So Long, Big Daddy

I have the most thoughtful boss in the world:

Phone rings.  I pick up.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Jill, this is [Big Daddy].  How ya doin’?”

“Oh, hey.  If clueless about what’s happening with the hush-hush things that are supposedly ongoing with good progress while generally maintaining an air of cool and talking to customers and publication contacts as if things are business as usual is fine… then we’re fine.  And yourself?”

“I’m cool.  Supercool.”

“That’s great.”

“By the way, I’ve resigned.”

“Hum?”

“I just thought to call you up and tell you ’cause they’re gonna make an announcement by e-mail any second now… and I just don’t want you to be surprised or anything.  And thanks for editing my resume.”

 

See?  Thoughtful.  Bring out the keg.

Wint O Green LifeSavers Are Scarce

And I want more.  They’re like a cross between energon cubes and catnip, except they’re round, with the hole in the middle.  How come all we have here are the tubes of fruity flavors and boring peppermints?  Import more of the spearminty flavor, please.

Smart move, they’re stifling the suspense for now by not talking.  You know, this should be standard practice.  Hopefully it’s catching.  And while it’s not likely I’m turning to Pollyannaism, I just want to enjoy a bit of quiet as everything falls into place.  Things will happen soon enough, and there was at time when a certain Physics adviser wisely advised us to shut up so we can solve the problems.  Makes sense.  So we ease into cruise mode — I guess they’ll just surprise us one day — but for now, it’s comforting somewhat to resume business as usual.  If additional comfort is needed, we turn to Mike Wazowski and the usual Fleetstreet stuff.

And there are things needed to be done before all four of us break from the huddle: a gunk of Glenn Frey From Oz’s legal stuff, a PowerPoint presentation, a print ad, a press release, a newsletter, a website, babysitting people who are no longer getting freebies, a video script, several chairs and an overhead swinging light bulb for possible interrogation seminars, and a set of pegs, cables, and duct tape for roping off our area.  Maybe peat, moss, and camouflage, to hide from incoming detour agents in Office Space (note to trademark and post our slogan on an overhead billboard: “Not now.” Or, “Don’t make another step.”  Or, “Look at the cow.”  Or, “We never liked the Fugees.”).

Twink is getting married (yay).  I am happy for her because I’ll always remember and make tangents from her answer on how she dealt with her biggest disappointment so far.  Twink’s boyfriend is a nice man with very kind eyes.  I made the guy’s acquaintance only this year on my birthday, around two months since Twink started working with Curly, Muffy, Jinkz, Aloysius, and me.  As it happened, the day was on a weekend, and DSTS and I decided on a quiet dinner for two.  On the way, Twink got on the bus we took.  She naturally has a perky personality, I guess, and talked about showing us her apartment, and maybe around her area if we liked, and she said her boyfriend will be there so she could introduce him to us, too.  So DSTS and I were like, what the heck, would you both join us for dinner?  My treat, of course, but we didn’t need to mention the occasion, and it was an interesting enough evening.  Afterwards we met Twink’s sister and brother-in-law at their apartment, who said we looked kinda young, which wasn’t helped by the fact I wore my sneakers, which I usually do especially after work.  Back home, that bit might probably tickle most people pink, but we’re here, and it’s usually not a compliment when people in China say you look young — alternative doubt-filled comment: you don’t look your age — when it’s said in relation to your work.  So later that evening DSTS and I discussed enhancing our age visually; I seriously considered growing a moustache and a beard, maybe sideburns.  And DSTS will let all his hair fall off, and he’ll walk like he has a bunion on one of his toes.

Last Sunday, the temperature took a drop as it tends to around the Mid-Autumn Festival.  It’s been pretty warm, though, probably the warmest September since I’ve been here.  And lately it’s been raining nonstop, and I took to putting some favorite notebooks, pens, and, on occasion, travel documents in Ziploc bags as to not repeat what we went through when DSTS had a soggy experience with his backpack containing our passports.  Twink filed for a leave of absence weeks before for today so she and her boyfriend can have wedding pictures taken.  But she was in the office this morning because the clouds were gray and there was a slight drizzle.  Then around 10 am to 1 pm, the sun peeked out of the clouds and for a while I thought she went ahead with the leave because we didn’t see her anywhere, but actually, she was kidnapped by Glenn Frey From Oz again to translate the legal stuff we were talking about. 

The general air in Office Space caused Twink to send for vibes from time to time if it was a good idea to file for an extra five days in addition to the October national holidays the locals were entitled to every year and not worry about anything.  She’s getting married after all, and need to go home, take care of documents filed to the government, visit the spiritual adviser recommended by the parents, consult the calendar some more, meet friends and greet relatives and get nice food and perhaps have a nice honeymoon, and girl, I know how you feel.  These with the sitch at work is kinda de ja vu for me, and work shouldn’t surprise us so much anymore.

Anyway, Big Daddy should be off again sometime soon, and hopefully we survive for the extra five days without Twink, who is a very far cry from Curly and in fact takes care of A LOT, from translations and reports to coordination and admin stuff.  We have to do something about Glen Frey From Oz, though. He’s getting a little too attached to her these days; he might fall apart during those five days. 

Plan lots and use available stuff wisely, we must.  On other mentionables, my hoard of relatively useless stuff now has audios of Chomsky on war and The Cure: MTV Unplugged; PDF files of books on sentence diagramming, direct mail marketing, advanced Excel, PowerPoint, and Acrobat Pro, The Island Of The Day Before and JLA: Secret Origins, and video files of The Flight Of Dragons, The Bandwagon, and Vertigo.

The hoard will soon have video files of The Cure: MTV Unplugged (seeing Robert Smith and Co. pluck strings, light candles, pound on bongos and blow on kazoos is so much more satisfying than just listening to the MP3s) and what is supposedly a William Faulkner adaptation retitled as The Long Hot Summer.  This is before Cat On A Hot Tin Roof, and Paul Newman married Joanne Woodward after making this movie.  Also starring Lee Remick, Orson Welles, Angela Lansbury, and… hum.  I forgot the name of the actor who played Joanne Woodward’s brother, Orson Welles’s son, and Lee Remick’s husband.  Must remember names, or must content oneself with long substitutes.

Like Sand Through The Hourglass

And we’re into the last days of June.  The cloud of gloom still hovers, and though zest for life is not at an all time low, it’s… yes.  Low.  And I don’t know if we’re gonna have a cheerful forecast anytime soon.  Anyway, because I’m so moved to tears, I’m relying on the OneNote entries saved from the trusty desktop for a recap on the rest of an unbelievably asinine week.

Monday:  Koreans of the male species set shuffly feet on the plant with big carry-alls.  And sorry, not a Bae Yong Jun among them.  Most resemble Vandolph.

Tuesday:  Koreans invade the plant.  Koreans with the curiosity and energy of six-year-olds in a zoo, but without the cuteness.  I note that most friends and family are nuts about Koreans right now… Mama is currently crushing on Lee Dong Gun and DSTS’s Mama favors Jang Dong Gun — Dong Guns are the new Michaels! — but no.  These?  Are unreportable.

Where was I?  Oh, yes… kids in a zoo.  I wish there’s an alligator pond we could push the Tweedles into somewhere.  The Korean interpreter sashays into the office in curls, perfume, frilly mini, strappy sandals with those tiny, tiny heels — the better to go up and down four manufacturing buildings with — and bangles.  Lots of bangles.  We’ve no electricity today due to the area’s energy-saving thing, so our wards sweat like pigs.  Korean interpreter can’t interpret technical terms. 

The Goonies’ leader, a man with a pinch of English and a big Elvis ‘do, asks Jean-Luc Picard to hurry up with explaining the technical stuff as they want to get back to the office, probably because a) they can’t wait to present their marketing research and sales forecast, b) they’re dying to hear Big Daddy’s words of wisdom, or c) they look forward to maximizing the airconditioning systems running on generator and guzzling more Coke. And Coke Light.  This while we’re just starting.  Never mind his biggest goon’s ripping open a sealed cartridge over there in the far corner of a production line.  Jean-Luc Picard looks at me, eyes narrowed.  Go on, dude.  Screw diplomacy and scalp ‘em. 

Wednesday: It’s been raining on and off, and Big Daddy complains about stinky laundry.

Koreans are late.  Two hours late.  They are nursing the after effects of a night of karaoke, wine, and Jong Il knows what else.  Trainees… yeah, right.  Someone get the Donald in here.  Jean-Luc Picard lifts up his nose higher than usual.  Idiot Business Partner pops up with the Goonies and blah-de-dahs to Big Daddy.  Jean-Luc Picard’s presentation gets interrupted many times by Idiot Business Partner, who turns out to be the ringleader of yestereve’s merriment.  Idiot Business Partner asks Jean-Luc Picard to slow down with the English.  Lost Boys excuse themselves from the much delayed presentation five minutes before lunchtime to discuss with Idiot Business Partner where to meet in Hong Kong later in the evening.  Jean-Luc Picard sees Warm Pantone Red 2X.  Oberon and I bail out so we can replenish our drained auras.  Jean-Luc Picard predicts the boys will give us lots of headaches in the future.  You noticed, too, huh?  Which is why I’m running to the hardware soon to get me an axe.  Made in China.  You know.  For such emergencies.

Retired Brit Journalist responds to our IP specialists’ page-long suggestions to revise his infallible text so we don’t get into legal trouble.  One consultant, the lawyer with the pouffy hair that Gandz is contemplating to ambush and ravish one day, suggests the same thing I suggested… to put the freaking company intro on page two already.  Retired Brit Journalist e-mails Hairy Mason a rebuttal that resembles the text in his, er… corporate postcard., in which yours truly is an unmentionable and is thus mis-common-nouned in the e-mail, and like, tsk, tsk.  Must’ve had a miserable childhood.  And what they say about senile canines. With gout.

Thursday: Jean-Luc Picard is angry!  Bruce Banner angry!  Because laundry at staff quarters has gone awry!  And the Big Heads push him around!  He orders Check and I to review tasklists with him!  Everybody gets lots of tasks!  Be afraid!  Be very afraid!  Koreans have successfully depleted the Coke supply in the pantry fridge!  Meanwhile, more people strategically furnish copy everybody to insinuate their crap is my crap!  Nothing new there!  Holy cow, I’ve run out of liquid antibacterial soap!  I’m, like, 40% less hygienic until I hit the nearest store that sells genuine soap!

Friday: Hairy Mason gives the verdict for my proposals and I only have to amend two bits in my stuff!  I’m being all mature here, okay, Retired Brit Journalist?  So nyaaah.  Now excuse me while I ignore you so I can get back to focusing on things of more worth, like finishing the long-overdue, novella-length e-mail replies to friends.  And my review of Before Sunset.  And whatever happened to Encantadia.  Gandz and Gladys Calbee Chomper ship out by 3 pm, the Honkniks follow soon after, I return home and I find my laundered clothes smelling as good as Big Daddy said his did, and … ohmigod, a home alone weekend!  Yeah! 

Saturday:  Extra snoozies.  Chores and more chores.  DSTS argues the evil of me walking barefoot on the tiles within my four walls — though I am not convinced that the practice is that bohemian.  And how can ringworms survive things disinfected with… a local brand of disinfectant.  Ulp.  DSTS prepares faux-grilled steaks.  Googles of etiquette, marketing, and other stuff I don’t really like Googling about.  Need to.  Gilmore Girls rerun in which Jesse doesn’t call and Trix kisses a man in a purple velour jogging suit.  DSTS discusses how greed distorts intelligence.  Meet the Fockers. Finally.

For Sunday: One Tree Hill episode 2… Moira Kelly’s alive!  And plays Chad Michael Murray’s mother!  I did not bond with One Tree Hill.  It’s like Dawson’s Creek minus the virgin monologues.  There’s Blond Cheerleader, Grounded Girl-Next-Door, Chad Michael Murray’s Blond Guy and , er… Bruno Guy With Bangs.  And Blond Cheerleader is an artist!  And, her work looks like lines and circles rendered in what looks like permanent marker.  Blond Guy faces his fear and plays school basketball again… because Blond Cheerleader’s art moves him!  Clearly, they did not read my blog.  The Desperates guest on Oprah!  Yay!  Will And Grace take on Deirdre and Monet.  And then there’s macaroni and chicken soup. 

And on to another week.

Pixie-Dusted ‘Shrooms

As we sat down today in the meeting room for Big Daddy’s sudden call to arms, all four of us — Jean-Luc Picard, Curly, Oberon, and I — wondered.  Is this some kind of emergency thingie like what happened to RBJ’s kneecaps?  Is someone getting sacked?  Who invented muriatic acid, and why do I see it used as disinfectant in our toilet?

The great leader speaks.

“Last night I couldn’t sleep,” he began.  Hmm.  We’re called to interpret his dream?

“I received an unexpected message on my computer.”  Follow the white rabbit.

“That idiot of a partner of mine in Korea is sending his new sales team here today for a three-day sales training so man battle stations.  Curly, prepare for reservation nightmares. 

“Oberon, if I find these guys are a big headache, I’m passing this account to you.

“You,” he turned to me, “and you, Jean-Luc Picard.  Tour them around the factory, get engineering to help out, figure out lunch, grill them about their market.”  All this before we all could blink and, uh-oh. 

It’s Babysitting 101.

The afternoon trickled by and at about 4 pm Curly received his first phone call from the Lost Boys.  Their leader said they’re now in a taxi heading towards the factory in the poor, poor village.  “May I speak to the driver just to make sure about him getting you to the right address?” Curly inquired politely.  He listened for a beat.  “No, I want to talk to your taxi driver.  Could you pass him your phone for a second?”

He hung up and looked at us.  “I don’t think he understood me.”

I spent the afternoon preparing what documents we should have for training and looking for my usually trusty smiley face mask should I turn into Uruk-hai come coffee break tomorrow. 

At five, huge boys and men who look like boys pile into our office with equally huge luggages and, good grief.  It’s supposed to be a three-day stay.  What, you guys packed your mothers in there?  Nice timing, too… the ladies who take care of transportation go home on the dot.  Curly hurries out to drag them back.

Jean-Luc Picard runs into the meeting room to give away his name cards and comes back with eyes wide open.  “They can’t understand Engleesh!”

Okay.  Babysitting trainees is one thing, but how do you babysit when everyone’s no habla Ingles?  No habla China, either?  What the heck are they here for?  Big Daddy sputters into the phone for a Korean translator and I was thinking, this is the second batch of sales people from Idiot Business Partner and the last batch that reportedly got sacked was about several months ago. 

What if Idiot Business Partner is not an idiot after all and his real business is industrial travel and tours?

Seeing Stars

 

 

I am really not in a good mood these days.  It’s like there’s this cloud of gloom looming over me everywhere I go, brought about by unstable situations and wishy-washy people and… gawd.  I’ve turned into a Lucy Van Pelt/Pig Pen freak hybrid.  Which is not exactly helping me do the more useless things, like finishing that review on Before Sunset and what episode updates I managed to glean of my current camp fix, Encantadia.  Come back, happy thoughts.  Come back!

To complement the way things are going, Big Daddy is in an even worse mood over some loony client.  The problem is it’s one big loony client.  Add that to Big Daddy’s guys not getting the product shipments they asked for.  And Big Daddy’s guys not making the quota.  And then he razzes on Jean-Luc Picard saying he doesn’t like our new corporate colors.  Just a reminder, Big Daddy.  You do know that’s a strong blue, right?  Hold up, let me get that salt shaker.  Hee.  Jean-Luc Picard is pretending he didn’t hear what Big Daddy said and pushes me to “talk to him.”  Go walk a plank, Jean-Luc Picard.  And anybody who’s a man in here, raise your hand.

Jean-Luc Picard is passing out even the most unnecessary-to-delegate work, like compressing picture files in his one-sheet Excel file, ’cause it’s about 13 MB and it needs to be e-mailed to a client.  Wooh, what a big problem.  He plops the file into a confused Muffy’s folder — Muffy’s a local designer.  I know you take the hit for us most of the time and you have to crunch out lots of boring budgets and churn out gazillions of documents, but like, dude.  You don’t need Photoshop for compressing photos in any MicroSoft Office file.  Haven’t you experienced this wonderful process known to everyone… the point, right-click, and then read?  Bill Gates solves your woes for ya, all in five seconds. 

In the department, well.  There’s Check… Curly… everyone is complaining that the work he or she is doing was supposed to be done by the people who delegated the work to them.  Too bad we’re a rung or two below the wishy-washies, and God, people.  Why whine so much more than I do!  Things like that are a given… we’re all busy, and I deal with their crap, too.  You don’t like the work, get another job, right? 

No excuses for everybody, ha ha.  I figure this is my blog, so I get to be properly histrionic when I choose to. 

But of course, it’s human nature to be contrary to what others dictate.  I think I know why some ancients portray divine beings as jealous and quarrelsome as most mortals who walked the face of the earth… we remember the annoying things better, so everyone felt the gods shoved crap their way just to even out or surpass all the happy stuff.  It’s as if by some sheer perversity, the Fates are daring you to walk their way, or else.  Dum-dum-DUMMM!

Let’s take the most oft-consulted divine guideline of the society now deemed secular, the horoscopes.  For some time now, Yahoo! has been feeding Friendster its version of them.  Check out out my mine for the day:

The Bottom Line

Look out for problems in a partnership today, but watch for opportunities, too.

In Detail

It might be fun to be a critic, but it’s not too helpful unless the observations you’re handing out are constructive, not destructive. Just think how you’d feel if you asked someone for their opinion of something you’d slaved over and they proceeded to shred it into tiny pieces. Use your considerable sensitivity and intelligence to figure out a kind way to state what needs to be fixed.

What a theme, huh.  Let’s all be friends.  In the real world, I’d be compelled to resign and join a support group. 

First off, I make a living out of receiving criticisms on my work.  I assume if people can dish it well, they should learn to take it, too.  So if you feel bad when I tell you it’s bad, live with it.  Improve.  I usually mean well.  Of course when surly people who only see things their way blow things in my face, Mr. Horoscope Word Processor will probably be wagging a huge I-told-you-so.  Whatever.  Lessee…

Just think how you’d feel if you asked someone for their opinion of something you’d slaved over and they proceeded to shred it into tiny pieces? 

Is this, like, my life’s revelation?  People do that all the time!  And I return the favor, and guess what.  We’re still employed.  Next:

Use your considerable sensitivity and intelligence to figure out a kind way to state what needs to be fixed?

Ha, ha…  funny.  Next:

It might be fun to be a critic, but it’s not too helpful unless the observations you’re handing out are constructive, not destructive.

That’s a good idea, like getting Paula Abdul — whose Top 40 career spanned about a couple of years max, I might add — to spout it’s yous and it’s really happenings and other huh? praises to the next great contender to pop stardom.  They make as much sense as “You’re the dawg, man.  Got yo’ shit goin’ on.  Keep that up aight?  Yo’ da dawg!” 

Simon rules. 

Constructive criticism just get blown off as insincere fluff.  If you’re gonna be a critic, might as well give ‘em words that are honest and worth remembering.  Otherwise, shut it and go bother someone else with your magnum opus. 

Look out for problems in a partnership today, but watch for opportunities, too.

Partnership.  My personal stuff today is good, so this can only refer to work. Again.  On Monday, we scheduled to meet with Retired Brit Journalist for today, and it was cancelled.  Retired Brit Journalist fell down the stairs yesterday, his kneecaps got smashed. Reportedly there was lots of blood, and now he’s in the hospital.  And that’s serious stuff.  When you get old, I imagine the bones hurt a lot more than when you’re younger, and for the caps to be smashed…

We were gonna visit the poor guy sometime soon — I supposed to extend good will, respect, and all that, but Big Daddy said no, the reason for our call is Retired Brit Journalist will want to work while thus confined for the bleeding kneecaps that has aged for more than sixty years, and… are all white guys like these two?  So professional and hardworking and self-sacraficing and noble and good?  Championed by Warren Buffet and Carebears around the world?  Now.  Whether this is an opportunity or problem, don’t ask me anymore.  I’ve been insensitive all month already.