Two days ago we had a reunion. The company no longer exists, since November of last year, but it had survived the sharks for nearly two decades. And, ignoring the grating surreality of the last two years, it was a good place to work.
The reunion was, naturally, at a bar. Creative types gravitate towards alcohol much the same way that crackheads are magnetically attracted to lost suburbanites.
There's just something about intelligent people which is infinitely alluring. Yes, some of them are female...... but don't worry, I was looking at their eyes. Same goes for the males among us.
We had actually done some pretty darn decent work while employed at that company. Won a few awards, made heads spin, fascinated crowds. But it became a leaner, more competitive market as time went on. And, truth be told, the retailers were falling like flies. The Big Box shops in mall-America have a lot to answer for.
None of the beefy fratboys from Sales or Marketing showed up, which is just as well. We would've eaten them.
OBLIGATORY ATTENDANCE
Every month we had a company meeting during which an overview of corporate health and progress would be given, followed by significant news, after which each department would in three minutes (!) explain either what they had been up to in the last four weeks or what they had achieved.
The most memorable mass meeting was the one in which Shank Dog ("creative") blew the Sales and Marketing dudes out of the water. First Sales blathered on for over ten minutes that they had done momentous things which were totally staggering, saved the world, cured cancer, won peace prizes, and increased prosperity, happiness, and emotional health all round they were just phenomenal and expected applause.
Enthused applause was duly rendered.
Then Marketing told us for fifteen minutes in glowing terms about their mission to Mars, Pluto, the lost continent of Mu, Walmart and Kmart. They had fought the good fight, trounced dragons and giants, performed feats of valour, and cured the sick, made the crippled see again, and were by themselves quite the biggest thing since topsy.
World leaders agreed that they were better than Sales.
Why crapazoola they were just wonderful.
Yes you may clap now.
So we clapped. Yay, team. Yay.
Then Shank Dog stood up, and succinctly explained what Product Development had done during that month.
"We hired a bus, loaded it up with beer, and drove to the Sierras. Blotto for an entire week. Bought more beer. Great time. We're expensing it as 'brainstorming'. Oh, and we also saved the world, just like those other two departments."
Wow. Total silence. Sales and Marketing didn't know what to say.
Clearly Product Development was cooler than them.
Suffice to say that most meetings after that were much shorter, more productive, and certainly more realistic.
I still think we should have produced 'The Little Miss Mayhem Junior Chainsaw', which I envisioned as coming in its own personalizable femmy pink sleeve, with Unicorn and Hello Kitty decals optional and according to the choice of the pig-tailed preteen end-user ("the ideal market segment"), as well as addictive biofeedback devices that would duplicate the pleasurable effects of four hours at the gym without the sweat, grunting, and wasted time -- just strap yourself in, set dials to max, and you'll be in heaven till you have to go to work again -- but what came out of the drunken brainstorming sessions of the Product Development Department was pretty damned cool too.
Nineteen years of corporate goofitude.
That's very good.
COCKY AND INTELLIGENT
On the way home, I heard crows. There are a few small colonies of them in the Nob Hill area. They're raucous and cheerful.
The last three months that the company existed, we were in Hayward. Out in the reclaimed swamplands made industrial, with wide roads, parking lots, and loading docks. Landscaping, trees, warehouses.
Where crows swagger in the weeds along the railroad tracks.
Self-assured, smarter than most other fowl.
More brains than Marketing.
Likely also Sales.
Definitely.
Crows.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Showing posts with label Hayward. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hayward. Show all posts
Saturday, December 07, 2013
Thursday, October 31, 2013
EXCEPT THE SOCK MONKEY
There are TWO monkeys with whom I have a close and personal connection. Both were veterans of the company at which I used to work, and both have abandonment issues. But the second one is completely sane. A very decent little purple-black fellow.
Serious, polite, and a capable all-rounder.
Not so the first.
He's nuts.
Many years ago the evil elf in charge of the Marketing Department kidnapped him (first monkey) from the lab in Product Development, where they had been running experiments chopping off his leg and palling him up with alcoholic Elmo -- Elmo being one of the muppets, a nasty fuzzy yellow degenerate who likes whiskey and cigarettes -- and stuffed him in a savage pumpkin daemon's mouth for Halloween.
No, the bastards in Marketing did NOT win the carving contest that year.
I think Product Development did; creative geniuses.
We never found out what they did with the leg. It's probably roaming trash-dumps and hobo jungles as a zombie limb, with animatronic Frankensteinian modifications. Drug addicts and alkies all over the Bay Area wake up screaming because of it.
I didn't eat it, no matter what you may have heard.
Urasmus Wazzoo (the monkey) spent several days on display in the company kitchen, before the office manager decided that Halloween was so last week and attracting fruit flies.
I rescued him, took him home with me, cleaned him, and sewed up the wounds. Ever since then he's been furiously demanding that I supply him with bananas and pork. It is because of him that we refer to a certain class of meat products in our household as "pink tofu".
When my apartment mate fries up rashers of pink tofu in the morning, he starts screaming.
"PIIIIIIIIIG! GIMME!"
I ignore it. Nothing can interest me in fried food that early. Shut up, furball, it's just fatty beancurd.
Like all of the insane roomies, he lives on my side of the apartment.
The sane ones are over in my apartment mate's room.
I certainly did not plan it this way.
I suspect foul play.
A plot.
The second monkey was holding down the fort in the Marketing Department area in the days after our big move to a warehouse in Hayward.
There were still credenzas and chairs to load in the old location, and I went there to help shift things and pack up the remaining odds and ends, which is how I came to discover him all by himself.
We had first met in 2001, and even at that time I recognized a kindred spirit. But he was in Marketing, whereas I was in Finance, so we didn't talk much.
In September of 2012, he was the last man standing as regards our San Francisco office. So whenever I had a credenza to wheel to the rear entrance, I perched him on top of it to supervise and navigate.
We roared through the halls at top speed.
"WHEEEEEEE!"
That was me yelling. The monkey remained utterly calm.
Didn't crash more than once. And that was because we lost a wheel; cheap cubicle furnishings. A mere technical issue, I should've checked the landing gear first. Arabello Oyster proved an adept 'control monkey'.
Of course I brough him home with me. If those oafs in Marketing are going to forsake a valued and intelligent member of their team, and leave him in a deserted office, screw them. They don't deserve him!
Urasmus (the first monkey) is bitterly resentful. We don't need more than one monkey, he avers, and since he himself is the best possible simian there is, mr. Oyster should leave, just leave. Go on, push off! And why, he demands, do I address that creature with the honoric "mister"? What kind of a doofus name is "Arabello Oyster"? Control Monkey?
What's this about "Control Monkey"?
Stupid gorilla!
Arabello Oyster spends a lot of time on the other side, talking to the Teddy Bear and the others who live there. He's a very considerate creature.
Unlike Urasmus Wazzoo, who just thinks about bananas and pork.
Actually, there is a third monkey. Of the sock persuasion. He too is a rather nice chap. But my apartment mate's boy friend is the reason for him living with us. So he doesn't share the experiences and memories that Urasmus, Arabello, and I do. He was never at the same place, and we don't know too much about his past.
He hardly visits, and spends most of his time with the cat.
I'm slightly allergic to bananas.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Serious, polite, and a capable all-rounder.
Not so the first.
He's nuts.
Many years ago the evil elf in charge of the Marketing Department kidnapped him (first monkey) from the lab in Product Development, where they had been running experiments chopping off his leg and palling him up with alcoholic Elmo -- Elmo being one of the muppets, a nasty fuzzy yellow degenerate who likes whiskey and cigarettes -- and stuffed him in a savage pumpkin daemon's mouth for Halloween.
No, the bastards in Marketing did NOT win the carving contest that year.
I think Product Development did; creative geniuses.
We never found out what they did with the leg. It's probably roaming trash-dumps and hobo jungles as a zombie limb, with animatronic Frankensteinian modifications. Drug addicts and alkies all over the Bay Area wake up screaming because of it.
I didn't eat it, no matter what you may have heard.
Urasmus Wazzoo (the monkey) spent several days on display in the company kitchen, before the office manager decided that Halloween was so last week and attracting fruit flies.
I rescued him, took him home with me, cleaned him, and sewed up the wounds. Ever since then he's been furiously demanding that I supply him with bananas and pork. It is because of him that we refer to a certain class of meat products in our household as "pink tofu".
When my apartment mate fries up rashers of pink tofu in the morning, he starts screaming.
"PIIIIIIIIIG! GIMME!"
I ignore it. Nothing can interest me in fried food that early. Shut up, furball, it's just fatty beancurd.
Like all of the insane roomies, he lives on my side of the apartment.
The sane ones are over in my apartment mate's room.
I certainly did not plan it this way.
I suspect foul play.
A plot.
The second monkey was holding down the fort in the Marketing Department area in the days after our big move to a warehouse in Hayward.
There were still credenzas and chairs to load in the old location, and I went there to help shift things and pack up the remaining odds and ends, which is how I came to discover him all by himself.
We had first met in 2001, and even at that time I recognized a kindred spirit. But he was in Marketing, whereas I was in Finance, so we didn't talk much.
In September of 2012, he was the last man standing as regards our San Francisco office. So whenever I had a credenza to wheel to the rear entrance, I perched him on top of it to supervise and navigate.
We roared through the halls at top speed.
"WHEEEEEEE!"
That was me yelling. The monkey remained utterly calm.
Didn't crash more than once. And that was because we lost a wheel; cheap cubicle furnishings. A mere technical issue, I should've checked the landing gear first. Arabello Oyster proved an adept 'control monkey'.
Of course I brough him home with me. If those oafs in Marketing are going to forsake a valued and intelligent member of their team, and leave him in a deserted office, screw them. They don't deserve him!
Urasmus (the first monkey) is bitterly resentful. We don't need more than one monkey, he avers, and since he himself is the best possible simian there is, mr. Oyster should leave, just leave. Go on, push off! And why, he demands, do I address that creature with the honoric "mister"? What kind of a doofus name is "Arabello Oyster"? Control Monkey?
What's this about "Control Monkey"?
Stupid gorilla!
Arabello Oyster spends a lot of time on the other side, talking to the Teddy Bear and the others who live there. He's a very considerate creature.
Unlike Urasmus Wazzoo, who just thinks about bananas and pork.
Actually, there is a third monkey. Of the sock persuasion. He too is a rather nice chap. But my apartment mate's boy friend is the reason for him living with us. So he doesn't share the experiences and memories that Urasmus, Arabello, and I do. He was never at the same place, and we don't know too much about his past.
He hardly visits, and spends most of his time with the cat.
I'm slightly allergic to bananas.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, January 02, 2013
YOU NEED BANANAS!
Many people have monkeys on their back. This blogger has a monkey on his lap. Which is much better. An eleven inch tall gorilla.
The Control Monkey.
In case you didn't know, a control monkey is the simian against which all others are measured. As well as being the overseer during an office move.
It is axiomatic that the properly organized office move (such as, for instance, from San Francisco to Hayward or any other poxy East-Bay hell hole) should have a control monkey making sure that credenzas and desks being wheeled down the hall at high speed to the assembly area in the big conference room, from whence the movers will take them to the freight elevator, do not crash into cubicle walls or structural pillars.
It is a VERY important task, which requires calmness, maturity, and sound judgement. An even-keeled personality, in other words. Alert & observant.
Afterwards he came home with me, and since that day he has lived here.
Contributing a civilized air to the household.
He's a super-nice little fellow.
Very lovable.
Naturally the other monkey is resentful. He (Urasmus Wazzoo) believes that Arabello Oyster is an usurper and an upstart. A degenerate African who will subvert everything good and proper. And steal all the bananas.
Damned immigrant!
My bananas!
Urasmus has been verbally abusive.
Mr. Oyster has taken it all with considerable grace.
Quite entirely as befits someone wearing a t-shirt which says: 'make a difference - preserve, conserve'. His presence will not lessen our quantity of bananas, but will almost certainly cause it to increase.
All households should have monkeys. And bananas.
That's just the way it is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The Control Monkey.
In case you didn't know, a control monkey is the simian against which all others are measured. As well as being the overseer during an office move.
It is axiomatic that the properly organized office move (such as, for instance, from San Francisco to Hayward or any other poxy East-Bay hell hole) should have a control monkey making sure that credenzas and desks being wheeled down the hall at high speed to the assembly area in the big conference room, from whence the movers will take them to the freight elevator, do not crash into cubicle walls or structural pillars.
It is a VERY important task, which requires calmness, maturity, and sound judgement. An even-keeled personality, in other words. Alert & observant.
Afterwards he came home with me, and since that day he has lived here.
Contributing a civilized air to the household.
He's a super-nice little fellow.
Very lovable.
Naturally the other monkey is resentful. He (Urasmus Wazzoo) believes that Arabello Oyster is an usurper and an upstart. A degenerate African who will subvert everything good and proper. And steal all the bananas.
Damned immigrant!
My bananas!
Urasmus has been verbally abusive.
Mr. Oyster has taken it all with considerable grace.
Quite entirely as befits someone wearing a t-shirt which says: 'make a difference - preserve, conserve'. His presence will not lessen our quantity of bananas, but will almost certainly cause it to increase.
All households should have monkeys. And bananas.
That's just the way it is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, December 02, 2012
THE END, IN BETWEEN, AND THE BEGINNING
The sound of a church bell from a great distance roused her in the middle of the night, and she could not get back to sleep. She got up and fixed herself a weak cup of tea, with lots of cream and a shot of brandy. Perhaps the warm milky liquid and the liquor would help her rest. But rather than going back to bed, she sat at the window and looked at the hills across the valley. White in the snow, and almost glowing from the moonlight. A dark line of trees halfway up the slope continued to the crest line, and, presumably, beyond.
It was a beautiful view, but somewhat eerie and threatening.
Starkly frigid-looking.
What had woken her?
Oh yes, the bells! The village was further down the valley. It must have been a very perfect night for her to hear the sound. Normally it didn't carry this far.
When the mists were thick, not at all.
Muffled by trees and fog.
An hour later she made herself a second cup. Getting back to bed was hard. She had been ill a lot recently, and consequently her sleep-cycle was askew. Perhaps soon she would go back to school again. She regretted failing classes last semester, and feared that she would have to take many of them over again. A drag. But a necessary refresher, too. She hadn't read much for two months.
It would be good to get back to work.
Three birds winged across the snowy expanse below, as, remarkably, rain began to fall. For no particular reason she remembered a poem by Konstantyn DeLanghe.
Laag hangt de maan, en kraaien krijschen in de kille nacht,
Met doffe ogen midden mispelbomen houdt het vissersvolk de wacht;
Van Kouberg Klooster buiten Ouschudtstede komt geluid,
Het midnacht's kloksgeschal klinkt tot de pelgrim in zijn schuit.
It spoke of a scholar who had also failed, and was traveling by barge on the canals on his way back home. Night time, crows, cold, and bells from a monastery.
Frosty air. Odd though, this early rain. Especially when yesterday's snow was still on the ground. Conceivably the cold wind had stopped before the wall of hills behind her. Further south, perhaps, there was no snow.
This was as far south as she had ever been. The border was not far, but crossing it had not appealed to her. Life was not the same there. Yet she knew that centuries before, those people had not been so closeby, and their rule had not extended to these hills. The huge forests that separated the two nations had shrunk, and 'that language' had taken over. Many places now had different names.
Sibilant, hissing, and nasal. French.
Liege. Louvain. Le Comté de Looz
In the valley of Ardhuaine it was still winter. But on this hill, spring had already started.
She was looking forward to the new year. And perhaps this time the snowbells would bloom in the groves lower down. Pale coins among the disappearing white.
Most of the snow was already gone by the time she woke up.
She felt much better than she had in a long time.
Maybe she'd take a trip across the hills.
This year, once school had ended.
See how those people lived.
AFTERWORD
On the last morning that I went to Hayward, the rain had stopped by the time the train breached the open ground again. There is a line of trees silhouetted along the tops of the Eastbay Hills, forming an elegant border between earth and sky, best seen from Bayfair. Crows flapped past above the sleeping suburbs, and the clouds overhead lightened to silver as day began behind them.
Early in the morning my mind seems more free. Thought patterns have not organized themselves into familiar grooves, as they've done by end of day. Sometimes strange things come to mind.
What if, in an alternate universe, the Dutch where Chinese, and the Chinese were Dutch?
Not so odd an idea. Though they don't have more in common than other peoples, there are some themes which work in both cultures.
Without thinking, I rephrased the famous poem by Cheung Gai (張繼), Night Mooring at Maple Bridge (楓橋夜泊) into Dutch. The pronunciation of Chinese has changed considerably since he wrote it over a thousand years ago, but the words still mean the same.
月落烏啼霜满天，江楓漁火對愁眠；姑蘇城外寒山寺，夜半鐘聲到客船。
The moon goes down, crows caw, frost fills the sky,
Maple trees and fishermen's lights meet the melancholy gaze;
From beyond Cold Mountain Temple, outside the of Suzhou,
The sound of the midnight bell reaches the traveler's boat.
Yuet lok, wu tai, seung mun tin; Gong fung yu fo deui sau min;
Gu sou seng ngoi hon saan ji; Ye pun jung seng dou haak suen.
NOTES: Mispelbomen: maple trees, as in the poem. Though American-Dutch would have given it as 'meppelbomen'. Kouberg Klooster: Cold mountain monastery. But the Dutch word 'klooster' (cloister) does not distinguish between the genders of the renunciants. Ouschudtstede: old shaky city - the term 'su' in Suzhou has as one of it's original meanings the idea of shuddering, shaking, vibrating, as is geographically common in both earthquake country and cities built on mudflats along rivers.
Ardhuaine: a Franco-Netherlandish derivation from the same root that gave us Ardenne, Argonne, Arras, and similar toponyms. As good a fictional place name as any.
Konstantyn DeLanghe: a linguist might make sense of this.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It was a beautiful view, but somewhat eerie and threatening.
Starkly frigid-looking.
What had woken her?
Oh yes, the bells! The village was further down the valley. It must have been a very perfect night for her to hear the sound. Normally it didn't carry this far.
When the mists were thick, not at all.
Muffled by trees and fog.
An hour later she made herself a second cup. Getting back to bed was hard. She had been ill a lot recently, and consequently her sleep-cycle was askew. Perhaps soon she would go back to school again. She regretted failing classes last semester, and feared that she would have to take many of them over again. A drag. But a necessary refresher, too. She hadn't read much for two months.
It would be good to get back to work.
Three birds winged across the snowy expanse below, as, remarkably, rain began to fall. For no particular reason she remembered a poem by Konstantyn DeLanghe.
Laag hangt de maan, en kraaien krijschen in de kille nacht,
Met doffe ogen midden mispelbomen houdt het vissersvolk de wacht;
Van Kouberg Klooster buiten Ouschudtstede komt geluid,
Het midnacht's kloksgeschal klinkt tot de pelgrim in zijn schuit.
It spoke of a scholar who had also failed, and was traveling by barge on the canals on his way back home. Night time, crows, cold, and bells from a monastery.
Frosty air. Odd though, this early rain. Especially when yesterday's snow was still on the ground. Conceivably the cold wind had stopped before the wall of hills behind her. Further south, perhaps, there was no snow.
This was as far south as she had ever been. The border was not far, but crossing it had not appealed to her. Life was not the same there. Yet she knew that centuries before, those people had not been so closeby, and their rule had not extended to these hills. The huge forests that separated the two nations had shrunk, and 'that language' had taken over. Many places now had different names.
Sibilant, hissing, and nasal. French.
Liege. Louvain. Le Comté de Looz
In the valley of Ardhuaine it was still winter. But on this hill, spring had already started.
She was looking forward to the new year. And perhaps this time the snowbells would bloom in the groves lower down. Pale coins among the disappearing white.
Most of the snow was already gone by the time she woke up.
She felt much better than she had in a long time.
Maybe she'd take a trip across the hills.
This year, once school had ended.
See how those people lived.
AFTERWORD
On the last morning that I went to Hayward, the rain had stopped by the time the train breached the open ground again. There is a line of trees silhouetted along the tops of the Eastbay Hills, forming an elegant border between earth and sky, best seen from Bayfair. Crows flapped past above the sleeping suburbs, and the clouds overhead lightened to silver as day began behind them.
Early in the morning my mind seems more free. Thought patterns have not organized themselves into familiar grooves, as they've done by end of day. Sometimes strange things come to mind.
What if, in an alternate universe, the Dutch where Chinese, and the Chinese were Dutch?
Not so odd an idea. Though they don't have more in common than other peoples, there are some themes which work in both cultures.
Without thinking, I rephrased the famous poem by Cheung Gai (張繼), Night Mooring at Maple Bridge (楓橋夜泊) into Dutch. The pronunciation of Chinese has changed considerably since he wrote it over a thousand years ago, but the words still mean the same.
月落烏啼霜满天，江楓漁火對愁眠；姑蘇城外寒山寺，夜半鐘聲到客船。
The moon goes down, crows caw, frost fills the sky,
Maple trees and fishermen's lights meet the melancholy gaze;
From beyond Cold Mountain Temple, outside the of Suzhou,
The sound of the midnight bell reaches the traveler's boat.
Yuet lok, wu tai, seung mun tin; Gong fung yu fo deui sau min;
Gu sou seng ngoi hon saan ji; Ye pun jung seng dou haak suen.
NOTES: Mispelbomen: maple trees, as in the poem. Though American-Dutch would have given it as 'meppelbomen'. Kouberg Klooster: Cold mountain monastery. But the Dutch word 'klooster' (cloister) does not distinguish between the genders of the renunciants. Ouschudtstede: old shaky city - the term 'su' in Suzhou has as one of it's original meanings the idea of shuddering, shaking, vibrating, as is geographically common in both earthquake country and cities built on mudflats along rivers.
Ardhuaine: a Franco-Netherlandish derivation from the same root that gave us Ardenne, Argonne, Arras, and similar toponyms. As good a fictional place name as any.
Konstantyn DeLanghe: a linguist might make sense of this.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, November 22, 2012
TWILIGHT OF THE GODS
We held the wake for the company one day early. The sale to the Canadian piranhas was not, in the end, finalized till Wednesday afternoon around tea time.
On Tuesday evening, about fifty current and former employees retired to the Tunnel Top on Bush Street to lament the demise of a fine enterprise.
Well, some of us lamented. Those of us still involved in the company couldn't wait to see that puppy die. Yes, for years it had been a wonderful place to work, where creative juices flowed as if from inexhaustible springs, through fields of inspiration, yadda yadda yadda.
But in truth, the last three years had seen diminishing returns. For over a year it had been a hellish hostel between Sheol and the river Styx.
Heck, for the last four or five months, a madhouse.
Since mid-October, insanity squared.
But it's all over now.
Boruch Hashem.
I started working there in Spring of 2001. My immediate predecessor had spent three weeks begging his agency to put him elsewhere, good lord the place gave him nightmares! The person he had replaced left for lunch one day and never returned, after making such a mess of the Credit and Collections side that heads or tails could not be found. There were corpses in the filing cabinets that were not discovered for months afterwards.
By 2003 there were three of us staffing credit and collections: my boss, who dealt with the medium-sized chains and the internationals, a brilliant ex-seminarian who handled the big boxes and their ridiculous nickle-and-diming deductions and penalty fees that ate away at every single invoice, and myself.
My portfolio consisted of over fifteen hundred small retailers across the entire country, plus the franchises.
I also did research on the internationals and big distributors, as well as due diligence regarding banks and payment methodologies.
Over a year ago the big box man's accounts were split between me and my boss.
At the end of March I got all of them, plus her accounts.
By May I was having kittens.
The company had started spiralling down a few years ago. I shall not blame anyone for the decisions that made the demise increasingly inevitable over the past forty months, as it is both hard and pointless to assign blame.
The fracturing of the American economy is as responsible as anything.
And, and this is crucial, hindsight tars everyone unfairly.
I like the people I've worked with over the years, and admired quite a number of them for their qualities and their intelligence. There are very few whom I consider not up to snuff - shan't mention any names, nor enumerate what, how many, or how.
We had a habit of hiring good people.
More than in the law offices or computer companies where I've worked, my coworkers were characters, and people of strong character.
The sale was slated for end of October. Then the final date was postponed to the second of November, postponed again to the fifth, the eighth, the fifteenth.......
It was finally inked on the twenty first.
The buyers, who hail from a more innocent and silly part of the world, probably have no clue what they bought. It was evident from the get-go that they did not understand our supply chain, freight and import structures, manufacturing methods, or even the creative insanity which kept an impossible company orbiting the earth for nearly two decades.
I'm glad it's finally over. The others who stayed on to the last day are no doubt equally chipper.
We saw it through, and can finally close the book on it.
Time to start a new chapter.
I wish all of them well. They deserve it.
Guys, we very nearly did the impossible.
But what we did do was pretty damned good, and all in all well worth doing.
* * * * * *
What am I going to do now?
I'm going to catch up on my sleep. For far too long I've been getting up before five A.M., spending over ten hours a day in Hayward, then getting to bad no earlier than eleven thirty.
I'm also going to catch up on my reading. There are a few foreign-language dictionaries I need to revisit, as well as the Aṣṭādhyāyī of Panini, translated by Sumitra M. Katre, and published by the University of Texas Press. Eight chapters on Vedic grammar written nearly two and a half millennia ago.
Eight very long chapters.
Densely textured.
Plus smut, of course. All good libraries should have a fine selection of smut, and all well-rounded readers should be familiar with it.
Starting, quite naturally, with the classic Song of Songs.
Which is about an innocent lusty maiden.
And her loving swain.
Vineyards. Pillars of Lebanon. Little foxes. Mounds of golden wheat. Winecups. Gazelles. Fragrances. Apples (actually probably apricots, but there has been a shift of meaning in some words since then). Honey. Dripping nectars. Cloth textures.
And suntans.
All of that should keep me occupied for a few months.
I also intend to lunch in C'town more often.
And to become normal again.
Whole.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Well, some of us lamented. Those of us still involved in the company couldn't wait to see that puppy die. Yes, for years it had been a wonderful place to work, where creative juices flowed as if from inexhaustible springs, through fields of inspiration, yadda yadda yadda.
But in truth, the last three years had seen diminishing returns. For over a year it had been a hellish hostel between Sheol and the river Styx.
Heck, for the last four or five months, a madhouse.
Since mid-October, insanity squared.
But it's all over now.
Boruch Hashem.
I started working there in Spring of 2001. My immediate predecessor had spent three weeks begging his agency to put him elsewhere, good lord the place gave him nightmares! The person he had replaced left for lunch one day and never returned, after making such a mess of the Credit and Collections side that heads or tails could not be found. There were corpses in the filing cabinets that were not discovered for months afterwards.
By 2003 there were three of us staffing credit and collections: my boss, who dealt with the medium-sized chains and the internationals, a brilliant ex-seminarian who handled the big boxes and their ridiculous nickle-and-diming deductions and penalty fees that ate away at every single invoice, and myself.
My portfolio consisted of over fifteen hundred small retailers across the entire country, plus the franchises.
I also did research on the internationals and big distributors, as well as due diligence regarding banks and payment methodologies.
Over a year ago the big box man's accounts were split between me and my boss.
At the end of March I got all of them, plus her accounts.
By May I was having kittens.
The company had started spiralling down a few years ago. I shall not blame anyone for the decisions that made the demise increasingly inevitable over the past forty months, as it is both hard and pointless to assign blame.
The fracturing of the American economy is as responsible as anything.
And, and this is crucial, hindsight tars everyone unfairly.
I like the people I've worked with over the years, and admired quite a number of them for their qualities and their intelligence. There are very few whom I consider not up to snuff - shan't mention any names, nor enumerate what, how many, or how.
We had a habit of hiring good people.
More than in the law offices or computer companies where I've worked, my coworkers were characters, and people of strong character.
The sale was slated for end of October. Then the final date was postponed to the second of November, postponed again to the fifth, the eighth, the fifteenth.......
It was finally inked on the twenty first.
The buyers, who hail from a more innocent and silly part of the world, probably have no clue what they bought. It was evident from the get-go that they did not understand our supply chain, freight and import structures, manufacturing methods, or even the creative insanity which kept an impossible company orbiting the earth for nearly two decades.
I'm glad it's finally over. The others who stayed on to the last day are no doubt equally chipper.
We saw it through, and can finally close the book on it.
Time to start a new chapter.
I wish all of them well. They deserve it.
Guys, we very nearly did the impossible.
But what we did do was pretty damned good, and all in all well worth doing.
* * * * * *
What am I going to do now?
I'm going to catch up on my sleep. For far too long I've been getting up before five A.M., spending over ten hours a day in Hayward, then getting to bad no earlier than eleven thirty.
I'm also going to catch up on my reading. There are a few foreign-language dictionaries I need to revisit, as well as the Aṣṭādhyāyī of Panini, translated by Sumitra M. Katre, and published by the University of Texas Press. Eight chapters on Vedic grammar written nearly two and a half millennia ago.
Eight very long chapters.
Densely textured.
Plus smut, of course. All good libraries should have a fine selection of smut, and all well-rounded readers should be familiar with it.
Starting, quite naturally, with the classic Song of Songs.
Which is about an innocent lusty maiden.
And her loving swain.
Vineyards. Pillars of Lebanon. Little foxes. Mounds of golden wheat. Winecups. Gazelles. Fragrances. Apples (actually probably apricots, but there has been a shift of meaning in some words since then). Honey. Dripping nectars. Cloth textures.
And suntans.
All of that should keep me occupied for a few months.
I also intend to lunch in C'town more often.
And to become normal again.
Whole.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
IT REALLY FEELS GOOD
Our Vice-president of Marketing freely admits, pursuant a reckless mention of undergarments on this blog, that he hasn't upgraded his nether wardrobe since the early eighties.
Not that anyone needs to know.
This tells you two things about the man:
1. He goes for classic styling.
2. He's still the same size.
Remarkably, he's married. I have not met his esposa, but there is every reason to believe that she is both normal and well-adjusted.
She must really like that timeless look.
LOOSE COTTON COMFORT
In reflecting on my own underwear, I realize that none of it is pre-Obama. Not even a shred. My unmentionables have been replaced several times since I started living in San Francisco, from which you might deduce that the San Francisco climate is bad for underpants, what with the fog and all.
Or that I've left it casually lying around in different places.
Absentmindedly forgot that it was there.
Commando during meetings.
Sudden nude urge.
This is not true.
I am a stylish man underneath my outer garments. And exceptionally fond of hip and with it boxers.
Nothing says "representing" better than poncing around the apartment, when my apartment mate is out, in clean comfortable underpants. Wear and tear are minimal because I am more limber than other men my age.
You'll just have to take my word for it, as there are no witnesses.
Invitations to a private fashion show will not be sent.
Feel free to imagine what it looks like.
Indeed, it is all of that.
Zesty.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Not that anyone needs to know.
This tells you two things about the man:
1. He goes for classic styling.
2. He's still the same size.
Remarkably, he's married. I have not met his esposa, but there is every reason to believe that she is both normal and well-adjusted.
She must really like that timeless look.
LOOSE COTTON COMFORT
In reflecting on my own underwear, I realize that none of it is pre-Obama. Not even a shred. My unmentionables have been replaced several times since I started living in San Francisco, from which you might deduce that the San Francisco climate is bad for underpants, what with the fog and all.
Or that I've left it casually lying around in different places.
Absentmindedly forgot that it was there.
Commando during meetings.
Sudden nude urge.
This is not true.
I am a stylish man underneath my outer garments. And exceptionally fond of hip and with it boxers.
Nothing says "representing" better than poncing around the apartment, when my apartment mate is out, in clean comfortable underpants. Wear and tear are minimal because I am more limber than other men my age.
You'll just have to take my word for it, as there are no witnesses.
Invitations to a private fashion show will not be sent.
Feel free to imagine what it looks like.
Indeed, it is all of that.
Zesty.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, November 17, 2012
LOOK BEHIND YOU, IT"S SITTING UP AGAIN!
The ugly adventure that is Hayward continues. At least for a few more days. For readers who are new to this blog, the background data is that the company for which I work moved from San Francisco to the armpit of the universe two months ago, which is a two hour commute by public transit away from civilization. Currently it is changing hands.
Which means that this time next week I should be wondering how I shall gainfully spend my time.
The transfer was supposed to be done by now.
I have been there for over a decade.
All good things come to an end.
Then there are beginnings.
Change can be good.
The past two years have been exhilaratingly nightmarish.
The beast ain't dead yet, but I am looking forward to not spending four hours a day on public transit, and then ten hours at the office.
Why did I do it? Why did I stay so long?
Probably because I'm a little crazy.
Something you didn't notice.
I like discovering new things. Life lived by routine becomes a rut.
In that vein, I try different foods, read books I have never explored before, and talk to new people.
One of the things I also like doing is studying foreign-language dictionaries.
That used to be good for falling asleep, now it thrills me endlessly.
Folks with interesting minds also considerably please me.
Often they themselves do not realize that.
To them, they're quite normal.
To me, fascinating.
Hayward will continue for a few more days. This, too, should be stimulating.
It's been one heck of a ride over the cliff; high-speed roller-coaster.
My coworkers have shown their finest sides during the trip.
As well as surprising quirks and wit.
Good people.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which means that this time next week I should be wondering how I shall gainfully spend my time.
The transfer was supposed to be done by now.
I have been there for over a decade.
All good things come to an end.
Then there are beginnings.
Change can be good.
The past two years have been exhilaratingly nightmarish.
The beast ain't dead yet, but I am looking forward to not spending four hours a day on public transit, and then ten hours at the office.
Why did I do it? Why did I stay so long?
Probably because I'm a little crazy.
Something you didn't notice.
I like discovering new things. Life lived by routine becomes a rut.
In that vein, I try different foods, read books I have never explored before, and talk to new people.
One of the things I also like doing is studying foreign-language dictionaries.
That used to be good for falling asleep, now it thrills me endlessly.
Folks with interesting minds also considerably please me.
Often they themselves do not realize that.
To them, they're quite normal.
To me, fascinating.
Hayward will continue for a few more days. This, too, should be stimulating.
It's been one heck of a ride over the cliff; high-speed roller-coaster.
My coworkers have shown their finest sides during the trip.
As well as surprising quirks and wit.
Good people.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, November 15, 2012
CELEBRATORY DONUT
Wednesday Evening:
It’s quiet in the industrial zone of Hayward at night. Except, of course, for people talking about labour costs in China. Such as is happening in a corner of the office. Long hours this week, and a note of finality.
Next week will be far less busy for me.
I’m very much looking forward to that.
First break in nearly twelve years.
Good for a new beginning.
No, I shall not spend hours updating my Facebook page. It was fun for a while, but nothing beats actual human contact. The face to face thing is both far more rewarding, and more enjoyable than anything FB to FB.
There is so much that the eyes convey which short texts cannot do.
Cute kitten pictures are of course different.
I don’t really believe that, but it’s safer to just give in.
Your forehead is probably crinkling in worry as you read this, because you love kittens. And stuff like this makes you doubt the solidity of your value system.
Such a disturbing statement!!!
Why is he challenging me?!?
I’ve neglected all the social networking sites and mailing lists over the past few months; they are not as thrilling as once they were, no longer sparkling and new.
Despite the kitten pictures.
Truth be told, I would rather stare at someone’s forehead for hours than dither around on Facebook.
Foreheads can be very interesting. Nice, even. Positively charming. This blogger has a pronounced thing for foreheads. Meet me over coffee and pastries sometime, and I’ll tell you ALL about it.
Twitter, MySpace, Hyves, and the ‘Association for the Advancement of Gastric Harmony’ cannot possibly compare to hearing real human voices, seeing the attractive costume jewelry pinned on a blouse, or secretly wondering how anyone can walk in those shoes.
Or, for that matter, admiring a forehead.
Thursday Morning:
I shall miss the crows in Hayward. There are far more of the little black rascals flying around here than in the city; their sparky personalities add a note of avian sanity to the place.
What I shall NOT miss are Doritos crunchy snax for breakfast at around ten o’clock, when oral boredom takes its frightful toll. Nor shall I miss the occasional venture into ruffled chip territory. If a crow cannot survive on it, it isn’t food.
The reverse does NOT hold true: crows sometimes eat crap that sensible humans eschew.
Except, perhaps in Hayward. Or elsewhere in the East Bay. People here eat some dubious things.
Hayward is the epicenter of gastric disharmony.
Today will be exciting. Whatever it takes.
I had a donut for energy.
On an intellectual level, I like donuts. They are one of the two great contributions that Dutch-Americans made to the U.S. (the other one being scalping – we taught the natives about that).
This is the final stretch. If all goes well, no more late nights for a while.
There will be no further blogposts here till Saturday evening.
I will let you know then if there was any celebration.
Foreheads; did I already mention foreheads?
Do you have a nice forehead?
I would like to see it.
Forehead.
Foreheads are better than donuts.
This is obvious.
Would you rather brush hair from a forehead, or from a donut?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It’s quiet in the industrial zone of Hayward at night. Except, of course, for people talking about labour costs in China. Such as is happening in a corner of the office. Long hours this week, and a note of finality.
Next week will be far less busy for me.
I’m very much looking forward to that.
First break in nearly twelve years.
Good for a new beginning.
No, I shall not spend hours updating my Facebook page. It was fun for a while, but nothing beats actual human contact. The face to face thing is both far more rewarding, and more enjoyable than anything FB to FB.
There is so much that the eyes convey which short texts cannot do.
Cute kitten pictures are of course different.
I don’t really believe that, but it’s safer to just give in.
Your forehead is probably crinkling in worry as you read this, because you love kittens. And stuff like this makes you doubt the solidity of your value system.
Such a disturbing statement!!!
Why is he challenging me?!?
I’ve neglected all the social networking sites and mailing lists over the past few months; they are not as thrilling as once they were, no longer sparkling and new.
Despite the kitten pictures.
Truth be told, I would rather stare at someone’s forehead for hours than dither around on Facebook.
Foreheads can be very interesting. Nice, even. Positively charming. This blogger has a pronounced thing for foreheads. Meet me over coffee and pastries sometime, and I’ll tell you ALL about it.
Twitter, MySpace, Hyves, and the ‘Association for the Advancement of Gastric Harmony’ cannot possibly compare to hearing real human voices, seeing the attractive costume jewelry pinned on a blouse, or secretly wondering how anyone can walk in those shoes.
Or, for that matter, admiring a forehead.
Thursday Morning:
I shall miss the crows in Hayward. There are far more of the little black rascals flying around here than in the city; their sparky personalities add a note of avian sanity to the place.
What I shall NOT miss are Doritos crunchy snax for breakfast at around ten o’clock, when oral boredom takes its frightful toll. Nor shall I miss the occasional venture into ruffled chip territory. If a crow cannot survive on it, it isn’t food.
The reverse does NOT hold true: crows sometimes eat crap that sensible humans eschew.
Except, perhaps in Hayward. Or elsewhere in the East Bay. People here eat some dubious things.
Hayward is the epicenter of gastric disharmony.
Today will be exciting. Whatever it takes.
I had a donut for energy.
On an intellectual level, I like donuts. They are one of the two great contributions that Dutch-Americans made to the U.S. (the other one being scalping – we taught the natives about that).
This is the final stretch. If all goes well, no more late nights for a while.
There will be no further blogposts here till Saturday evening.
I will let you know then if there was any celebration.
Foreheads; did I already mention foreheads?
Do you have a nice forehead?
I would like to see it.
Forehead.
Foreheads are better than donuts.
This is obvious.
Would you rather brush hair from a forehead, or from a donut?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, November 09, 2012
ABOUT BODY TEMPERATURE, AND SMELLY
It’s warm, soft, and incredibly nasty. No, it isn’t steamy shenanigans during the zombie apocalypse, but food in Hayward. It was supposed to be a hot lunch, but I’ll never look at Italian sausages the same way again.
Who on earth puts an entire sandwich in the microwave till the meat is cooked?
Then wraps it in plastic?
You know, getting your wrong on with the living dead might be better than this. Two hours out of San Francisco the wasteland starts. No wonder zombies eat human flesh; in this part of the world it is very well marbled, and pleasingly spongy.
The addition of mushrooms was a note of insanity, there are black lumps oozing out.
The slimy French roll has no traction, and the whole darn thing is falling apart.
Got home too late last night to eat dinner, and left too early this morning to have breakfast. Only five hours sleep, and jangly on caffeine. Low blood-sugar, starving.
In case you were wondering why I’m eating this.
Alone in the office.
It’s actually kind of pleasant pretending to be a zombie devouring his victim here right now. Stumble about making moaning noises, holding out my arms like a tyrannosaurus while crashing into things.
Sing a happy zombie song.
It’s all vowels.
Do not trust people in the suburbs with Italian sausage.
It’s a massacre. I cannot finish this.
Unfortunately it is way too early to attack that bottle of bourbon in the office supply cabinet. Civilized people do not drink till evening.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Who on earth puts an entire sandwich in the microwave till the meat is cooked?
Then wraps it in plastic?
You know, getting your wrong on with the living dead might be better than this. Two hours out of San Francisco the wasteland starts. No wonder zombies eat human flesh; in this part of the world it is very well marbled, and pleasingly spongy.
The addition of mushrooms was a note of insanity, there are black lumps oozing out.
The slimy French roll has no traction, and the whole darn thing is falling apart.
Got home too late last night to eat dinner, and left too early this morning to have breakfast. Only five hours sleep, and jangly on caffeine. Low blood-sugar, starving.
In case you were wondering why I’m eating this.
Alone in the office.
It’s actually kind of pleasant pretending to be a zombie devouring his victim here right now. Stumble about making moaning noises, holding out my arms like a tyrannosaurus while crashing into things.
Sing a happy zombie song.
It’s all vowels.
Do not trust people in the suburbs with Italian sausage.
It’s a massacre. I cannot finish this.
Unfortunately it is way too early to attack that bottle of bourbon in the office supply cabinet. Civilized people do not drink till evening.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, November 02, 2012
WORKING WITH VERY YOUNG CALVES - MOO!
Due to unforeseen circumstances, the usual plans for delivery of lunch to our outpost of humanity in the savage veldt of Hayward fell by the wayside today.
We were on our own. Which is very sad.
[Background: regular readers will know that the company moved to a warehouse location in the East Bay recently, forsaking our rather splendid digs in San Francisco. It is a hardship, as many of us live in the city, and some do not have vehicles. So to alleviate our suffering, the company makes sure that we don’t have to fend for ourselves amid the growling savages out here in the industrial wastelands several miles from anywhere.]
In consequence of this development, I discovered that some people are instinctively group feeders – let’s call them bovines – and some people are solitary diners – the rogue elephants, so to speak.
Herds versus bulls.
An e-mail I sent asking if anyone was planning to drive anywhere for lunch got one response.
Just one.
"I’m not, I have to run an errand."
That makes the person who answered one of three rogue elephants in the company.
But only for a day. Another R.E. was too busy.
So actually, there is only one.
I'm well-mannered, considerate, cheerful, and I don't smell too badly.
But nevertheless, rogue elephant.
Not fit company for the self-acknowledged splendid folks in Operations, Sales, Marketing, or Management.
I handle bill collection.
I'm other.
I am the rogue elephant, roaming the swamp and terrifying the natives, I am the heavy tusked bull devouring the villagers and their adorable children!
I trample fields of sorghum and cause starvation.
Hear me trumpet!
Oh well, screw it. Wasn't looking forward to eating with that bunch of drips anyway.
It's extremely of peaceful here with none of them around. No long disquisitions about shopping, shoes, real housewives of wherever, baseball, football, ice hockey, or golf.
Hayward - the place that 'indigestion' calls home.
Having just finished the karmic equivalent of a can of cat food from the only deli within hiking distance, I will now go outside and smoke a bowl of Orlik Golden Sliced (a fine flake tobacco) while communing with the local corvid population. There's a tree not too far away, where three crows live.
They're cheerful fellows, perfect company.
Birds really do not seem to mind that I'm old and smelly, and cannot discourse wittily about shopping, shoes, real housewives, baseball, and football.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
We were on our own. Which is very sad.
[Background: regular readers will know that the company moved to a warehouse location in the East Bay recently, forsaking our rather splendid digs in San Francisco. It is a hardship, as many of us live in the city, and some do not have vehicles. So to alleviate our suffering, the company makes sure that we don’t have to fend for ourselves amid the growling savages out here in the industrial wastelands several miles from anywhere.]
In consequence of this development, I discovered that some people are instinctively group feeders – let’s call them bovines – and some people are solitary diners – the rogue elephants, so to speak.
Herds versus bulls.
An e-mail I sent asking if anyone was planning to drive anywhere for lunch got one response.
Just one.
"I’m not, I have to run an errand."
That makes the person who answered one of three rogue elephants in the company.
But only for a day. Another R.E. was too busy.
So actually, there is only one.
I'm well-mannered, considerate, cheerful, and I don't smell too badly.
But nevertheless, rogue elephant.
Not fit company for the self-acknowledged splendid folks in Operations, Sales, Marketing, or Management.
I handle bill collection.
I'm other.
I am the rogue elephant, roaming the swamp and terrifying the natives, I am the heavy tusked bull devouring the villagers and their adorable children!
I trample fields of sorghum and cause starvation.
Hear me trumpet!
Oh well, screw it. Wasn't looking forward to eating with that bunch of drips anyway.
It's extremely of peaceful here with none of them around. No long disquisitions about shopping, shoes, real housewives of wherever, baseball, football, ice hockey, or golf.
Hayward - the place that 'indigestion' calls home.
Having just finished the karmic equivalent of a can of cat food from the only deli within hiking distance, I will now go outside and smoke a bowl of Orlik Golden Sliced (a fine flake tobacco) while communing with the local corvid population. There's a tree not too far away, where three crows live.
They're cheerful fellows, perfect company.
Birds really do not seem to mind that I'm old and smelly, and cannot discourse wittily about shopping, shoes, real housewives, baseball, and football.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
HELPFUL CREDIT SUGGESTIONS
Since the company's move from San Francisco to Hayward six weeks ago, many of our most important daily needs are taken care of, as a means of ameliorating the fact that we are now in the middle of a bleak industrial park built amidst miles upon miles of malarial swamp, with nothing but crows, insects, angry seagulls, and the foetid odour of Limburger cheese from the salt pans for company.
To that end, there are bottles of Jack Daniels and Stolichnaya in the supply cabinet.
As the Credit & Collections Department of this fine company, which designs and sells colourful extruded plastic manufactured to exacting specifications and precise tolerances, this blogger feels that that is utterly insufficient.
Only Bourbon and Vodka?
I mentioned Limburger Cheese, did I not?
Very well then.
The Management Team and Marketing Department are undoubtedly happy with the Jack and Stoly that caters to their deep and heartfelt needs.
Accounting and Finance require more.
SUGGESTIONS
Shots of Fernet Branca every day. It's a digestive aid.
We're in Hayward. We're sensitive.
Seagulls and Limburger.
Credit & Collections (me) feels that additionally a few bottles of fine single malt are needed. NOT Ardbeg, as that tastes like run-off from the Tracy tire fire and would only remind us that we are in Hayward surrounded by Limburger cheese, but something else.
I'm thinking Glenmorangie, or Macallen 17 yr old.
Seventeen year olds can be great fun!
Unlike ten or twelve year olds.
I champion maturity.
Please remember the Limburger.
It's Hayward.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
To that end, there are bottles of Jack Daniels and Stolichnaya in the supply cabinet.
As the Credit & Collections Department of this fine company, which designs and sells colourful extruded plastic manufactured to exacting specifications and precise tolerances, this blogger feels that that is utterly insufficient.
Only Bourbon and Vodka?
I mentioned Limburger Cheese, did I not?
Very well then.
The Management Team and Marketing Department are undoubtedly happy with the Jack and Stoly that caters to their deep and heartfelt needs.
Accounting and Finance require more.
SUGGESTIONS
Shots of Fernet Branca every day. It's a digestive aid.
We're in Hayward. We're sensitive.
Seagulls and Limburger.
Credit & Collections (me) feels that additionally a few bottles of fine single malt are needed. NOT Ardbeg, as that tastes like run-off from the Tracy tire fire and would only remind us that we are in Hayward surrounded by Limburger cheese, but something else.
I'm thinking Glenmorangie, or Macallen 17 yr old.
Seventeen year olds can be great fun!
Unlike ten or twelve year olds.
I champion maturity.
Please remember the Limburger.
It's Hayward.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, October 25, 2012
PLANNING INCIDENTAL CANNIBALISM
Through no fault of the organizers of today's lunch, a well-known restaurant chain managed to get the order for two dozen people wrong.
They did not deliver food for half of the people here.
We're isolated in the middle of miles upon miles of industrial park, starving, and low on blood sugar. Suffering from existential hunger. As well as attitude issues.
Likely to get either violent or despondent.
Hayward.
Personally, I'm blaming Hayward, a place I already characterized as the armpit of hell in previous posts about the fen bog pit toxic waste dump compost heap to which our office has moved.
Hayward.
Checklist:
1. CUISINE: reliable taco trucks. Hardly anything else worth eating. Every place staffed by bright suburban teenagers is flaky and badly managed. On the plus side, none of us have had food poisoning yet. Or perhaps we did, and just didn't know it. You know, a-symptomatic. But I'm sure it's just a matter of time.
2. TRANSIT: served by Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART), Greyhound, and Alameda-Contra Costa buslines (AC Transit), the only reliable mode of conveyance is the morning bus that goes past the courthouse. Probably in lieu of the paddy wagon from the county lockup, which has probably been scrapped from the city's budget. There have been a number of times when I had to wait more than an hour for a bus back to the train station in the evening, because what the printed schedule said was hopeful, rather than realistic. There are no taxis that drive past the industrial wasteland on the off-chance of opportunity, by the way.
3. CLIMATE: Bay Area Suburban. That means people wearing clothes that their mothers would've warned them against. If their mothers were paying any attention. Just too many problems, however, what with suburban teenagers who cannot figure out complex orders (more than two items, faxed or e-mailed), busses that never show up, offenders wandering the streets, taco trucks fleeing from industrial wastelands, rampant food poisoning, a-symptomatic dogs, ponies, seagulls, and assorted zombies.
It rains just as much here as elsewhere.
Hayward.
A good start toward civilization in this place would be if the local teenagers pulled up their pants so that the crotches of their baggy jeans weren't down around their knees. Their boxer shorts aren't handsome enough to merit exhibitionism (with one or two notable exceptions - kudos, gentlemen, on your stylish choices and polished rumps), and for those who are wearing briefs, the idea should be right out.
Hayward. It's a real slice.
One of our staff members is driving toward the food place that got the order wrong as we speak.
He's got a hatchet.
If we don't get the food, he's promised to bring back the offending teenager.
Perhaps we will feast on juicy dunce today.
Who knows.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
They did not deliver food for half of the people here.
We're isolated in the middle of miles upon miles of industrial park, starving, and low on blood sugar. Suffering from existential hunger. As well as attitude issues.
Likely to get either violent or despondent.
Hayward.
Personally, I'm blaming Hayward, a place I already characterized as the armpit of hell in previous posts about the fen bog pit toxic waste dump compost heap to which our office has moved.
Hayward.
Checklist:
1. CUISINE: reliable taco trucks. Hardly anything else worth eating. Every place staffed by bright suburban teenagers is flaky and badly managed. On the plus side, none of us have had food poisoning yet. Or perhaps we did, and just didn't know it. You know, a-symptomatic. But I'm sure it's just a matter of time.
2. TRANSIT: served by Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART), Greyhound, and Alameda-Contra Costa buslines (AC Transit), the only reliable mode of conveyance is the morning bus that goes past the courthouse. Probably in lieu of the paddy wagon from the county lockup, which has probably been scrapped from the city's budget. There have been a number of times when I had to wait more than an hour for a bus back to the train station in the evening, because what the printed schedule said was hopeful, rather than realistic. There are no taxis that drive past the industrial wasteland on the off-chance of opportunity, by the way.
3. CLIMATE: Bay Area Suburban. That means people wearing clothes that their mothers would've warned them against. If their mothers were paying any attention. Just too many problems, however, what with suburban teenagers who cannot figure out complex orders (more than two items, faxed or e-mailed), busses that never show up, offenders wandering the streets, taco trucks fleeing from industrial wastelands, rampant food poisoning, a-symptomatic dogs, ponies, seagulls, and assorted zombies.
It rains just as much here as elsewhere.
Hayward.
A good start toward civilization in this place would be if the local teenagers pulled up their pants so that the crotches of their baggy jeans weren't down around their knees. Their boxer shorts aren't handsome enough to merit exhibitionism (with one or two notable exceptions - kudos, gentlemen, on your stylish choices and polished rumps), and for those who are wearing briefs, the idea should be right out.
Hayward. It's a real slice.
One of our staff members is driving toward the food place that got the order wrong as we speak.
He's got a hatchet.
If we don't get the food, he's promised to bring back the offending teenager.
Perhaps we will feast on juicy dunce today.
Who knows.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, October 18, 2012
STOLI IN THE SUPPLY CABINET
There is no evidence.
This according to the Computer Department when I asked him about the vice-president’s behavior yesterday after several frappucinos. You weren't aware that Jack Daniels made frappucinos, neither was anyone else.
But the vice-president knew.
I do not know what he did once we left.
Jack Daniels – it’s what makes Starbucks and Hayward bearable.
At times over the past week both the Marketing Department and the IT Department were looking twixt worried and possessed.
As well as ‘extra creamy’.
One phrase that sticks in my mind is "don't drink the bong water". Apparently our creative types worry about the stuff that comes out of the faucets in the East Bay. There's stuff in it, judging by the bong water. Which probably explains their frappucino habits. After several of those bad boys you need something to bring you back down (Jack Daniels), and at all times maintain your liquid levels, because, baby, it's warm in Hayward. Please hydrate.
We're from San Francisco. We didn't know.
You cannot drink the bong water here.
As Dave Chappelle might say:
"It's Hayward, bitches, Hayward!"
I am the strong silent type, and I do not complain about the water. Perfectly messed-up hair is a fine line. Connectivity remains an issue.
The suggestion for today's catered lunch was Egg McMuffins for everyone. But they only make those till ten-thirty, consequently I don't know what we're having.
Not a clue. Maybe it's extra creamy.
It's Hayward, bitches, Hayward.
Might there be any Jack left?
You pay the toll.
Almost everything above is taken from or inspired by utterances originating in the Marketing and IT departments. They are city boys, and the move from San Francisco has affected them sorely.
I am in Finance, so I am sun-deprived, calm, and collected.
No need to augment my frappies, I drink tea.
I still do NOT know what's for lunch.
Marsh bird fricassee, tatar sauce.
The possibilities are endless.
It is, after all, Hayward.
The heart of the Bay.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This according to the Computer Department when I asked him about the vice-president’s behavior yesterday after several frappucinos. You weren't aware that Jack Daniels made frappucinos, neither was anyone else.
But the vice-president knew.
I do not know what he did once we left.
Jack Daniels – it’s what makes Starbucks and Hayward bearable.
At times over the past week both the Marketing Department and the IT Department were looking twixt worried and possessed.
As well as ‘extra creamy’.
One phrase that sticks in my mind is "don't drink the bong water". Apparently our creative types worry about the stuff that comes out of the faucets in the East Bay. There's stuff in it, judging by the bong water. Which probably explains their frappucino habits. After several of those bad boys you need something to bring you back down (Jack Daniels), and at all times maintain your liquid levels, because, baby, it's warm in Hayward. Please hydrate.
We're from San Francisco. We didn't know.
You cannot drink the bong water here.
As Dave Chappelle might say:
"It's Hayward, bitches, Hayward!"
I am the strong silent type, and I do not complain about the water. Perfectly messed-up hair is a fine line. Connectivity remains an issue.
The suggestion for today's catered lunch was Egg McMuffins for everyone. But they only make those till ten-thirty, consequently I don't know what we're having.
Not a clue. Maybe it's extra creamy.
It's Hayward, bitches, Hayward.
Might there be any Jack left?
You pay the toll.
Almost everything above is taken from or inspired by utterances originating in the Marketing and IT departments. They are city boys, and the move from San Francisco has affected them sorely.
I am in Finance, so I am sun-deprived, calm, and collected.
No need to augment my frappies, I drink tea.
I still do NOT know what's for lunch.
Marsh bird fricassee, tatar sauce.
The possibilities are endless.
It is, after all, Hayward.
The heart of the Bay.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
A DIET PLEASING TO SHORT BLACK INDIVIDUALS
On Monday I missed my bus, today I missed the crows.
It was very foggy by the Hayward station Monday morning, and strangely beautiful. Even the armpit of the East Bay looks halfway okay when shrouded in grey. While waiting for the next bus out to the office park in the boggy wilds, I noticed that the crows were stealthily taking over the area of the seagulls on the tops of the streetlights. As soon as a seagull took off, a crow landed. Others were “waiting in the wings” on nearby roofs. Whenever a seagull flitted down toward the pavement, it would return to find even more of the empire forever lost.
If birds can radiate a hopefilled gangster attitude, these crows did so.
Corvids are cheeky, and have a sense of humour.
Seagulls have no sense of humour.
Happy cackling crows – that really irritates seagulls.
This morning there were no crows at the bus pads. Just the stupid seagulls.
It was already quite warm, so I think that the crows had taken shelter somewhere – black featheration absorbs the sun’s rays.
The birds were probably indoors, and quite conceivably hiding out in the abandoned hangars of the California Air National Guard complex on West Winton Avenue. No one will disturb them there.
They are flaked out, taking it easy, cackling over old copies of Play Corvid magazine, sipping tall cold glasses of ice tea.
With plenty of lemon. Especially the thick-peeled kind. It helps digest the carrion they consume in between worshipful gifts from the Pizza-obsessed gentleman in our office, who takes home the leftovers. His colleagues in the Marketing Department accuse him of feeding his kids stale pizza, but I know better. He rushes off with his prizes to share with his real family.
It explains a lot about him.
He’s got the type of personality that would make friends with the local crows.
They probably appreciate his company and his sense of humour.
As well as the lovely stale pizza he brings them.
There was still a lot of veggie pizza late on Monday afternoon, as well as several slices of pesto chicken.
By Tuesday morning there was none left.
Not even a crumb.
The local crows look happy.
Lemon rinds in your ice tea.
Soothes the stomach lining.
Keeps your feathers glossy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It was very foggy by the Hayward station Monday morning, and strangely beautiful. Even the armpit of the East Bay looks halfway okay when shrouded in grey. While waiting for the next bus out to the office park in the boggy wilds, I noticed that the crows were stealthily taking over the area of the seagulls on the tops of the streetlights. As soon as a seagull took off, a crow landed. Others were “waiting in the wings” on nearby roofs. Whenever a seagull flitted down toward the pavement, it would return to find even more of the empire forever lost.
If birds can radiate a hopefilled gangster attitude, these crows did so.
Corvids are cheeky, and have a sense of humour.
Seagulls have no sense of humour.
Happy cackling crows – that really irritates seagulls.
This morning there were no crows at the bus pads. Just the stupid seagulls.
It was already quite warm, so I think that the crows had taken shelter somewhere – black featheration absorbs the sun’s rays.
The birds were probably indoors, and quite conceivably hiding out in the abandoned hangars of the California Air National Guard complex on West Winton Avenue. No one will disturb them there.
They are flaked out, taking it easy, cackling over old copies of Play Corvid magazine, sipping tall cold glasses of ice tea.
With plenty of lemon. Especially the thick-peeled kind. It helps digest the carrion they consume in between worshipful gifts from the Pizza-obsessed gentleman in our office, who takes home the leftovers. His colleagues in the Marketing Department accuse him of feeding his kids stale pizza, but I know better. He rushes off with his prizes to share with his real family.
It explains a lot about him.
He’s got the type of personality that would make friends with the local crows.
They probably appreciate his company and his sense of humour.
As well as the lovely stale pizza he brings them.
There was still a lot of veggie pizza late on Monday afternoon, as well as several slices of pesto chicken.
By Tuesday morning there was none left.
Not even a crumb.
The local crows look happy.
Lemon rinds in your ice tea.
Soothes the stomach lining.
Keeps your feathers glossy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TRAUMA CENTRE
At five o’clock the Marketing Department turns on the rock’n roll.
Yesterday, as a nod to the swamprat, they instead played country western.
Full blast.
I can now honestly say that I have listened to Honky Tonk Badonkadonk .
This is not part of my program.
I do not know how to digest this.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yesterday, as a nod to the swamprat, they instead played country western.
Full blast.
I can now honestly say that I have listened to Honky Tonk Badonkadonk .
This is not part of my program.
I do not know how to digest this.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, October 09, 2012
RANDOM CRUELTY INSPIRED BY CHINESE CUISINE
They’re shooting craps over in the Marketing Department. I can hear yells and cheering. Good lord, we’re running a casino here during lunch. It’s like being held captive on a reservation, on a seat somewhere between the limitless Chinese Buffet and rows of one-armed bandits.
This is not a busload of elderly retirees from TongYanFau, but young vibrant college grads with so much still to live for. So very very much!
It's sad.
Inveterate gamblers, loud and dissipated.
Berserk and stircrazy at the new office.
Well, perhaps it’s Mandarin Chicken fuelled insanity.
Spicy salty high sugar content sauce.
They’re giddy.
Even pizza man is smiling.
"SIMPLICITY IN STYLE WILL BRING DESIROUS EYES YOUR WAY"
-----Fortune Cookie
Today’s office lunch was chopstickable, and included peanuts and cashews.
I’m not telling them, but I’m the only one here who has any jasmine tea. There isn’t enough to share. If you didn’t already know about the tea bags in the filing cabinet behind me, between the credit reports and some random applications for terms just dumped in there higgledy piggeldy, then you probably didn’t need to know.
Forget you ever heard anything.
Just remember guys, we’re all in this thing together.
Buses only come once every few hours.
Those are MY tea bags.
Hands off!
--- --- --- --- ---
Pizza man just walked by muttering that it smelled like socks in here.
He's not smiling anymore, reality re-asserted itself.
That’s not lunch, man, it’s just Hayward.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This is not a busload of elderly retirees from TongYanFau, but young vibrant college grads with so much still to live for. So very very much!
It's sad.
Inveterate gamblers, loud and dissipated.
Berserk and stircrazy at the new office.
Well, perhaps it’s Mandarin Chicken fuelled insanity.
Spicy salty high sugar content sauce.
They’re giddy.
Even pizza man is smiling.
"SIMPLICITY IN STYLE WILL BRING DESIROUS EYES YOUR WAY"
-----Fortune Cookie
Today’s office lunch was chopstickable, and included peanuts and cashews.
I’m not telling them, but I’m the only one here who has any jasmine tea. There isn’t enough to share. If you didn’t already know about the tea bags in the filing cabinet behind me, between the credit reports and some random applications for terms just dumped in there higgledy piggeldy, then you probably didn’t need to know.
Forget you ever heard anything.
Just remember guys, we’re all in this thing together.
Buses only come once every few hours.
Those are MY tea bags.
Hands off!
--- --- --- --- ---
Pizza man just walked by muttering that it smelled like socks in here.
He's not smiling anymore, reality re-asserted itself.
That’s not lunch, man, it’s just Hayward.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
THERE ARE CHICKENS IN HAYWARD!
And every time we flush here, it floods in Australia. This is what is known as the Coriolis effect.
I know this, because I now work in Hayward, where I was told that I should not drink out of the wrong faucet.
It seems we city folks CAN indeed learn a thing or two.
People here know more than we think.
Today it was my turn to arrange lunch for the crowd.
I sent out the following e-mail to my esteemed colleagues:
LEE'S SANDWICHES!
Find something zesty:
http://www.leesandwiches.com/main.php?act=productlist&catid=8
For timid people, they also have this:
http://www.leesandwiches.com/main.php?act=productlist&catid=11
Let me know what you want before eleven.
You probably want the bánh mì thịt nướng (餅麵串燒豬肉), right?
[Vietnamese baguettes: bánh mỳ (餅麵 "biscuit bread"). The dough is made with a mixture of wheat flour and rice flour, resulting in a lighter bread with a crust that benefits particularly from toasting without the interior becoming too moist or spongy.
The regular Vietnamese sandwich, also called bánh mỳ, or bánh mỳ đặc biệt (餅麵特別) contains sliced pork, either liver paté or head cheese, cilantro, sliced cucumber, and đồ chua (sour stuff: daikon and carrots shredded into diluted tamarind with a little fish sauce, sugar, chili flakes).
Sliced green chilies or red hot sauce may be added to taste. Frequently the inside of the baguette is buttered a bit to add flavour.]
Thank you.
------ATBOTH
[END CITE]
Apparently, they did NOT want bánh mì thịt nướng.
How very strange.
A number of them complained that it was exceptionally weird.
Several moaned about the lack of potato chips.
Was there even any salad?
Sodas?
BÁNH MÌ THịT NƯớNG
Folks, salad is NOT healthy for you. Firstly, if you put any meat, cheese, bacobits, or dressing in it, you've upped the calorie count and the hardened artery quotient immensely. Secondly, most cases of food poisoning in this country are caused by insufficiently rinsed salad vegetables and shredded turkey that sat out on the counter since nine o'clock in the morning.
Lettuce is best stirfried anyway.
Anyhoooooooo.......
Forty seven percent of the office chose the Vietnamese sandwich that best suited their personality.
Thirteen percent decided on 'European' ("white") sandwiches for their personality.
And forty percent (40%) found some chickenbleep excuse to go offsite and eat crap. They don't have a personality.
40% - good lord.
Several of us had the best darn lunch we've had in several weeks. Grilled pork on a crusty baguette, strong coffee drinkie (or Thai tea beverage), and a gloopy tapioca dessert (bột báng).
There was also a sweetened coconut dessert with boiled yam or banana.
Those last two you may know as kolak ube and kolak pisang.
Hayward ain't so bad after all.
By the way: potato chips are horrible for you. If you've ever wondered why there's an epidemic of diabetes and obesity in this country, look no further.
Potato chips.
Folks, please stop thinking inside the box.
It's mighty white inside that box.
Dark and gloomy, too.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I know this, because I now work in Hayward, where I was told that I should not drink out of the wrong faucet.
It seems we city folks CAN indeed learn a thing or two.
People here know more than we think.
Today it was my turn to arrange lunch for the crowd.
I sent out the following e-mail to my esteemed colleagues:
LEE'S SANDWICHES!
Find something zesty:
http://www.leesandwiches.com/main.php?act=productlist&catid=8
For timid people, they also have this:
http://www.leesandwiches.com/main.php?act=productlist&catid=11
Let me know what you want before eleven.
You probably want the bánh mì thịt nướng (餅麵串燒豬肉), right?
[Vietnamese baguettes: bánh mỳ (餅麵 "biscuit bread"). The dough is made with a mixture of wheat flour and rice flour, resulting in a lighter bread with a crust that benefits particularly from toasting without the interior becoming too moist or spongy.
The regular Vietnamese sandwich, also called bánh mỳ, or bánh mỳ đặc biệt (餅麵特別) contains sliced pork, either liver paté or head cheese, cilantro, sliced cucumber, and đồ chua (sour stuff: daikon and carrots shredded into diluted tamarind with a little fish sauce, sugar, chili flakes).
Sliced green chilies or red hot sauce may be added to taste. Frequently the inside of the baguette is buttered a bit to add flavour.]
Thank you.
------ATBOTH
[END CITE]
Apparently, they did NOT want bánh mì thịt nướng.
How very strange.
A number of them complained that it was exceptionally weird.
Several moaned about the lack of potato chips.
Was there even any salad?
Sodas?
BÁNH MÌ THịT NƯớNG
Folks, salad is NOT healthy for you. Firstly, if you put any meat, cheese, bacobits, or dressing in it, you've upped the calorie count and the hardened artery quotient immensely. Secondly, most cases of food poisoning in this country are caused by insufficiently rinsed salad vegetables and shredded turkey that sat out on the counter since nine o'clock in the morning.
Lettuce is best stirfried anyway.
Anyhoooooooo.......
Forty seven percent of the office chose the Vietnamese sandwich that best suited their personality.
Thirteen percent decided on 'European' ("white") sandwiches for their personality.
And forty percent (40%) found some chickenbleep excuse to go offsite and eat crap. They don't have a personality.
40% - good lord.
Several of us had the best darn lunch we've had in several weeks. Grilled pork on a crusty baguette, strong coffee drinkie (or Thai tea beverage), and a gloopy tapioca dessert (bột báng).
There was also a sweetened coconut dessert with boiled yam or banana.
Those last two you may know as kolak ube and kolak pisang.
Hayward ain't so bad after all.
By the way: potato chips are horrible for you. If you've ever wondered why there's an epidemic of diabetes and obesity in this country, look no further.
Potato chips.
Folks, please stop thinking inside the box.
It's mighty white inside that box.
Dark and gloomy, too.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, October 02, 2012
STAY TUNED FOR LUNCH
I have been tasked with arranging food for the office tomorrow. Obviously we're living dangerously.
So far we've had pizza (twice), panini (twice), turkey sandwiches (once), and mixed deli sandwiches (once).
Desperate individuals have patronized the taco truck.
Well, only one person.
A brave soul.
Hayward is the world's epicenter of Taco trucks.
There's one on every street corner.
Ground zero.
My coworkers NEED to embrace the taco gestalt.
At least, I think they do. But they hesitate.
The person who organizes lunch has a serious and important responsibility, as most of my colleagues are timid eaters.
Tact and consideration are required.
No simmered elephant trunk in moambé sauce. No tiger-pizzle in coconut broth with lemon grass, ginger, and green cardamom. No skewered sago grubs covered in chili paste and minced scallion. Cilantro optional.
Some people don't like cilantro.
And absolutely NO mutanjan, muzaffar, haleem, nahari, dhansak, shab deg, prawn patia, or delicious greasy biriani!
Many taste buds here are delicate little virgins, easily scared.
Nothing with jalapenos!
There's a sacramental quality to shared food.
Nothing with jalapenos!
A meal eaten with other people is a powerful bonding experience, just like the Iron John phenomenon or a drum circle.
It's meaningful.
Nothing with jalapenos!
I think tomorrow I'll bring in wonderbread, a jar of peanut butter and a jar of grape jelly.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
So far we've had pizza (twice), panini (twice), turkey sandwiches (once), and mixed deli sandwiches (once).
Desperate individuals have patronized the taco truck.
Well, only one person.
A brave soul.
Hayward is the world's epicenter of Taco trucks.
There's one on every street corner.
Ground zero.
My coworkers NEED to embrace the taco gestalt.
At least, I think they do. But they hesitate.
The person who organizes lunch has a serious and important responsibility, as most of my colleagues are timid eaters.
Tact and consideration are required.
No simmered elephant trunk in moambé sauce. No tiger-pizzle in coconut broth with lemon grass, ginger, and green cardamom. No skewered sago grubs covered in chili paste and minced scallion. Cilantro optional.
Some people don't like cilantro.
And absolutely NO mutanjan, muzaffar, haleem, nahari, dhansak, shab deg, prawn patia, or delicious greasy biriani!
Many taste buds here are delicate little virgins, easily scared.
Nothing with jalapenos!
There's a sacramental quality to shared food.
Nothing with jalapenos!
A meal eaten with other people is a powerful bonding experience, just like the Iron John phenomenon or a drum circle.
It's meaningful.
Nothing with jalapenos!
I think tomorrow I'll bring in wonderbread, a jar of peanut butter and a jar of grape jelly.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, October 01, 2012
WELL-DONE THOUGHTS ABOUT PIZZA
I am puffed up and about to eructate.
Please imagine a bloated frog.
The effects of pizza.
Monday is cheese pie day in the little slice of heaven known as our office. Which is now down in Hayward. In an industrial park. Near train tracks. Far from anything.
So of course lunch gets brought in.
The person in charge of Monday eaties has confessed that if it were up to him, everyday would be pizza day. Life is too short NOT to have pizza. There aren't enough days in the year to eat all the pizza an amiable middle-aged man needs (in his view), and both the last supper and the very first supper were undoubtedly pizza.
Cheese pie. Flat, crusty, and just enough grease to make you happy.
Pizza is the fruit of sin and the spice of life combined.
Eat it!
Related thereto, my friend Kevin, who lives in Florida, informs me that due to the exceptional amount of rain they've had this summer, swamps which had long dried out have come back. And the frog population has exploded. Trailer park dwellers paddle canoes past dense blankets of them on their way to their pickup trucks parked on high ground near the road. Millions of small green fat critters, croaking and ribbiting among the tall weeds, thriving most marvelously on the bugs which are also plentiful because of the wetness.
Then getting on the roads, where they are flattened by traffic.
Commuters hydroplaning on amphibian protein slime.
A layer of green, red, and flat.
Parts of it are crisping on the hot tarmac, but there is so much that the smell is bestial.
Rich and fecund, like some kind of swamp.
Oh wait, it's Florida....
It IS a swamp.
What you need is a spatula, and maybe a pizza cutter.
Scoop 'em up, and dry them on the roof for later.
Or fry them in bacon fat, to disinfect them.
Just add chili flakes, for a cheap feast!
Plus a wee sprinkle of Parmesan.
"Finish your plate, honey."
"Don't wanna!"
"Why not?"
" 'Cause it tastes like FROG!!!"
"Well at least eat the green stuff....."
Please note: the frogs are real, but my mean-spirited characterization of Florida cuisine is not. Never having been there, I can only imagine what they do. Still, all that free protein going to waste.
It's a shame, is what it is.
Green road pie!
Someone ought to do something.
Everything tastes better with chili flakes and Parmesan.
dot. dot. dot.
I want to thank Scott for providing all of us with a tasty lunch and a glimpse into his world, and Angela for making a chocolate pie so incredibly rich that it left me buzzing and trembling.
I am the flittering insect born in the receding waters.
I am the vibrating haze above the asphalt.
I am the brazen frog on the road.
I am Anurid, hear me croak.
Squish.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Please imagine a bloated frog.
The effects of pizza.
Monday is cheese pie day in the little slice of heaven known as our office. Which is now down in Hayward. In an industrial park. Near train tracks. Far from anything.
So of course lunch gets brought in.
The person in charge of Monday eaties has confessed that if it were up to him, everyday would be pizza day. Life is too short NOT to have pizza. There aren't enough days in the year to eat all the pizza an amiable middle-aged man needs (in his view), and both the last supper and the very first supper were undoubtedly pizza.
Cheese pie. Flat, crusty, and just enough grease to make you happy.
Pizza is the fruit of sin and the spice of life combined.
Eat it!
Related thereto, my friend Kevin, who lives in Florida, informs me that due to the exceptional amount of rain they've had this summer, swamps which had long dried out have come back. And the frog population has exploded. Trailer park dwellers paddle canoes past dense blankets of them on their way to their pickup trucks parked on high ground near the road. Millions of small green fat critters, croaking and ribbiting among the tall weeds, thriving most marvelously on the bugs which are also plentiful because of the wetness.
Then getting on the roads, where they are flattened by traffic.
Commuters hydroplaning on amphibian protein slime.
A layer of green, red, and flat.
Parts of it are crisping on the hot tarmac, but there is so much that the smell is bestial.
Rich and fecund, like some kind of swamp.
Oh wait, it's Florida....
It IS a swamp.
What you need is a spatula, and maybe a pizza cutter.
Scoop 'em up, and dry them on the roof for later.
Or fry them in bacon fat, to disinfect them.
Just add chili flakes, for a cheap feast!
Plus a wee sprinkle of Parmesan.
"Finish your plate, honey."
"Don't wanna!"
"Why not?"
" 'Cause it tastes like FROG!!!"
"Well at least eat the green stuff....."
Please note: the frogs are real, but my mean-spirited characterization of Florida cuisine is not. Never having been there, I can only imagine what they do. Still, all that free protein going to waste.
It's a shame, is what it is.
Green road pie!
Someone ought to do something.
Everything tastes better with chili flakes and Parmesan.
dot. dot. dot.
I want to thank Scott for providing all of us with a tasty lunch and a glimpse into his world, and Angela for making a chocolate pie so incredibly rich that it left me buzzing and trembling.
I am the flittering insect born in the receding waters.
I am the vibrating haze above the asphalt.
I am the brazen frog on the road.
I am Anurid, hear me croak.
Squish.
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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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Thursday, September 27, 2012
A MEAL FOR CROWS
While travelling down toward the new location, we passed a restaurant that looked interesting, and I mentioned that it might be a keen place to visit. This suggestion was promptly voted down.
Apparently Indian food tastes far too strong. Almost unbearable.
In my opinion, it is not so at all.
Perfect breakfast food, in fact.
What would you rather have:
1. Rashers of fried sugar-cured fat on a bed of greasy potato rasping, with an egg, and a bowl of overly sweetened pap with cinnamon, raisins, and butter, or.....
2. A yummy stew that has simmered all night, so that the bones in the broth have yielded all their goodness, served with flaky hot flat breads that can be torn up to sop the liquids.
Well?
Clearly the bacon and hash-brown breakfast loses out to the paya nahari and kulcha feast.
There you'll be, in a warm and hospitable foodery behind the Golden Mosque just before dawn, happily digging in while the muezzin from the tower sings out the call to prayer. You are surrounded by other equally irreligious types, anxious to get what the heathen heart desires before the moomins from the masjid get theirs.
Paya nahari: sheep's trotters, browned lightly, then simmered overnight with black pepper, ground coriander seed, turmeric, red pepper, fennel seed, cumin, and a pod or two of black cardamom. Plus pinches of mace. Water to cover.
When serving, garnish with finely slivered ginger, and add a squeeze of nimboo.
Serve with fresh hot kulcha, flaky and oozing ghee.
Then go next door to Parveen Baba's for a double glass hot milk-tea with green cardamom, sonf, and sugar.
Plus a khari biscuit.
Coincidentally, I have a recipe for paya nahari right here:
http://cookingwithalizard.blogspot.com/2008/06/paya-nahari-sheep-trotter-stew.html .
I cannot think of anything more likely to take the chill off a foggy San Francisco morning, such as we've been having recently, than early curry. Good cure for a hangover too.
Far, far better than the load-o-grease most people prefer.
As we wheeled into the parking lot, I spotted a crow with a large piece of dead animal. They have that here. Dead animals. Carrion is truly the breakfast of champions, if you are a corvid.
One might even want to share a meal with the bird.
For want of anything better.
Here in Hayward.
Humans eat paya nahari.
Crows enjoy dead animals.
Everyone else prefers grease.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Apparently Indian food tastes far too strong. Almost unbearable.
In my opinion, it is not so at all.
Perfect breakfast food, in fact.
What would you rather have:
1. Rashers of fried sugar-cured fat on a bed of greasy potato rasping, with an egg, and a bowl of overly sweetened pap with cinnamon, raisins, and butter, or.....
2. A yummy stew that has simmered all night, so that the bones in the broth have yielded all their goodness, served with flaky hot flat breads that can be torn up to sop the liquids.
Well?
Clearly the bacon and hash-brown breakfast loses out to the paya nahari and kulcha feast.
There you'll be, in a warm and hospitable foodery behind the Golden Mosque just before dawn, happily digging in while the muezzin from the tower sings out the call to prayer. You are surrounded by other equally irreligious types, anxious to get what the heathen heart desires before the moomins from the masjid get theirs.
Paya nahari: sheep's trotters, browned lightly, then simmered overnight with black pepper, ground coriander seed, turmeric, red pepper, fennel seed, cumin, and a pod or two of black cardamom. Plus pinches of mace. Water to cover.
When serving, garnish with finely slivered ginger, and add a squeeze of nimboo.
Serve with fresh hot kulcha, flaky and oozing ghee.
Then go next door to Parveen Baba's for a double glass hot milk-tea with green cardamom, sonf, and sugar.
Plus a khari biscuit.
Coincidentally, I have a recipe for paya nahari right here:
http://cookingwithalizard.blogspot.com/2008/06/paya-nahari-sheep-trotter-stew.html .
I cannot think of anything more likely to take the chill off a foggy San Francisco morning, such as we've been having recently, than early curry. Good cure for a hangover too.
Far, far better than the load-o-grease most people prefer.
As we wheeled into the parking lot, I spotted a crow with a large piece of dead animal. They have that here. Dead animals. Carrion is truly the breakfast of champions, if you are a corvid.
One might even want to share a meal with the bird.
For want of anything better.
Here in Hayward.
Humans eat paya nahari.
Crows enjoy dead animals.
Everyone else prefers grease.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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