This post has nothing to do with Johnny Cash, or any kind of physical line, whether it be the kind you stand in at the airport, or the kind you snort, or the kind you must walk along in a roadside sobriety test.
It's a metaphor, much like Cash's famous song.
Collectively we all Walk The Line I suppose. It's that imaginary "centre-place" we all have when we're going about our daily lives. It's the way we conduct ourselves, the decisions we make, the actions we take and the inactions we don't. I will give the analogy of a boat or a vessel. You're at the helm, and it's your responsibility to ultimately get to your destination. The water you're submerged in isn't a rigid concrete surface. Rather, it shifts and moves, and therefore can move your boat off course. When that happens, you turn the steering wheel left, or right..or you increase the power in the engine (if there is one), or turn off the engine altogether. Regardless, you do what you have to do to right your path.
So when you look at your daily life, this applies to the seemingly innocuous decisions you make every few minutes to get through your day. Should i sleep in a few more minutes, or get an early start on my work day? Should i have fruit or bran flakes for breakfast? What's the best route to travel to work based on the weather or other variables. All these somewhat mundane decisions lead ultimately to a bigger objective on a day to day, week to week and year to year basis. You need to get to work and do your job well enough so you have a reasonable income, which leads to the lifestyle you desire, which leads to some form of general happiness with life.
In theory.
But much like choppy waters in that vessel force you to make decisions to right yourself towards your ultimate goal, it's some of the day to day decisions which can affect where you end up.
Some are more obvious than others of course. For example, it's probably not a good idea to walk into work and vomit on your boss.
But what of the more subtle decisions? What if a supervisor asks for your help on something, but you realize said supervisor is an idiot, and furthermore, the task she or he is asking you to do has absolutely nothing to do with you. When you get the email, you read it and say to yourself: why the hell is he/she getting me involved in this? As I like to say, "not my monkey, not my circus". Why am I wasting my time by essentially doing someone else's work?
It's a tough call, it's a grey area. The most obvious decision is to just do what's asked of you. After all, you want to be seen as a team player and a resourceful, knowledgeable person who can make things happen. Useful to the company. But what of standing your ground? If you continue to be seen as the guy or gal who'll just do whatever someone asks, isn't there the potential danger of being seen as someone who can't say no, and therefore can't make a tough decision, and therefore isn't promote-able?
Therein lies the rub.
And what's truly chilling about these types of work matters is what isn't visible to the naked eye. It's the unseen, the unwritten and unspoken that can lead to the end of one's job. It's what's being said about you by others...others higher on the food chain...that can affect whether you have a job tomorrow or not. And if just one of these higher food chain types is politically the most powerful for one reason or the other, and isn't a fan of you or your work.. sayanora!
Which leads, of course, to you steering your ship in a new direction. Not by choice in this instance. And this is frightening because we've all been fed the notion that we control our own destiny. You reap what you sow, and so on. But that's not always true now is it?, given the scenario illustrated in the previous paragraph.
So in uncertain times, and unpredictable waters, always be flexible enough to adapt to a new direction. Be open to a reality that you never thought possible. Imagine yourself doing the un-imaginable. When i was playing high school football, i remember one of the coaches saying that if you were going down hard after being hit, it''s best to roll into the impact rather than stiffen up to resist it. The ground will win the battle. You are not tougher than the ground. If you remain loose and go with the flow of the fall you are about to make, it will substantially reduce the chance of injury because you're essentially adapting and preparing for the inevitable impact.
Makes sense for football. Makes sense for life.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Elevator Etiquette
Being on the 10th floor of my building, i require the elevator to move vertically from my unit to the ground floor and back. I'd say that's a reasonable amount of floors to rely on an elevator, don't you?
There are, however, two or three people in my condo who seem to have a different criteria than me. On several occassions, i have been leaving home and heading down on the elevator when you feel the car come to a stop. Since i live in a fairly small building, the elevator rarely stops to pick anyone up on the way, so i always assume i'm on the ground floor (it stinks of effort to actually look up at the display that tells you what floor you're on).
But no, i haven't arrived at the ground floor. The elevator has stopped to pick someone up...on the second floor.
This, my friends, breaks the rules of elevator etiquette. When that door opens on the second floor, you better be missing some legs. Or be four hundred years old. Or be moving a heavy wooden coffin.
Are you telling me you'll come out of your unit, push the button and wait for an elevator when you could walk down one flight of stairs in half the time?
Boy do i ever want to send out some stink eye when i see these lazy bastards walk into that elevator. What i think is happening is that people, like me, are paying condo fees, and figure that they want to take full advantage of the amenities those fees cover, like elevator rides. Yippee!
And on a related note, just the other day i was getting on the elevator on the first floor, and a guy was already in there, holding the door open for me, which i thanked him for. He then asked me what floor, as he was by the panel with the buttons you select. I told him "10, please". Just then, another person came into the elevator, as he was still holding the door. I noticed she did not thank him for holding the door for her, and when he asked her what floor she would like, she just said "4".
No please. No thank you. No nothing.
This irritated me. But i said nothing. After all, it wasn't me who was doing all the hard work of holding doors and playing the role of elevator operator.
But after she got off on the 4th floor, I couldn't hold back. I said to the guy: "Nice of her to say please and thank you huh?" He just smiled and said "I know, I know."
And as he got off on his floor, he said "But I appreciate you saying it".
So i punched him in the mouth.
No no. Here was a thoughtful, conscientous person who, in the face of a selfish, ignorant jackass, still took the high road. I'm not sure if i would have said anything to the woman if it was me doing all the button pushing. Probably not in this instance, but i'm never quite sure about those situations until they actually happen. Some might say.."what's the point" in saying something and being confrontational.
There is some validity to that, but to me, I feel like I need to teach people some manners so next time, they will say please and thank you, and things will be less unpleasant. And the birds will sing. And the sun will shine. And we won't beat seals with clubs anymore. And, for god's sake, maybe just maybe, we can have one goddamn sports team in this city that doesn't suck ass!
There are, however, two or three people in my condo who seem to have a different criteria than me. On several occassions, i have been leaving home and heading down on the elevator when you feel the car come to a stop. Since i live in a fairly small building, the elevator rarely stops to pick anyone up on the way, so i always assume i'm on the ground floor (it stinks of effort to actually look up at the display that tells you what floor you're on).
But no, i haven't arrived at the ground floor. The elevator has stopped to pick someone up...on the second floor.
This, my friends, breaks the rules of elevator etiquette. When that door opens on the second floor, you better be missing some legs. Or be four hundred years old. Or be moving a heavy wooden coffin.
Are you telling me you'll come out of your unit, push the button and wait for an elevator when you could walk down one flight of stairs in half the time?
Boy do i ever want to send out some stink eye when i see these lazy bastards walk into that elevator. What i think is happening is that people, like me, are paying condo fees, and figure that they want to take full advantage of the amenities those fees cover, like elevator rides. Yippee!
And on a related note, just the other day i was getting on the elevator on the first floor, and a guy was already in there, holding the door open for me, which i thanked him for. He then asked me what floor, as he was by the panel with the buttons you select. I told him "10, please". Just then, another person came into the elevator, as he was still holding the door. I noticed she did not thank him for holding the door for her, and when he asked her what floor she would like, she just said "4".
No please. No thank you. No nothing.
This irritated me. But i said nothing. After all, it wasn't me who was doing all the hard work of holding doors and playing the role of elevator operator.
But after she got off on the 4th floor, I couldn't hold back. I said to the guy: "Nice of her to say please and thank you huh?" He just smiled and said "I know, I know."
And as he got off on his floor, he said "But I appreciate you saying it".
So i punched him in the mouth.
No no. Here was a thoughtful, conscientous person who, in the face of a selfish, ignorant jackass, still took the high road. I'm not sure if i would have said anything to the woman if it was me doing all the button pushing. Probably not in this instance, but i'm never quite sure about those situations until they actually happen. Some might say.."what's the point" in saying something and being confrontational.
There is some validity to that, but to me, I feel like I need to teach people some manners so next time, they will say please and thank you, and things will be less unpleasant. And the birds will sing. And the sun will shine. And we won't beat seals with clubs anymore. And, for god's sake, maybe just maybe, we can have one goddamn sports team in this city that doesn't suck ass!
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Hobo Prejudice
Whatever happened to the innocent image of the kindly hobo quietly sitting around a campfire near a railroad track, cooking up a tasty shoe on a stick?
The unshaven yet dignified gentleman who, despite his unfortunate disposition in life, would travel the world with an unbound, carefree view on life. You might even envy this old guard of the hobo species. As we're slaving away at the wishes of our corporate soul sucking jailers (read: employers), these wayward men are enjoying a meek existence free of shackles instituted onto the rest of us from government, family or work.
Well, perhaps these images were created in popular fiction and cartoons to soften the blow to young minds. Think about it. If you are a child brought up in a cozy suburb, your first encounter with a real life homeless person on a downtown street would be somewhat puzzling and a tad frightening. Living in the city in my early years, I had come across various vagabonds, so for me, it was simply not a big deal and a part of urban living.
A few years ago, I invited my young niece downtown to stay with me and Dani for the weekend. I wanted her to experience everything the city had to offer. The frenetic pace, the culture, the shopping, the sights and the sounds. But i also wanted her to see the city for what it was in all it's forms. We walked through various downtown districts, including St.Lawrence neighbourhood, the yonge/dundas core, Kensington Market and Chinatown. It was in Chinatown where she saw her first living, breathing hobo. Ever. And let me tell you. He was a doozy. A broken, soiled, sad man. Crumpled into a doorway, and, missing a limb. She was flabergasted. Amazed. In one moment, the relative cushiness of suburbia collided head to head with urban reality.
But, i hope that the experience overall will stay with her. I hope that it will remind her that not everyone has it as good as us, and this little dose of reality (delicately served up by myself and Dani in a digestible portion - too much would be a bad thing for a young developing mind)would play a part in the development of her character
So for me, homeless people are just a part of the landscape. Along with the great amenities living downtown has to offer, there are also these elements the gritty underbelly has to offer. You have to take the good with the bad.
So this post is not intended to be a commentary on the societal problems that may cause hobos to be..well..hobos. It's just a note on my changing views, for better or worse. I have never had any real problems with these people. At the same time, I do not give them change and i have never bought a hobo a coffee or a sandwich. Perhaps i'm wrong, but my thinking was that a man should learn how to fish, and not just be given a fish. Otherwise, what's the motivation to stop? This is particularly true with the hobos who sometimes ask for change outside of a local Tim Horton's near my condo. If I or others continue to provide money, that corner is considered a goldmine, and the guy has no reason to ever leave, thus affecting me in a couple of ways. First, i've got to be asked for change, yet again. And secondly, what of my property value?
In any event, for the most part i've remained mostly neutral on the topic of the homeless problem. However I finally think i'm leaning towards...how would you say...stabbing them all to death?
Yes I know those are harsh words. But that's exactly what i wanted to do when Dani and I went downstairs to the parking garage recently. It was a pleasant Sunday and we were off for a family dinner with her clan. I can tell you that if you've never had the joyful experience of approaching your car that has been broken into, you surely are missing out. Dani noticed it first. About 30 feet away from the car, she gasped and said "my car's been broken into!". Your heart and stomache sink, and then you view the devastation, which is tantamount to a violation of your personal world. The smashed passenger side window, with hundreds of pieces of sharp glass sprayed throughout the entire car. The 30 or so cd's strewn about the seats and floor. The torn open car accessories.
Now I realize that we shouldn't really get too upset about "things". It is, after all, just a car, and there are a lot of worse things that can happen to someone. I get that. But at that moment, at that precise moment, the one thing I feel is violation and rage. I could visualize myself catching this lowlife scumbag in the act. In my mind's eye, I see myself grabbing him firmly and throwing him headfirst directly into the concrete pillar next to the car. I see me grabbing him by the hair and smashing my fist directly into his face, and I see me kicking him hard in the knee. I don't want to kill the man. No. But i do want him to remember who he's decided to screw with.
You might think my rage is an over-reaction. Perhaps it is, but it's very very difficult to contain said rage when this has happened not once, not twice, but three times. Three times in three years. Nice huh? But you know - it goes back to what i said earlier. Living downtown, you need to take the good with the bad. And I do. I really do. (As an aside, the laugher of the moment was that the parking "security" had apparently come across the vehicle throughout the night, and left an "incident report" in the windshield wiper. A report that has absolutely no purpose whatsoever, considering insurance deductibles and such).
So now, I see hobos differently. I'm now prejudiced against all of them. I know that not all of them break into cars, and certainly all of them i see aren't the ones that broke into Dani's car.
But just yesterday, we took a pleasant stroll over to the St.Lawrence market near my building. As we approached a corner, a homeless guy asked me for change. I immediately had flashbacks of when we first saw that the car had been broken into. He looked directly at me, holdin out his cup, and I said:
"I'd love to help you out, but unfortunately your buddies wrecked it for you, as they broke into my car three times."
I think he was confused, not just normal hobo confused, but confused by my response. I didn't yell at him, I wasn't about to pummel him. I calmly said this and walked on by. Dani got mad at me, but at the moment I didn't care.
In a tiny bottled up sort of way, I felt better. Just a tiny little bit better. Perhaps i was wrong for saying that to a guy who i'm sure had absolutely nothing to do with the break ins.
But it was better than stabbing him to death.
The unshaven yet dignified gentleman who, despite his unfortunate disposition in life, would travel the world with an unbound, carefree view on life. You might even envy this old guard of the hobo species. As we're slaving away at the wishes of our corporate soul sucking jailers (read: employers), these wayward men are enjoying a meek existence free of shackles instituted onto the rest of us from government, family or work.
Well, perhaps these images were created in popular fiction and cartoons to soften the blow to young minds. Think about it. If you are a child brought up in a cozy suburb, your first encounter with a real life homeless person on a downtown street would be somewhat puzzling and a tad frightening. Living in the city in my early years, I had come across various vagabonds, so for me, it was simply not a big deal and a part of urban living.
A few years ago, I invited my young niece downtown to stay with me and Dani for the weekend. I wanted her to experience everything the city had to offer. The frenetic pace, the culture, the shopping, the sights and the sounds. But i also wanted her to see the city for what it was in all it's forms. We walked through various downtown districts, including St.Lawrence neighbourhood, the yonge/dundas core, Kensington Market and Chinatown. It was in Chinatown where she saw her first living, breathing hobo. Ever. And let me tell you. He was a doozy. A broken, soiled, sad man. Crumpled into a doorway, and, missing a limb. She was flabergasted. Amazed. In one moment, the relative cushiness of suburbia collided head to head with urban reality.
But, i hope that the experience overall will stay with her. I hope that it will remind her that not everyone has it as good as us, and this little dose of reality (delicately served up by myself and Dani in a digestible portion - too much would be a bad thing for a young developing mind)would play a part in the development of her character
So for me, homeless people are just a part of the landscape. Along with the great amenities living downtown has to offer, there are also these elements the gritty underbelly has to offer. You have to take the good with the bad.
So this post is not intended to be a commentary on the societal problems that may cause hobos to be..well..hobos. It's just a note on my changing views, for better or worse. I have never had any real problems with these people. At the same time, I do not give them change and i have never bought a hobo a coffee or a sandwich. Perhaps i'm wrong, but my thinking was that a man should learn how to fish, and not just be given a fish. Otherwise, what's the motivation to stop? This is particularly true with the hobos who sometimes ask for change outside of a local Tim Horton's near my condo. If I or others continue to provide money, that corner is considered a goldmine, and the guy has no reason to ever leave, thus affecting me in a couple of ways. First, i've got to be asked for change, yet again. And secondly, what of my property value?
In any event, for the most part i've remained mostly neutral on the topic of the homeless problem. However I finally think i'm leaning towards...how would you say...stabbing them all to death?
Yes I know those are harsh words. But that's exactly what i wanted to do when Dani and I went downstairs to the parking garage recently. It was a pleasant Sunday and we were off for a family dinner with her clan. I can tell you that if you've never had the joyful experience of approaching your car that has been broken into, you surely are missing out. Dani noticed it first. About 30 feet away from the car, she gasped and said "my car's been broken into!". Your heart and stomache sink, and then you view the devastation, which is tantamount to a violation of your personal world. The smashed passenger side window, with hundreds of pieces of sharp glass sprayed throughout the entire car. The 30 or so cd's strewn about the seats and floor. The torn open car accessories.
Now I realize that we shouldn't really get too upset about "things". It is, after all, just a car, and there are a lot of worse things that can happen to someone. I get that. But at that moment, at that precise moment, the one thing I feel is violation and rage. I could visualize myself catching this lowlife scumbag in the act. In my mind's eye, I see myself grabbing him firmly and throwing him headfirst directly into the concrete pillar next to the car. I see me grabbing him by the hair and smashing my fist directly into his face, and I see me kicking him hard in the knee. I don't want to kill the man. No. But i do want him to remember who he's decided to screw with.
You might think my rage is an over-reaction. Perhaps it is, but it's very very difficult to contain said rage when this has happened not once, not twice, but three times. Three times in three years. Nice huh? But you know - it goes back to what i said earlier. Living downtown, you need to take the good with the bad. And I do. I really do. (As an aside, the laugher of the moment was that the parking "security" had apparently come across the vehicle throughout the night, and left an "incident report" in the windshield wiper. A report that has absolutely no purpose whatsoever, considering insurance deductibles and such).
So now, I see hobos differently. I'm now prejudiced against all of them. I know that not all of them break into cars, and certainly all of them i see aren't the ones that broke into Dani's car.
But just yesterday, we took a pleasant stroll over to the St.Lawrence market near my building. As we approached a corner, a homeless guy asked me for change. I immediately had flashbacks of when we first saw that the car had been broken into. He looked directly at me, holdin out his cup, and I said:
"I'd love to help you out, but unfortunately your buddies wrecked it for you, as they broke into my car three times."
I think he was confused, not just normal hobo confused, but confused by my response. I didn't yell at him, I wasn't about to pummel him. I calmly said this and walked on by. Dani got mad at me, but at the moment I didn't care.
In a tiny bottled up sort of way, I felt better. Just a tiny little bit better. Perhaps i was wrong for saying that to a guy who i'm sure had absolutely nothing to do with the break ins.
But it was better than stabbing him to death.
My shaving gel is a Sorny
Yes that's right folks, my shaving gel is a Sorny.
Don't know what a Sorny is? Sure you do. A Sorny is a metaphor for cheap knock off brands of better quality products. It refers to the popular electronics company Sony of course. Let's say you want to buy a Sony tv. Let's also say you don't want to pay the premium price of a Sony tv.
That's where Sorny comes along.
Some third world company that manufactures inferior, cheaply made tv's want to borrow liberally from the Sony brand by naming their company/products "Sorny". They'll even use the same font in an attempt to fool people into thinking it's a Sony product. Legally they get away with it by including the "r".
So, when i was in the drug store the other day i realized i needed to buy shaving gel. Looking at the shelves, there was the top brands from Gillette or whoever else makes the stuff. But wow, this crap is expensive. Eight, nine, ten bucks in some cases. But then, on the bottom shelf i see a handsomely packaged container, which is like, three bucks. It's made by a company called "Direct" which probably should have tipped me off that this product was a Sorny. I don't know the brand, and although the price point suggests it's a cheaper no name product, i figure, what the hell, it's shaving gel. What could possibly go wrong with a Sorny shaving gel?
Plenty, i later found out.
Not in the I-Put-It-On-My-Face-And-My-Skin-Burned-Off sorta way, but when i first used it i realized it was shit. Not in the Fecal-Matter-That-Comes-Out-Of-Your-Ass sort of shit, but clearly it was not very good.
I shave in the shower, so the first problem came up when i pushed the little button that dispense the gel. The blue gel looked harmless enough, and in itself didn't look like a Sorny gel. But when i started to rub my hands together that activates it and magically turns it into foam, i realized that it didn't really magically turn into anything. It sort of kind of became foam-like, but not to the volume that would be required to coat one's face thoroughly and evenly. And i squeezed out a fair bit of this gel too. I wasn't being cheap with myself. After all, why would i want to save a couple of cents at the expense of walking around with a half shaved face?
Anyway, i'm stuck now and don't have a choice. I'm in the shower, i'm naked, and there's a midget standing next to me. Ok there was no midget. But the point is, i'm committed to using this Sorny gel because at that precise moment, there were no other options.
So i start rubbing this stuff on my face, and you want to spread it around evenly and thick so you have a nice smoothe shave. I want to be one of those guys in the tv commercials who actually smiles when he's looking into the mirror after shaving. (Come to think of it, I don't recall ever smiling after shaving, but perhaps that's another story.)
Speaking of mirrors, that's what i did next. I looked into the little shower mirror to see if the foam was nicely applied, and the last thing i wanted to do was smile. It barely looked like i had anything on my face at all. It looked as if someone lathered up a tiny bit of soap and rubbed in across my face. It was weak. Very very weak.
So then i decided that perhaps i need to use more, so i do just that. By now i've probably used a quarter of the container in this one shave. But, it does the trick and my face is now properly lathered. At least, for a second or two it was. After about 20 seconds, this foam started to completely slide off my face, which is the exact opposite of what this shit is supposed to do. When the scientists are in their shaving gel labs, i would think that in their recipe book it probably says something about shaving foams and gels having chemical properties that make it stick to your face...you know...so you can actually shave with the fucking thing?
So that, my friends, is why my shaving gel is a Sorny. Lesson learned. Don't cheap out on grooming products, because, as they say, optics is everything. And when i take my half shaved face into work, people may wonder why I've got random patches of facial hair in various locations around my upper lip or right ear. Perhaps it's the male equivalent of women you see who have apparently used a shotgun to apply their makeup.
And I don't want to be a woman like that.
Don't know what a Sorny is? Sure you do. A Sorny is a metaphor for cheap knock off brands of better quality products. It refers to the popular electronics company Sony of course. Let's say you want to buy a Sony tv. Let's also say you don't want to pay the premium price of a Sony tv.
That's where Sorny comes along.
Some third world company that manufactures inferior, cheaply made tv's want to borrow liberally from the Sony brand by naming their company/products "Sorny". They'll even use the same font in an attempt to fool people into thinking it's a Sony product. Legally they get away with it by including the "r".
So, when i was in the drug store the other day i realized i needed to buy shaving gel. Looking at the shelves, there was the top brands from Gillette or whoever else makes the stuff. But wow, this crap is expensive. Eight, nine, ten bucks in some cases. But then, on the bottom shelf i see a handsomely packaged container, which is like, three bucks. It's made by a company called "Direct" which probably should have tipped me off that this product was a Sorny. I don't know the brand, and although the price point suggests it's a cheaper no name product, i figure, what the hell, it's shaving gel. What could possibly go wrong with a Sorny shaving gel?
Plenty, i later found out.
Not in the I-Put-It-On-My-Face-And-My-Skin-Burned-Off sorta way, but when i first used it i realized it was shit. Not in the Fecal-Matter-That-Comes-Out-Of-Your-Ass sort of shit, but clearly it was not very good.
I shave in the shower, so the first problem came up when i pushed the little button that dispense the gel. The blue gel looked harmless enough, and in itself didn't look like a Sorny gel. But when i started to rub my hands together that activates it and magically turns it into foam, i realized that it didn't really magically turn into anything. It sort of kind of became foam-like, but not to the volume that would be required to coat one's face thoroughly and evenly. And i squeezed out a fair bit of this gel too. I wasn't being cheap with myself. After all, why would i want to save a couple of cents at the expense of walking around with a half shaved face?
Anyway, i'm stuck now and don't have a choice. I'm in the shower, i'm naked, and there's a midget standing next to me. Ok there was no midget. But the point is, i'm committed to using this Sorny gel because at that precise moment, there were no other options.
So i start rubbing this stuff on my face, and you want to spread it around evenly and thick so you have a nice smoothe shave. I want to be one of those guys in the tv commercials who actually smiles when he's looking into the mirror after shaving. (Come to think of it, I don't recall ever smiling after shaving, but perhaps that's another story.)
Speaking of mirrors, that's what i did next. I looked into the little shower mirror to see if the foam was nicely applied, and the last thing i wanted to do was smile. It barely looked like i had anything on my face at all. It looked as if someone lathered up a tiny bit of soap and rubbed in across my face. It was weak. Very very weak.
So then i decided that perhaps i need to use more, so i do just that. By now i've probably used a quarter of the container in this one shave. But, it does the trick and my face is now properly lathered. At least, for a second or two it was. After about 20 seconds, this foam started to completely slide off my face, which is the exact opposite of what this shit is supposed to do. When the scientists are in their shaving gel labs, i would think that in their recipe book it probably says something about shaving foams and gels having chemical properties that make it stick to your face...you know...so you can actually shave with the fucking thing?
So that, my friends, is why my shaving gel is a Sorny. Lesson learned. Don't cheap out on grooming products, because, as they say, optics is everything. And when i take my half shaved face into work, people may wonder why I've got random patches of facial hair in various locations around my upper lip or right ear. Perhaps it's the male equivalent of women you see who have apparently used a shotgun to apply their makeup.
And I don't want to be a woman like that.
Friday, April 9, 2010
People Who Piss Me Off
Officially you can file this one under People Who Piss Me Off, but i'm sure this is a universal occurrence that makes us all quite ragey.
I'm at work and get an email from a counterpart in another city. Same company, same business, but this guy is located in Ottawa. I don't work for him, nor does he work for me. We both do the same type of work, which is probably why he emailed me.
He says he's working on a project, and urgently requires some items in order for him to complete said project. Yaay for me! I get to help someone else do their job! Hooray!
Now, I should note that the items he's after are items that I may have possibly used in a previous project that I worked on several months ago. So, it's fair that he's asking for some assistance in order to save him some time. After all, we're all on the same team, and try to help each other out when we can.
Fine.
However, in these instances, what is not fine is when you commit the offences this guy did. Within his email he writes two things that Piss Me Off. First, he gives me a deadline. A very, very tight deadline. He asks me to send him the materials "today". The materials he is asking for would take approximately 4 hours to gather, and another 3 hours for them to be physically sent (through the magic of fibre optics). And oh, the timestamp on his email? 4:02pm. And he wants this all by the end of day.
Then comes the second offence.
He mentions, casually of course, that he's working on this project for two particular people. Who are these people? Well, one is at a Director level. Now in most organizations, when you are asked to work on a project for a Director, and you yourself are not a Director, you don't question it. You simply remover your pants, bend over and try to relax your sphincter.
And the other person he's working on this project for? The other person, my dear friends, is none other than the top honcho in our whole organization, whom in our case happens to be the the Vice President!
So, a subliminal message is clearly being sent that not only am I expected to do this mofo's work for him, but to do this mofo's work for him according to the deadline that he has so courteously provided for me. How nice of him!
It's a cliche, but i'll use it here:
A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.
I'm at work and get an email from a counterpart in another city. Same company, same business, but this guy is located in Ottawa. I don't work for him, nor does he work for me. We both do the same type of work, which is probably why he emailed me.
He says he's working on a project, and urgently requires some items in order for him to complete said project. Yaay for me! I get to help someone else do their job! Hooray!
Now, I should note that the items he's after are items that I may have possibly used in a previous project that I worked on several months ago. So, it's fair that he's asking for some assistance in order to save him some time. After all, we're all on the same team, and try to help each other out when we can.
Fine.
However, in these instances, what is not fine is when you commit the offences this guy did. Within his email he writes two things that Piss Me Off. First, he gives me a deadline. A very, very tight deadline. He asks me to send him the materials "today". The materials he is asking for would take approximately 4 hours to gather, and another 3 hours for them to be physically sent (through the magic of fibre optics). And oh, the timestamp on his email? 4:02pm. And he wants this all by the end of day.
Then comes the second offence.
He mentions, casually of course, that he's working on this project for two particular people. Who are these people? Well, one is at a Director level. Now in most organizations, when you are asked to work on a project for a Director, and you yourself are not a Director, you don't question it. You simply remover your pants, bend over and try to relax your sphincter.
And the other person he's working on this project for? The other person, my dear friends, is none other than the top honcho in our whole organization, whom in our case happens to be the the Vice President!
So, a subliminal message is clearly being sent that not only am I expected to do this mofo's work for him, but to do this mofo's work for him according to the deadline that he has so courteously provided for me. How nice of him!
It's a cliche, but i'll use it here:
A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
I'd like to be an Air Marshall
I read an article in The Toronto Star about Canada's RCMP Air Marshalls. These are the guys who sit on planes and wait for shit to happen, then spring into action to kick some terrorist ass.
This is one of those jobs i'd like to have if i wasn't doing what i do now.
It's not that I have a death wish, since this sort of job dramatically increases the probability i'm gonna get blown up or stabbed or shot. That stuff doesn't seem like a whole lot of fun. What also is not fun is having to sit in crappy, tight airplane seats for hours and hours, day in and day out.
So what's the appeal? Well, it's sort of like being a secret agent. Kind of like being James Bond, which is inherently very cool for most guys. But instead of being the kind of secret agent who is chasing Russian mobsters in helicopters, jumping from buildings and driving expensive cars along the italian coastline, it's a different kind of secret agent.
See, as an air marshall, for the most part, all I'd have to do is sit around. Sit around and do nothing. Sort of like a lazy man's secret agent. Because all that regular high octane James Bond stuff, in the immortal words of one Michael Thiessen, stinks of effort.
But make no mistake. These air marshall guys are no pushovers. They are highly trained of course, but what's cool is that they are trained specifically for the scenarios that could take place in airplanes. How awesome is high level martial arts training where they learn how to fight in very tight quarters, like in an airplane? Let's say I decided to get in a fight with one of these guys, say, in a desert, with lots of space, I can pretty much guarantee i'd get my ass kicked severely. But in an airplane? The beatdown on me would be even worse, because these guys would quickly use the natural items and space in an airplane cabin to take me down. I go to take a swing at him - BAM - he opens the overhead storage compartment panel to block my punch and obscure my vision, then with ninja like speed he's on the narrow floor and karate chopping my knee, which, incidentally, is already weakened from a ball hockey injury (provided, i should add, from a 5'3 Asian woman).
These guys mean business. Along with their fighting skills, they even learn to adapt their breathing in high altitude situations, so when i'm on the floor weezing, crying and holding my busted knee, his lungs are operating just fine thank you very much. And if that wasn't enough, they're also packing some heat of course. And you're automatically cooler when you have a gun right? Just ask an NBA player.
But the best thing about being an air marshall is what doesn't occur.
See, since the air marshall program started in Canada in 2002, not once has a marshall had to spring into action on a plane. And rest assured, they are there. And from what i've read, they do not work alone, meaning there are likely at least 2 on any random flight, sitting in different sections of the plane, pretending they don't know each other. That's some cool shit.
Likewise, I had wondered about how these guys might respond in the event of a drunken, air ragey passenger . Well i found out. They do nothing! Awesome! Their concern is only for hijackings and terrorists, and not some fool who had too many rum and cokes. But the main reason they don't respond to those situations is that it could be a ruse by terrorists to find out who the air marshalls on the plane are. So, they ignore those jackasses.
On a similar note, the gig also reminds me of that scene in Schindler's List, where Schindler does that Jedi mind trick on Ralph Fienne's character, the Nazi who picks off the Jews with a rifle in the concentration camp. Fienne's Nazi character gets off on having this power over life and death, comfortably sitting up in his perch killing people randomly. But Schindler convinces him that he is actually more powerful by not killing them. It's the potential threat that is scarier than actually going through with it.
Likewise, that would be like me, the highly-trained, deadly air marshall comfortably sitting in my seat, wearing a plain blue dress shirt and tan coloured Dockers, reading my magazine, smiling pleasantly as i thank the flight attendant for providing my in flight meal, which naturally i would wash down with a martini, shaken, not stirred.
This is one of those jobs i'd like to have if i wasn't doing what i do now.
It's not that I have a death wish, since this sort of job dramatically increases the probability i'm gonna get blown up or stabbed or shot. That stuff doesn't seem like a whole lot of fun. What also is not fun is having to sit in crappy, tight airplane seats for hours and hours, day in and day out.
So what's the appeal? Well, it's sort of like being a secret agent. Kind of like being James Bond, which is inherently very cool for most guys. But instead of being the kind of secret agent who is chasing Russian mobsters in helicopters, jumping from buildings and driving expensive cars along the italian coastline, it's a different kind of secret agent.
See, as an air marshall, for the most part, all I'd have to do is sit around. Sit around and do nothing. Sort of like a lazy man's secret agent. Because all that regular high octane James Bond stuff, in the immortal words of one Michael Thiessen, stinks of effort.
But make no mistake. These air marshall guys are no pushovers. They are highly trained of course, but what's cool is that they are trained specifically for the scenarios that could take place in airplanes. How awesome is high level martial arts training where they learn how to fight in very tight quarters, like in an airplane? Let's say I decided to get in a fight with one of these guys, say, in a desert, with lots of space, I can pretty much guarantee i'd get my ass kicked severely. But in an airplane? The beatdown on me would be even worse, because these guys would quickly use the natural items and space in an airplane cabin to take me down. I go to take a swing at him - BAM - he opens the overhead storage compartment panel to block my punch and obscure my vision, then with ninja like speed he's on the narrow floor and karate chopping my knee, which, incidentally, is already weakened from a ball hockey injury (provided, i should add, from a 5'3 Asian woman).
These guys mean business. Along with their fighting skills, they even learn to adapt their breathing in high altitude situations, so when i'm on the floor weezing, crying and holding my busted knee, his lungs are operating just fine thank you very much. And if that wasn't enough, they're also packing some heat of course. And you're automatically cooler when you have a gun right? Just ask an NBA player.
But the best thing about being an air marshall is what doesn't occur.
See, since the air marshall program started in Canada in 2002, not once has a marshall had to spring into action on a plane. And rest assured, they are there. And from what i've read, they do not work alone, meaning there are likely at least 2 on any random flight, sitting in different sections of the plane, pretending they don't know each other. That's some cool shit.
Likewise, I had wondered about how these guys might respond in the event of a drunken, air ragey passenger . Well i found out. They do nothing! Awesome! Their concern is only for hijackings and terrorists, and not some fool who had too many rum and cokes. But the main reason they don't respond to those situations is that it could be a ruse by terrorists to find out who the air marshalls on the plane are. So, they ignore those jackasses.
On a similar note, the gig also reminds me of that scene in Schindler's List, where Schindler does that Jedi mind trick on Ralph Fienne's character, the Nazi who picks off the Jews with a rifle in the concentration camp. Fienne's Nazi character gets off on having this power over life and death, comfortably sitting up in his perch killing people randomly. But Schindler convinces him that he is actually more powerful by not killing them. It's the potential threat that is scarier than actually going through with it.
Likewise, that would be like me, the highly-trained, deadly air marshall comfortably sitting in my seat, wearing a plain blue dress shirt and tan coloured Dockers, reading my magazine, smiling pleasantly as i thank the flight attendant for providing my in flight meal, which naturally i would wash down with a martini, shaken, not stirred.
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