Counter-Clockwise Revolutions

This past Monday, a member of our finance team announced that she had sought to direct her career in an avenue other than finance, and had accepted another position in the company. This came as a bit of a surprise, considering she had only been with us for about six months, but I can understand her change in interest. After all, she hasn’t been the first one.

When I ran high school track, my two coaches (the short one and the one with chemistry in his veins) would always try and find ways to make us skinny white kids run faster in the sprint events. Aside from making us run to the YMCA camp a few miles away, they also decided when in doubt, to yell a solitary word. TURNOVER. And to this day, it seemed like a cryptic choice. They never would explain what they meant by turnover, so I’d have to guess a definition. It never made sense, since the turnover I was used to was set in an office setting, much like a revolving door. And have you ever tried to run fast inside a revolving door? Don’t. It really hurts.

Yes, the revolving door has claimed another worker here in my department. Now I have now been here a few weeks over three years, and for the most part, there are 5 other positions in my department, and I suppose it’s possible to have had the same 5 co-workers during my tenure. However, that’s not the case.

I’ve had 13. (4, no 8, no 12…)

Whether it’s been a promotion, demotion, relocation, or permanent vacation, we’ve had to order our share of nameplates. And what’s more, of the original 5, 2 of them are still here. Which means that’s 11 people to fill the other 3 positions. It took a team of eleven to serve as our two administrative staff and one financial controller. And that’s an average of 11 months on the job before running into the revolving door. What gives?

There’s no solution to my question, because consolidating all of the reasons reveals little similarity. Maybe it’s because a certain employee leaves old donuts out on his desk while he waits for his friends to debate that pastry’s fate.

(Which, I might add, ended up in the trash can. The late-inning rally for the runaway donut came too late. Apologies, little fella.)

Postscript: the one positive aspect of such high employee turnover is a complete need to exploit the fact that the newbies weren’t around when “times were tougher.” As an incumbent member of your department, it is your comedic responsibility to ensure you constantly recollect old stories, prior means of operation, and stuff you’re making up as instantaneously as it’s leaving your mouth. Now you don’t want to alienate your new compatriots when doing this. A longing for the past will only divide the tribe, a la most of the early season dynamics on Survivor. No, you’ve got to say stuff that will elicit the response, “Wow, it may have been harder to do your job before I joined the team, but DAMN, did you guys have a good time!”

Example: Hey, remember back in March when we got relocated outdoors? I mean, wow was that a tough few weeks. Thank God for wireless, you know what I mean? I didn’t mind the snow so much, since we hired the Heat Miser as a temp, and those polar bears were taking care of running the database, but when they started to drink all the Coke in the fridge – man, was that crazy. We really should have seen that one coming.

Time to Make the Jailbreak

A funny thing happened on the way to the lunchroom…

Just before you enter my company’s corporate cafeteria, there is a slight decline in the flooring, forming an upwards ramp in the opposite direction in which you are heading. I can’t really explain the change in topography, as the entire eatery facility ends up about 10 inches lower than the commerce-producing part of the building. I guess cafeteria food is supposed to taste better closer to sea level.

Speaking of which, today’s special was shrimp scampi. Go figure.

Every day (that I forget to bring lunch) I make this trip down the ramp, purchase a salad or some other acceptable substitute, pay my fare, and return back up the ramp. It’s not a steep incline where a handrail in necessary, but there is one in the middle of said ramp just in case. No one uses it, but it does help determine which way is up and which is down. And as I was about to ascend today, I noticed a catering cart on its way down. A colleague, however, didn’t grasp the whole “right of way” concept, and forced the catering cart (and pusher of said cart) to stop abruptly. With little braking. On a downward ramp. Which meant one and only one thing for the breakfast pastry tray on the bottom level of the cart:

DONUT STAMPEDE!

It all happened so fast, but I would estimate about 7 donuts blasted off the cart and continued their descent down the ramp. 1 of the leaders in the jail break, your plain non-glazed regular old donut, died a hero, as the man who cut off the cart panicked to get out of the way and stepped directly on the poor guy. The other half dozen rolled and tumbled another three feet or so, before coming to a stop: as far as they were considered, they were now free pastries.

Did somebody say free pastries?

Now, I’ve worn a lot of different hats at my time with this company, and I was quick to add the cap of “donut wrangler” to the list. I knew the catering girl (who was in complete shock over what happened) and helped clean up the mess. While she and the guy (whose loafer is now laced with donut) started to stand up drinks upright on the top shelf of the cart, I put my lunch down and collected the escapees. The cafeteria trash and tray return was to my left, and after checking with the catering girl, I threw 5 donuts into the black plastic abyss.
Sorry fellas, it was a good try.

This is a perfect case study for the world famous 5 second rule. As per Wikipedia (I can’t believe they actually have an entry on this), the rule states that “foods that have fallen to the ground will not contract any germs until five seconds have passed,” thus making them okay for retrieval and consumption.

Take the donuts. They fell and rolled on a floor which I know for a fact is cleaned nightly. The surface of the floor is industrial tile, and it is only a high traffic area around lunch time, traveled by people who work in a clean office building and have been within the walls of that building for at least three hours. The donuts, in my estimation, were on the floor for about 20 seconds. This of course, is four times the acceptable threshold for the 5 second rule, but they were under careful supervision, and it is hard to believe that any additional harm occurred in the following fifteen. Why do I ask this?

The sixth intact donut is sitting on my desk to my left.

Thoughts?

Dun-Dun-Dun-DUMB.....

“If I had a million dollars, I’d buy you some art – a Picasso or a Garfunkel”
-- Barenaked Ladies

I don’t even pretend to know what I’m talking about when it comes to the world of visual art. I’ve never taken an art history class, I’ve only been to Met once, and once I got to the top after running up the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum a la Rocky Balboa, I didn’t go inside – I collapsed in an effort to catch my breath (there’s 72 of ‘em, dammit). Hell, the best movie I ever saw about art was when Sesame Street got locked inside the Met, launching that killer Cookie Monster ditty, “Don’t Eat the Pictures.” When it comes to all things A-R-T, I have no idea what I’m talking about.

But I CAN appreciate it.

For a fan of creative expression who has trained neither of his two eyes to behold what makes a visually artistic masterpiece, I can’t tell you what eras were the best and whose work in said eras were dominant and beautiful. When you put creativity on canvas, in clay, or hell, in weird geometric sculpture, it at least says one thing about the artist: the have an inherent ability to exude originality. Musically speaking, on the other hand, I am a better judge of art. Because of my history in musical performance, composition, and enjoyment, I CAN in fact rightfully opine on who I think has that natural gift, and who’s faking it.

This guy is faking it.

In case you didn’t click on the link (slacker), here’s the skinny on the featured deceased musician. Far from the footsteps of Beethoven, Brahms, or Wagner, American composer John Cage, despite dying 14 years ago, is having his followers carry out what he would deem his greatest symphony in an abandoned German cathedral: “organ2 / ASLSP.” This is no ordinary symphony. It has been written to begin on Sept 5, 2001 and finish in the year 2639.

That’s 639 years of symphony.

And it’s not like this piece of music is fluttering with dramatic crescendos, flutter sixteenth note runs, or hell, even just really loud timpanis – it’s whole notes. All of them. Every note? Whole. Come on! A kid with a Fisher price xylophone could play it!

And what’s more – the first year and a half of the symphony was a dotted-whole silence – six beats of nothing but nothingness! This guy said – “Hey, I’m going to start a symphony that will span SIX centuries in 2001, but I don’t expect any actual sound until 2003!” This man is not an artist. He’s a mental patient.

And it’s not like nobody should have seen this coming, either, which is probably the fault of the general public. His previously most famous work was titled 4’33”, “a piece comprising four minutes and 33 seconds of total silence, all meticulously notated.” That’s not work – that’s an excuse Cage came up with when his manager peaking into his musical cubicle.

Hey, I’ve got an idea for a blog. I’m a going to write a post that takes 481 years to write. The first part is me indenting my opening paragraph, and that will take us until 2007. Stay tuned.

From Cart to Finish

As I have documented in the past, I have little knowledge of Katie and my immediate neighbors. Those who share the other sides of our walls, floors, and ceilings (assuming someone lives on the roof) come and go with little trace. They haven’t even given me enough material for them to come up with nicknames. They remain nameless. However, we have an extended neighbor, who lives just across the street from our apartment building, and has actually revealed its surname. And, again, as I have documented in the past (here and here), that surname is Wegman’s.

It is a magical place.

Like the world’s other place for magic, Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida, there are certain constants that arise with such an attraction. The chief constant, of course, is that you can guarantee that both lands of wonder will be jam-packed with visitors, young and old, on a Saturday afternoon. (Fortunately, Wegman’s does not share the characteristic with the Magic Kingdom when it comes to population levels of mice.)

We were two such visitors to the charming world of Wegman’s, and it was in that visit that we discovered that supernatural quality it possesses as the best supermarket/grocery store in Fairfax County.

The thing that makes Walt Disney World (and its associated theme parks) unique is that more moves than just the “cast members.” Animatronics are the name of the game, which is what gives attractions like the Haunted Mansion, Tower of Terror, or even Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride seem super lifelike. It is a system of computers, machinery, and fancy wiring that generates Disney magic.

Wegman’s doesn’t need to generate. That place is haunted.

On a Saturday afternoon, the size of Wegman’s massive parking lot is totally justified, as it seems every last parallel slot is put to good use. That’s great vindication for the architectural planning firm that conceived the two-story massive facility. It’s bad news for Katie and me, who pull in with little hope of parking and purchasing groceries today. And while we could have walked from our apartment, I’m not too keen about carrying 41 bags of groceries (because everything seems to end up individually bagged) across the street. So we press on, with little hope of parking.

Until…

As we made a left towards the supermarket itself, the aisle was lined with stationary vehicles. But other than that, it was empty. When you turn down a decidedly “no vacancy” aisle, you have no other choice but to hit the gas and proceed to the adjacent runway. Except, the magic of Wegman’s showed its true side.

A shopping cart, with no computers, machinery, or fancy wires, mysteriously crossed from the right side of the lane, ever so slowly, to the left side of the lane. It crossed our path, with all the mysterious trappings of a black cat, a tumbleweed, a chicken crossing the road.

Note: all chickens at a supermarket should be packaged and stored in your grocer’s freezer.

The first thing we thought of was the plight of the poor vehicle on the left hand side of the aisle. But when we arrived at its final destination, it the magic of Wegman’s had slid the cart right between a silver Camry and a white Accord. Not a dent or scratch to be seen. And what’s more, to the right of the Accord, an EMPTY PARKING SPOT was ours for the taking. Forget the 40 MPH wind – that cart was trying to tell us something – where to park.

Needless to say, we selected the Enchanted Shopping Cart for our shopping trip.

Just wow.

Egg on Your Face

As a former marketing major, I was taught the knowledge, skill sets, and know-how it requires to provide such support to my future employer. From the ten or so courses you take on the subject matter-at-hand, you gain the confidence in the ability to provide analysis and ideas that will assist any future firm you’ll belong to in becoming better equipped to sell its product or service. That’s what you’re taught. Marketing majors exist to help sell goods.

No, no they don’t.

Marketing majors exist to mess with your head. They make ordinarily normal purchase decisions impossible, since they help deal the cards, and their whole deck are jokers. If it was a base comparison of two products, without marketing, decisions would be made on price and quality. Look, I’m totally cool with the above statement. Had I pursued a career in marketing, I feel aptly qualified to mess with your head. But instead, I’m just one of the flock who is forced to make purchase decisions involving the most nefarious scheme of all: limited-time promotions.

Today’s promotion comes off of a sign in the cafeteria downstairs that has made me ponder such an undertaking with great curiosity. It simply reads:

Every 30 minutes your meal is on us!
To celebrate YOU, our customer and to show our appreciation for your patronage, we are setting every register up with an egg times for one day. Every 30 minutes, when the egg timer rings, the customer at the register, will receive their meal on us.

Yes, those two misplaced commas are on the flyer.

So the marketing majors at our building’s catering company are at it again. These flyers, which pretty much are omnipresent in our building right now (and must look professionally sweet to our clients), are simply designed. It’s a giant picture of an egg timer. Now before I pose my dilemma to you all, I’d like to congratulate the marketing majors on resurrecting the noble egg timer. It’s no secret that digital timepieces have done away with the usefulness of the egg timer, and it’s archnemesis, the microwave, is largely responsible.

And it’s also worth noting that egg timers have been underused because they lost their vision. The original egg timer could time a period of about 3 minutes, or the time it takes to cook an egg. The egg timer evolved into a timekeeping piece for 1 WHOLE HOUR. Have you ever successfully cooked an egg for a whole hour? If so, I’ll just assume you have magic powers. Care to unscramble this egg?

Ok, onto the dilemma. Now this stupid timer promo will only affect one person at each register every half-hour. And the timer itself is concealed from view, so you really have no idea when it will go off. UNLESS, you go down early and listen for it to sound, and then keep track of the following thirty minutes. This is your best opportunity to guarantee victory. Granted, you’ll lose 30 minutes of productivity at our desk, but that’s ok. It’s lunch time.

So if you have a guaranteed free lunch coming due to your timing prowess, don’t you go big and put like 60 dollars of food on your plate? You know, extra bottles of soda, cookies, the entire salad bar – all of it! After all, it’s going to be free.

Unless you miscalculate. Then you have to pay big time for your gamble.

Damn those marketing majors.