep, tickling the base of my brain. I don't need to see that, and I don't need the DMV to see it either.
Most people take great care not to be seen picking their nose, they usually do it in the bathroom where they do other icky but necessary stuff like flossing their teeth (you do floss,right? Every day?), popping zits, and other potty things. But you don't really need a mirror or any special tools to pick your nose; your finger just sort of creeps up there and gets to work. Which means that you can take care of business while doing something else entirely, like mowing the lawn or sculpting or composing a sonnet.
Or while driving, as long as you have a window cracked to 'dispose of the evidence.' And don't get all uppity and protest that you would never do such base a thing as pick your nose at all, let alone behind the wheel. I do a lot of walking around my neighborhood, and I can see drivers just as easily as they can see me. And trust me, waaaaay more people pick their noses behind the wheel than you might think. Including you.
I've seen photos taken from those cameras, they're really sharp and in focus and capture the essence of the driver. Usually people I've seen look angry, a few of them look distracted. Some look gassy.
I would be picking my nose. Which, while everybody does it, in a photograph is just gross. It would be just my luck to blow through one of those intersections and have the camera snap a frame while my index finger is two knuckles deep, tickling the base of my brain. I don't need to see that, and I don't need the DMV to see it either.
Most people take great care not to be seen picking their nose, they usually do it in the bathroom where they do other icky but necessary stuff like flossing their teeth (you do floss,right? Every day?), popping zits, and other potty things. But you don't really need a mirror or any special tools to pick your nose; your finger just sort of creeps up there and gets to work. Which means that you can take care of business while doing something else entirely, like mowing the lawn or sculpting or composing a sonnet.
Or while driving, as long as you have a window cracked to 'dispose of the evidence.' And don't get all uppity and protest that you would never do such base a thing as pick your nose at all, let alone behind the wheel. I do a lot of walking around my neighborhood, and I can see drivers just as easily as they can see me. And trust me, waaaaay more people pick their noses behind the wheel than you might think. Including you.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
At The Unemployment Office
I noticed that my 'Claim Balance' on my unemployment check keeps ticking down, and, after doing some simple algebra, I figured out when the money was due to run out. Only mildly panicked - and months before the cash ran dry - I went down to the local EDD office (that's the California unemployement office) to ask what I had to do to make sure the checks kept coming.
Let me first say the people at the EDD are extremely helpful. You can tell they take pride in getting people work, and I haven't met one of them who wasn't a genuinely nice person.
That said, they are still a California State bureaucracy. So I went through the door and stood behind the black tape, a good five feet from the counter, and waited my turn. That's when I noticed the 'Threatening a State worker is a felony' notice just beneath the 'wait here' sign. This alarmed me for two reasons, first because the staff evidently get enough threats that they feel they have to remind people that doing so is wrong, and second because evidently the threats workers receive are serious enough that making them constitutes a felony. Maybe they need hazard pay like soldiers get.
When the nice older gentleman called me to the desk he tapped the sign-in sheet - gotta fulfill the requirements of the bureaucracy - and asked me what I needed. I signed in and explained my concern about my money running out. 'Don't worry,' he told me, 'you're on your first renewal, right? We're working on four. It'll happen automatically, you have nothing to worry about.'
Yikes. Four renewals. That's two years. While I have enjoyed my time 'between assignments' I'm getting anxious to get back to work. I don't know if I can last two years.
The nice gentleman told me he was sure I'd find work before I hit my two-year limit, and I left the counter feeling that I would, indeed.
I stepped a few feet away to stow some of the paperwork he'd given me, and he called the next person over. 'I don't know why you people can't get this right,' the surly lady began the conversation. And then I understood the 'felony' sign up front.
Let me first say the people at the EDD are extremely helpful. You can tell they take pride in getting people work, and I haven't met one of them who wasn't a genuinely nice person.
That said, they are still a California State bureaucracy. So I went through the door and stood behind the black tape, a good five feet from the counter, and waited my turn. That's when I noticed the 'Threatening a State worker is a felony' notice just beneath the 'wait here' sign. This alarmed me for two reasons, first because the staff evidently get enough threats that they feel they have to remind people that doing so is wrong, and second because evidently the threats workers receive are serious enough that making them constitutes a felony. Maybe they need hazard pay like soldiers get.
When the nice older gentleman called me to the desk he tapped the sign-in sheet - gotta fulfill the requirements of the bureaucracy - and asked me what I needed. I signed in and explained my concern about my money running out. 'Don't worry,' he told me, 'you're on your first renewal, right? We're working on four. It'll happen automatically, you have nothing to worry about.'
Yikes. Four renewals. That's two years. While I have enjoyed my time 'between assignments' I'm getting anxious to get back to work. I don't know if I can last two years.
The nice gentleman told me he was sure I'd find work before I hit my two-year limit, and I left the counter feeling that I would, indeed.
I stepped a few feet away to stow some of the paperwork he'd given me, and he called the next person over. 'I don't know why you people can't get this right,' the surly lady began the conversation. And then I understood the 'felony' sign up front.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Mmmmm... Pie Charts...
I've been hitting the job search pretty hard for a few weeks now - I know, I know, it's disappointing for me too - and I can see that it's going to take some time. That time will allow me to ease back into the work routine, long hours spent away from home, the couch sadly neglected, the refrigerator door grossly under-used. I've been trying to think of what I would look forward to at work, aside from the birthday cake, and the list was woefully short. And then I thought a little bit more and I had it.
I look forward to pointless technical innovation.
You'd think there would be plenty of that in the non-corporate world, what with your Twitters and your iPhone apps and android what-nots. But some of the pointless technical innovation in society eventually proves useful somewhere - Twitter about the Iranian elections, for instance. But only in the corporate world can you get technology that presents itself as helpful which is anything but.
Pie charts, for instance. I don't know how much programming time has been wasted getting pie charts easier and easier to produce, and yet I've never seen a serious presentation that actually uses a pie chart. Or a bar graph, or line graph or any of the bloat that spreadsheet programs list as 'features.'
What about the presentations themselves? Power Point, Keynote, whatever, I've never seen, been shown, or handed a stack of presentation slides that wasn't a total waste of time. A waste of time to produce, a waste of time to explain or read aloud, a waste of time to e-mail. But there are people whose entire job is to produce Power Point presentations, and they think what they're doing adds value. Big-four consultants, I'm looking your way here...
How about security access doors? You have to swipe you employee ID to get inside. And if you read the fine print in the documents you sign to get that ID, you're not supposed to let anyone in unless they swipe their ID too. Find me one person who abides by that provision, even the head of corporate security. If five people go out for lunch, only one person swipes all of them back in the building. Might as well just prop open the door with a rock.
I could go on, but it's getting close to time for my afternoon nap. Gotta grab this opportunity while I have it.
I look forward to pointless technical innovation.
You'd think there would be plenty of that in the non-corporate world, what with your Twitters and your iPhone apps and android what-nots. But some of the pointless technical innovation in society eventually proves useful somewhere - Twitter about the Iranian elections, for instance. But only in the corporate world can you get technology that presents itself as helpful which is anything but.
Pie charts, for instance. I don't know how much programming time has been wasted getting pie charts easier and easier to produce, and yet I've never seen a serious presentation that actually uses a pie chart. Or a bar graph, or line graph or any of the bloat that spreadsheet programs list as 'features.'
What about the presentations themselves? Power Point, Keynote, whatever, I've never seen, been shown, or handed a stack of presentation slides that wasn't a total waste of time. A waste of time to produce, a waste of time to explain or read aloud, a waste of time to e-mail. But there are people whose entire job is to produce Power Point presentations, and they think what they're doing adds value. Big-four consultants, I'm looking your way here...
How about security access doors? You have to swipe you employee ID to get inside. And if you read the fine print in the documents you sign to get that ID, you're not supposed to let anyone in unless they swipe their ID too. Find me one person who abides by that provision, even the head of corporate security. If five people go out for lunch, only one person swipes all of them back in the building. Might as well just prop open the door with a rock.
I could go on, but it's getting close to time for my afternoon nap. Gotta grab this opportunity while I have it.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Slow Down
Last week, out of the blue, I decided I needed to get my wrist watches running again. I have a few, but one is from a grabber machine at Dave and Buster's and one has Ren and Stimpy on the face (remember them?). The ones I wanted to get running again are my two nice ones, with worn and broken wrist bands and hands that haven't moved in years. So I took them up the street and got new batteries and new bands, and $60 later I have two working wrist watches.
But when I thought about it, I had no idea why I suddenly wanted to get my watches repaired.
It's been years since I've worn one, literally. I remember that I stopped wearing a watch because everything around me had a clock, the computer at work, my truck, my cell phone, the cable box, every receipt from every store. I didn't need a watch to tell me the time because time was all around me, all day every day.
And then it hit me, that's why I decided to wear a watch again. Everything around me tells me the time, demands that I know the time of day, all day every day. If I look at my cell phone, it tells me the time is exactly 8:48. No guesswork, no interpretation. Cell phones, computers, cable boxes, they're all synchronized with the national clock in Colorado every night, so they're spot-on accurate almost all the time. To the millisecond.
My wrist watches are analog, sweeping hands on a round dial, not blocky digital numbers on a square readout. With a wrist watch, I can decide for myself what time it is. If the big hand is near the 10, it's about ten before the hour. But it might be a little before that, it might be a little after that. If the battery is running low, the big hand might be lagging well behind the 'actual' time. And I'm cool with that.
I'm the last guy to get all freaky and New Age - I've ranted about that before - but maybe people should divorce themselves from the clock, at least for a little while. Let the digital age slip away, embrace analog again. Get back to wrist watches, to pencil and paper, to vinyl records, to a good book on real paper. Maybe talk to your family a little bit, see what they're all about, instead of watching too much TV and taking a pill to go to sleep.
But when I thought about it, I had no idea why I suddenly wanted to get my watches repaired.
It's been years since I've worn one, literally. I remember that I stopped wearing a watch because everything around me had a clock, the computer at work, my truck, my cell phone, the cable box, every receipt from every store. I didn't need a watch to tell me the time because time was all around me, all day every day.
And then it hit me, that's why I decided to wear a watch again. Everything around me tells me the time, demands that I know the time of day, all day every day. If I look at my cell phone, it tells me the time is exactly 8:48. No guesswork, no interpretation. Cell phones, computers, cable boxes, they're all synchronized with the national clock in Colorado every night, so they're spot-on accurate almost all the time. To the millisecond.
My wrist watches are analog, sweeping hands on a round dial, not blocky digital numbers on a square readout. With a wrist watch, I can decide for myself what time it is. If the big hand is near the 10, it's about ten before the hour. But it might be a little before that, it might be a little after that. If the battery is running low, the big hand might be lagging well behind the 'actual' time. And I'm cool with that.
I'm the last guy to get all freaky and New Age - I've ranted about that before - but maybe people should divorce themselves from the clock, at least for a little while. Let the digital age slip away, embrace analog again. Get back to wrist watches, to pencil and paper, to vinyl records, to a good book on real paper. Maybe talk to your family a little bit, see what they're all about, instead of watching too much TV and taking a pill to go to sleep.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Job Yawn-Fest
Is it just me, or do most of the jobs posted out there seem completely boring and awful wastes of time? I know I'm probably looking at this with a jaded eye, but, seriously... 'Infrastructure Solutions Consultant?'... 'Franchise Development Manager?'... 'Sales Planner?'... 'Contracts Manager?' Companies couldn't put a little more effort into a job title than that? No wonder those jobs are never filled, only a zombie would apply for them, and zombies are too busy prowling for delicious brains to bother applying for a job.
Why can't I apply for 'Personal Jet Pack Tester' or 'Bobsled Runner?' Those would be pretty cool gigs. Or how about 'TV Dinner Taster,' I bet that's the kind of job people never quit, they just keel over in their chair one day, clutching their chest and mumbling about the brownie. Around here 'Drunk Celebrity Herder' is a job that always needs doing, but that would mean I'd have to hang out in Hollywood after dark and I just hate that. And something that really, really needs doing is 'Bad Tattoo Arbiter,' someone to warn people off of especially terrible body art. Who are we kidding? it's all pretty terrible.
And why is it I never see 'Indolent Billionaire' posted on any of these job sites? I could do that one with my eyes closed.
Why can't I apply for 'Personal Jet Pack Tester' or 'Bobsled Runner?' Those would be pretty cool gigs. Or how about 'TV Dinner Taster,' I bet that's the kind of job people never quit, they just keel over in their chair one day, clutching their chest and mumbling about the brownie. Around here 'Drunk Celebrity Herder' is a job that always needs doing, but that would mean I'd have to hang out in Hollywood after dark and I just hate that. And something that really, really needs doing is 'Bad Tattoo Arbiter,' someone to warn people off of especially terrible body art. Who are we kidding? it's all pretty terrible.
And why is it I never see 'Indolent Billionaire' posted on any of these job sites? I could do that one with my eyes closed.
Friday, September 4, 2009
How Hard Is It To Scan Groceries?
I'll be the first to admit it, I have a bit of free time being 'between assignments.' But that time is my own, and I guard every little bit of it jealously. I look for jobs (yes, I really do), I write, I work out, I do a bit of design work in Adobe Illustrator, I try to keep busy. If I wanted to learn a new skill, believe me, I'd be able to devote as many hours to it as it would take to master.
This is the long way around to saying that I really don't want to spend my time figuring out how to run the 'Self Service' machines at the grocery store. My local Von's has a bunch of these things, and when I'm shopping somebody comes over the intercom every five minutes or so, really pushing people to do their own labor. They kind of lay on a guilt trip, saying 'no waiting at the self-service, you should try it,' or 'regular checkout is full, but self-service is available,' that kind of stuff. Like your lonely grandmother worked there or something.
Seriously, if I wanted to be a grocery store clerk I'd join the freakin' union and wear an apron and a nametag. I want to pick out my groceries, wheel my cart to the front of the store, and make awkward conversation with someone while they silently judge my eating habits. Then I want some high-school student to put all my canned goods on top of my carton of eggs and roll his eyes when I tell him to re-do it.
I don't ask the grocery store clerks to fill out my unemployment form for me, why are they asking me to scan and bag my own stuff?
I definitely feel a cranky old-man tirade coming on...
This is the long way around to saying that I really don't want to spend my time figuring out how to run the 'Self Service' machines at the grocery store. My local Von's has a bunch of these things, and when I'm shopping somebody comes over the intercom every five minutes or so, really pushing people to do their own labor. They kind of lay on a guilt trip, saying 'no waiting at the self-service, you should try it,' or 'regular checkout is full, but self-service is available,' that kind of stuff. Like your lonely grandmother worked there or something.
Seriously, if I wanted to be a grocery store clerk I'd join the freakin' union and wear an apron and a nametag. I want to pick out my groceries, wheel my cart to the front of the store, and make awkward conversation with someone while they silently judge my eating habits. Then I want some high-school student to put all my canned goods on top of my carton of eggs and roll his eyes when I tell him to re-do it.
I don't ask the grocery store clerks to fill out my unemployment form for me, why are they asking me to scan and bag my own stuff?
I definitely feel a cranky old-man tirade coming on...
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