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November 20, 2004
Pride in one's work/Café Sensual
We got out of bed at 1, which meant that the usual Saturday schedule for puttering was off by a few hours. Kitchen cleaning, laundry sorting and houseplant care meant that I didn't even get to think about coffee until 2:45.
After depositing the light and dark loads, I walked to a nearby café, a croissant firmly in my thoughts.
It was after I pushed in the coinslot and heard the quarters drop that I realized my clothes were separate yet equal. I have a fundamentalist, faith-based conviction that everything should be washed in hot water.
The quiet woman dispensing caffeine has gotten better at her craft since her first day as a trainee two months ago. I inspected the day's croissants (trying to guess which was filled with what by inspecting the shape of each pastry), and watched the counter woman deftly drop two shots of espresso into a tall cup of foamed milk.
There's an art to it. Have you ever noticed how people with jobs that might be considered mundane will always work in a little razzle-dazzle? I've seen a guy chop pineapples with flair enough to draw a crowd, and jaded commuters in Grand Central applaud a shoe shine man who whistled while buffing a paradiddle and a high shine on a pair of loafers.
The coffee was a sexy brown swirl against the bubbled milk, a storm on the planet Latte, as viewed from space. The drink's future owner was a pinched-looking young woman with a studious look; her hair pulled back from her face, she wore a gray sweater and an A-line gray skirt that reached to her ankles.
She gave the barrista four bucks and reached for a cookie, accidentally dipping her sleeve in her cup. When she angled her head to lick off the foam, she ceased being a schoolmarm almost immediately.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 02:22 PM | Comments (0)
November 18, 2004
A little traveling music, maestro.
I was walking to work yesterday, and the strangest thing happened: I turned the corner onto the street where my office is located, and my iPod started in on Barbra Streisand's "Don't Rain On My Parade."
Don't ask.
A cheesy showtune, to be sure, and yet I found myself resisting the urge to smile. And then I stopped resisting the urge entirely, which is very unlike me.
So, this morning, before work, I created a new playlist titled, "Freedom."
Here are the cuts:
| Title | Artist |
| Freedom '90 | George Michael |
| Don't Rain on My Parade | Barbra Streisand |
| Don't Pull Your Love Out On Me Baby | Hamilton, Joe Frank And Reynolds |
| We've Gotta Get Out Of This Place | The Animals |
| Roam | The B-52's |
| Remedy | The Black Crowes |
| Let`s Get Retarded | Black Eyed Peas |
| The Old Landmark | The Blues Brothers Soundtrack |
| It's Time To Change | Brady Bunch |
| Carry On | Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young |
| I've Had The Time of My Life | Dirty Dancing Soundtrack |
| Up In Here | DMX |
| 9 to 5 | Dolly Parton |
| Break On Through | The Doors |
| You Don't Own Me | Dusty Springfield |
| Friday On My Mind | Easy Beats |
| Two Tickets to Paradise | Eddie Money |
| Mr. Blue Sky | Electric Light Orchestra |
| It's Now Or Never | Elvis Presley |
| I Saved The World Today | Eurythmics |
| Go Your Own Way | Fleetwood Mac |
| Learn To Fly | Foo Fighters |
| Build Me Up Buttercup | Foundations |
| Come Fly With Me | Frank Sinatra |
| It Was A Very Good Year | Frank Sinatra |
| Town Without Pity | Gene Pitney |
| Get It While You Can | Janis Joplin |
| Vinyard | Joe Higgs |
| Whatever Gets You Thru The Night | John Lennon |
| To Life | Fiddler On the Roof |
| You Can't Blame Me | Johnson, Hawkins, Tatum, & Durr |
| Fantastic Voyage | Lakeside |
| Watch That Man | Lee Fields |
| Enjoy Yourself | Louis Prima featuring Keely Smith |
| To Sir With Love | Lulu |
| Let's Get It On | Marvin Gaye |
| Back Where We Started From | Maxine Nightengale |
| Umi Says | Mos Def |
| Cinnamon Girl | Neil Young |
| I Got Life | The B-52's |
| To Be Young, Gifted and Black | Nina Simone |
| I Think I Love You | The Partridge Family |
| Live And Let Die | Paul McCartney & Wings |
| 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover | Paul Simon |
| Is That All There Is | Peggy Lee |
| Hard Day's Night | Peter Sellers |
| Hikky-Burr (Kincaid Kinfolk) | Quincy Jones and Bill Cosby |
| Oh Happy Day | Quincy Jones and Bill Cosby |
| Eee-O Eleven | Sammy Davis, Jr. |
| Verb: That's What's Happening | Schoolhouse Rock |
| History Repeating | Shirley Bassey and Propellerheads |
| Mr. Roboto | Styx |
| Beautiful Day (live on SNL) | U2 |
| Elevation (live SNL) | U2 |
| Behind Blue Eyes | The Who |
| Big Man | Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra |
| These Boots Are Made For Walking | Nancy Sinatra |
Yesterday's smile keeps creeping back. I'm gonna have to keep an eye on that.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 12:21 PM | Comments (0)
November 17, 2004
Fortune cookies are always slightly ironic.
One of the veeps took me to lunch yesterday to chat about my departure. We had Chinese, and two fortune cookies came with the check.
Mine read, "the time is right to reach your goals."
The veep cracked open his cookie and snorted derisively. "I think this was meant for you," he said, handing me his cookie.
"Soon you will get the recognition you deserve."
Posted by Your Protagonist at 12:13 PM | Comments (0)
November 15, 2004
Quit my job today.
And not a fucking moment too soon.
I was slated to have an unrelated meeting with the CEO today, but he likes to manage his own schedule, so his assistant and I were both surprised when his afternoon was suddenly booked.
I hemmed and hawed for exactly 90 seconds before knocking on his door and asking for 10 minutes.
"I wouldn't barge in if it wasn't important," I said.
"What's up?"
"Yeah. I'm giving notice."
He came out from behind his desk and sat in the chair opposite mine where we had our longest conversation in over a year. It was an excellent opportunity to talk about my problems with the way things had gone, and where they were headed.
I spent the better part of the weekend anticipating this conversation. Part of me believed that there was little point in addressing the specifics of my reasons for leaving. I had little confidence that I'd be taken seriously, but that can be chalked up to the "eh, what do I know?" mindset I've cultivated after years spent watching MBAs turn fine ideas into smoking craters.
I've never seen the man listen so well. I spoke passionately about what I perceived as missed opportunities and bad decisions, surprised to find him agreeing with me on occasion.
All in all, there were only a few points with which he substantively disagreed, which only reinforced the notion that I was on the right track with my decision to leave. He asked me whether I was certain that I wanted to leave, or if I was prepared to stick around and try to turn things around, working in an elevated role that had much more responsibility and (perhaps) slightly more compensation.
I told him I appreciated the offer, but that I didn't feel that there was anything I could do to ameliorate the situation. I noted that I no longer enjoyed my work, and that I didn't want to bring that kind of negative energy into the office -- I think it's infectious. I know myself too well, and I have a high regard for my co-workers.
Rolling into the office each morning at 10:45, feeling sulky and inattentive before I even get to my desk? That's not good. My job was starting to take on aspects of Family Circle Syndrome.*
He called me from the car after he'd left for the day, asking if we could continue talking over the next few days about how things might change. He sounded a little hurt, but the man's brilliant at pushing your buttons. I have the feeling he would have been glacial if he'd felt it would serve him. I gave him a "we'd see," but that I hadn't made the decision lightly, and I was 95% sure that it was time for me to move on.
I don't trust executives, and neither should you. The last time someone equivalent to me on the food chain got the bright idea to depart, those of us who knew were counseled not to breathe a word to others so a veep could break the news to the rest of the crew. I thought that was the height of bullshit. What difference could it possibly make to the rest of the office? They'd have found out sooner rather than later.
I talked to four colleagues with whom I work the most closely. We're part of the small core group who comprised the first few hires. I think I was the eighth person hired. I let them know that I gave notice today.
- P was not surprised, but a little rueful. "You bastard," I believe she said.
- M was a little surprised, but not at all shocked.
- E was as surprised as I've ever seen him -- his eyebrows arched. He's one cool character, very Even Steven.
- B was surprised, and a little hurt maybe. "Don't think me disloyal," I said, trying to break the tension. He wouldn't even look at me for a minute.
Will I even need to reinforce the concept of a me-free office tomorrow? Something tells me that they'll do most of the work for me; execs huddled in their glass-walled offices (with the doors closed for privacy!), co-workers, sitting in four-person pods and gossiping via IM. I expect to get a few emails with subject lines like, "for real?" or a couple of casual walk-bys from colleagues who want to take me lunch, or get a cup of coffee in the kitchen.
Eventually, clients will get wind of this, and some will doubtlessly whip themselves up into a frenzy creating myriad narratives for my departure, each more baroque than the next:
"I hear he's got six months to live."
"Nervous breakdown. His hands shake like a junky's. Kid's got no heart for the game anymore."
"He quit because he's in solidarity with those former customers who broke their contracts! He just can't say so, because the suits have him all wrapped up -- but we know better, man!"
Well, bullshit on all of you.
I'm leaving because I want to write, and I want a better life.
I don't want to dread Monday mornings, and I want to get out of bed each day and be excited about something.
I want to use talent and skill -- instead of patience and endurance -- to make my living.
I'm leaving because if I got hit by a bus on my way home from a job I don't like, it will all have been in vain.
* "And it's always there, in the lower right hand corner, just waiting to suck." From "Go," written by John August.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 08:38 PM | Comments (0)
November 09, 2004
Lebensraum, please.
I got to work this morning to find that the new guy has moved his desk to the corner behind my work area. He now controls the windows that admit light and fresh air to my sector, and he's on the phone all goddamned day.
When we moved to this office, I specifically requested that no one be situated behind my desk. My work requires me to write constantly, and it's hard to do so when someone's in my ear. Additionally, the work I do is somewhat sensitive -- I'm waist-deep in our customers' personal data most of the time, so I'm most comfortable when no one can see my monitor.
I am resistant to change, I realize. I can accept and adjust, but things like this throw me off.
I'll deal with the interloper, and after a few days, I'm sure I'll barely be aware of his presence. But in the meantime, I'm annoyed.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 11:44 AM | Comments (0)
November 08, 2004
60-Minute Man.
Before I left the office, I sent The Woman a text message, letting her know I was planning to spend some time writing when I got home. It's part of my new lifeplan of actually doing the things that give me pleasure, instead of merely talking about them, or coming up with creative ways to complain about the lack of time.
When I got home, she was soaking in the tub with a Neil Gaiman novel. Appropriately, she'd left her device in the living room and so did not receive my message. I kissed her, and went to work.
Well, not really.
I searched the apartment fruitlessly for my Final Draft CD so I could polish my last screenplay. I found the script in the apartment yesterday while cleaning, and read it in the tub.
(The Woman has shown me the value of soaking in hot water.)
I was surprised by the script. I found myself laughing out loud occasionally and was pleased by the economy of words. I've finally learned how to get in and out of scenes quickly. But, the script needs work.
I need to explore the themes of identity with more care. I need to replace some of the deus ex machina with character action that ties things together more neatly. There's plenty of humor, but there are missed opportunities for jokes, as well. Overall, it's tight. But it could always be better.
Energized and optimistic, I set about to find the Final Draft 5.0 CD, as the stupid program will only run in demo mode if you don't have it in the drive, and will not save your changes. I found the disk improperly stored, crammed between a box of books and several loose CDs. The foil label had rubbed off, which meant that several sectors of data were ruined, so that was a no-go.
Couldn't find the backup CD I made anywhere, and I even searched the car. It's probably in the office, on my desk in a CD wallet that's bursting with music -- a wallet that hasn't been opened once since The Woman gave me her 10G iPod. She upgraded to the 30G some time ago.
So, here's me: frustrated and feeling silly. The plan was to come home and work on the screenplay.
Instead, I find myself writing about the thwarted plan, and the characters and events in the script remain just as they were yesterday; frozen, and in a constant state of becoming -- in my head.
Writing for myself feels good. I write all day for my corporate masters, but it's just rote bullshit and marketingspeak designed to allay concerns and convey obvious matters to inattentive audiences (inside and outside the company). It's far, far better than not having a job, so how much can I complain?
Quite a lot, apparently.
In my mind, I picture the building falling into a sinkhole some evening as I walk to the car. In the fantasy, I watch the multi-story structure subside in seconds before disappearing with a burp, thanking my lucky stars that:
- I'm outside;
- I've got my laptop;
- I won't have to go back tomorrow.
But I must go back tomorrow, because I must work. Since I was 13, I've either had a job, or was looking for one. I should have taken the cash from my after-school jobs and purchased Intel or Microsoft, but I was young and foolish.
I will grab the CD tomorrow, and if I can't find it, I'll shell out for FD7. I'm going to finish the script, and I will use it to get an agent. The agent will be immediately struck by my original voice and the way I've played with convention to come up with a wholly new take on the genre.
This will open up doors for writing assignments, and perhaps a spec sale that will establish me in the industry. A steady stream of rewarding work that builds my rep and fulfills me creatively will ensue, and The Woman and I will enjoy the fruits of my labor.
After all, I will not have been able to do it without her unswerving love and support.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 09:01 PM | Comments (0)
November 03, 2004
Can't help you today.
Quick-stepping with other commuters out of the train station at rush hour when a twentysomething Socialist thrust a Daily Worker at me.
Standing in a light rain made her look even more unkempt. Her eyes were angry and sad.
"HOW DID HE GET AWAY WITH IT? Find out inside."
"Sorry," I said, not missing a step. "I can't handle the truth."
Posted by Your Protagonist at 05:02 PM | Comments (0)