Everyone’s a critic

I am currently in training.

As we all know that is about as much fun as slow root canal, or a swft kick in the balls, or getting hit by a truck after the train ran you over.

I work like a thing possessed – long, steady, gruelling hours. I don’t mean to convey that I don’t enjoy it, but it certainly has its less-than-shiny moments.

Due to the work load at the office my handler hasn’t really had the time to sit down with me and go through the details of my new assignments. And I am not the kind of person who hovers around her desk asking questions. I get on with it as best I can and assume that problems will be dealt with at the appropriate time.

That bit me on the ass, as you may well assume it might.

There are several features to this gig of mine. One of them is technical and mathematical. One of them is language-based. I figure I am going to have the biggest issues in the math/tech department, so that’s where I devote most of my time.

We tried to have a run-through this afternoon, but of course the whole thing was aborted when my handler realised I hadn’t concentrated on the feature she finds most important. Well… duh. That’s not where my biggest issues lie. She more or less shook her head at me and seemed to think that the tech-stuff was all fine and without fault, as far as she could see.

The things I hadn’t gotten to yet due to time constraints where obviously what she wanted me to put more time into. Well, duh again. The seemed unfinished. Well. Yeees … that could be because I hadn’t finished them yet. That’s the kind of comment that you can take and pretty much toss over the shoulder.

What bothered me was that I have done what I have been told. She now seems to think I am not progressing as fast as I could be, because I haven’t finished anything yet. Well. That might be beacuse I was told to abandon one project in order to pursue another. I mean, come on, lady… I am doing what you asked me to do and I am doing it without guidance.

That sort of thing always makes me want to lean over her and say in my calmest, most silky voice “I am nothing but what you have made me”.

I’m not saying I couldn’t do better, you can always do better, and I am still a rookie.

But the blame is not all mine when I am handed an assignment, a set of rules and parametres and then told to amuse myself because she is too stressed to conclude the tutorial.

I sometimes have this problem. It might be because I try to solve the problem, get it done, and I don’t give off the vibe that I might need help. When it dawns on people I might actually need a little assistance they get pissy about it.

Now, how’s that working out for you?

ROL

On-the-bed living

Staying at hotels for any longer perod of time is a little weird.

Your life is generally tits over arse anyway because you wouldn’t be doing that if you didn’t have to, but the lifestyle you adopt quickly becomes surreal. Someone else is making your bed, cooking your food, cleaning your room… Folding your towels, for christsakes.

Not the way I normally live. Not even on a good day.

Some places I’ve stayed have been … less comfortable than the one I’m at now. But this is one of those hotels that is not quite as nice as it thinks it is. It’s not bad, but it does have a rather high opinion of itself. And I find that I am less likely to behave in a rock’n'roll lifestyle way when everything is neat, clean and resonably priced… Or whatever.

The thing I find fascinating is that you develop a routine quite quickly. And yes, I know we do that to handle stress. And yes, I know that’s how the human brain functions – especially under duress. This is the first hotel I’ve stayed in for a while where you tend to live mostly on the bed. There are really no other comfortable areas. There’s a desk, but I have a thing about glass… Can’t really explain it. Every time Robert De Niro puts his gun down on the glass table in Heat the little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. There’s a chair, but it’s just not inviting. There’s a fold away table… but no.

The bed is a queen, so that’s where I live, camping out like a very rock’n'roll tech noir gypsy, complete with cell phone, take away sushi and lap top.

Another reason I think this hotel isn’t everything it thinks it is, is that the room is down right cold. I’m not whiny about drafts and shit normally, and I would think I was imagining it all – still getting over a viral thing – but the curtains move in the breeze from the windows that are closed. So - tech noir gysy with the hood up on the bed eating sushi and shaking like a leaf. Not rock’n'roll at all.

And no hotel with any degree of self respect would pawn off the even more ridiculously watered down brown water served at breakfast as coffee. Please. They can serve all the scrambled eggs and tomato juice they like – if they can’t make a decent cup of Bull’s Blood I remain thoroughly unimpressed. And a just a little pissed off.

ROL

Irony

”Irony is a literary or rhetorical device, in which there is an incongruity or discordance between what one says or does, and what one means or what is generally understood.”

 

That’s the definition.

There is also cosmic irony.

The definition of that is ”cosmic irony is disparity between human desires and the harsh realities of the outside world (or the whims of the gods)”.

 

Or you could just try living my life for a couple of days.

 

I’m supposed to be in another city right now – but due to circumstance outside of my control, plus some rather inventive problem solving and chaos piloting on my part, I am currently working from home.

 

So – in order to not get sucked in to the daily routine and cajoled into working when I need to be home working (and yes, I know that’s a little twisted) I decided to not tell my boss I was still in town. I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell the truth either. Let’s just say it never popped up in conversation and leave it at that.

 

For some inscrutable reason Mr Boss Man had to go to the town in which I was supposed to be diligently working away. I get the eerie feeling I am about to get a ton of cosmic irony dumped in my lap. Sure enough. I leave my apartment to get supplies (I had run out of coffee) and bump into two of my colleagues. Roughly 250 000 residents and those are the two I bump into. Figures.

 

I buy my coffee. I have some. I feel better. But I know this day isn’t over yet.

 

A couple of hours later I get the text I’d been waiting for. “I’m in town. Meet you at the bar for a drink?” – and, well, at this point the cat is all the way out of the bag so I fess up and it’s funny and we laugh and everything is fine.

 

Fast forward another couple of hours. I am just done telling a friend over the phone that my job can get by without me for a couple of days when the cell rings. While I’m on the phone, talking about how my job doesn’t need me, I’m not irreplaceable or anything. And five minutes later I’m out the door heading for work to solve one of those problems for which I am not needed.

 

You know sometimes people say “look it up” in glib response to something or other. Well. Cosmic irony – look it up.

 

So I did.

 

ROL

Soul snaps back

Yesterday was a tough one.

There's a lot of travel in my calendar right now. That's okay, though, 'cause trains around here run on time and are clean and reasonably comfortable. 
No rule without exceptions, though. 
So yesterday I woke up, went to work, but in a loooong day of headachingly hard stuff – concentration on max, topic a bit  on the bleak side and ten trotted off to the station. 
At this point I had to make a choice. I either bought myself a book or something to eat. I can go a good long while without eating, but I can't survive a five hour journey without a book. Choice made and noted. Got book, got on train. 
Due to arrive in my home town at 22:46. I figured I'd make it back to my apartment, have a snack and then be all stowed away and tucked into bed at around midnight. 
Not so much, actually. 
There was trouble on the line. Let's put it this way, we left on time and then got screwed several times along the way. And not in a way you'd enjoy. First there was the ”we only have one rail operating for trains in both directions” problem. Then there was the ”we're behind a freight train right now and – as the conducted put it – we can't overtake it, because we're in a train” thing and then to round out the day – the light signals went dark. And dark is pretty dark around here. No way of knowing if there's a train coming in the other direction. Not a good thing at all. Since I'd rather not crash and burn horribly in a train (or a plane, or a bus ... or any kind of vehicle, thank you.
I read my book. 
I tried to sleep. No luck there. 
I thought about the wisdom of my choice of skipping the eating-thing. 
I looked at the scenery, when such was afforded. 
I looked at the moon. 
When we finally did arrive we we're almost two hours late. Do the math.

Just before we pulled into the station I catnapped for about twenty minutes and then I had the brisk walk home so I wasn't tired anymore when I finally did make it back to my place. 

When I lay down in bed so late it was actually early again I got that strange sensation you sometimes get when you've been traveling all day. It's like you're soul has been stretched thin across the darkened landscape having just grounded itself in the place where you've been staying and now it's struggling to get back to you. Like a chord of stretched military grade parachute chord is the only thing keeping it attached to you. It's a little disorienting. I guess that's the land version of jet lag. You expect it to thump back into your body when you are finally still. 
Or maybe that's just fatigue? 

A couple of hours later I'm back at work. Still a little lost and hung-overish, not from drinking, but from lack of sleep and cognitive overload. Things are looking pretty Tyler Durdenesque right now.
At least the coffee is good. 

ROL

Human behaviour

Taking the stairs is good for you.

Four flights of solid black marble, trilobites and all, and your blood starts pumping. It is good for you. Especially if you spend a better part of the days sitting on your arse.

So. There I am, going  down the stairs at full canter, ’cause that’s the only way really, when I am met by what can best be described as cursing steel. A solitary worker is trying to lug a whole section of scaffolding by himself up some pretty windy stairs. I’m white collar today, so I am not going to offer my help. Besides, I think that would freak the guy out.

He is obviously Russian. How do I know? Because he is saying impolite things about someone’s mother in Russian.

I nod on my way down and make sure I stay well out of his way.

As I pass the next window overlooking the courtyard I look out and see another six or seven workers doing a perfect impersonation of a flock of meerkats that have just spotted an eagle.

All eyes riveted to something I can’t see from my vantage point.

Perfectly still. Just like meerkats right before they scamper.

I haven’t seen what they are staring at yet, but based on prior experience I would say it probably involves a big machine of some description.

When I hit the ground floor and look out – yep, there it is. Big machine. Lifting things. Hydraulics going on. Lights flashing. Beeping-noises. The whole nine yards.

I don’t know what it is about machines and workers. It’s not like they need to stand around and gawk. Or, in this particular case; stand around like a flock of meerkats waiting for the shadow to descend. It’s a guy thing, I guess. I’ve always been more of a ‘get the hell out of the way’ type myself.

My theory is that if a big machine is lifting heavy things it is a good policy to be well away from it. There are some things you don’t want in you obituary. And, there are some single expletives you do not want recorded as you last words.

So what about the human behaviour?

Well, obviously one guy is like me. The Russian I met on the stairs. He kept on working, trying to do too much and not getting any help from the other guys who decided that standing around was a more constructive way to spend your time.

I had my little break and then went back inside.

I met the same Russian on the stairs – I up, he down.

He was no longer saying things about someone’s mother, but judging from the look on his face I’d say someone was about to get a serious earful. And rightely so. I figure it would be along the lines of “get your arses in here and help me or I will slap you so hard you momma’s gonna feel it”. But possibly in Russian.

Too bad I didn’t get to see that part.

ROL

Getting creative

Fighter pilots are good for more than one thing.

Head out of gutter, please.

When doing research on creativity the following interesting piece of information came to the surface – having a high IQ and an ability to follow orders without asking questions didn’t really help the pilots flying bombers during WWII.

There were two methods of selection. One of them was testing and IQ scores and all the rest that gives you the best of the best – or whatever it is they call themselves these days.

The other method was … well, it was just one more question, really. “What would you do if fired upon?”

The first category gave the text book answer, which is something like “climb straight up in a smooth motion”. They died in droves.

The second category answered everything from “wet myself”, “zig zag” on down to “I don’t know”.

You find the survivors in the second category.

Now for the key question; why is that?

And the answer is pretty much what you’d expect – creative thinking. Yes, it does help. The school of thought that says following the rules and obeying is always the best course of action are trying to make cannon fodder out of you – which is fine, we can always use some of that. But creative thinking, which is basically just another way of saying “adapt and overcome”, is what will keep you alive.

I sometimes find myself surprised at the things that surprise people. The second mouse gets the cheese. I thought everyone knew that. But then again, that’s just me.

I was watching a documentary about creative thinking, problem solving, you know the kind of thing… They had actually asked people when they had their most creative ideas. And the nominees are:

In bed.

In the bath/shower.

While driving/riding a bike/riding the bus.

While walking (preferably in nature).

While drunk.

Not sure about the last one there… I know the kind of intelligence people display while drunk and it’s a little conflicted, to say the least. I think you can be very cunning while drunk. But being cunning and having a good idea are not necessarily the same thing. Cunning people bring home giant inflatable bananas that they just found lying about the roof of the place that sells the fried bananas. Having a good idea might be the equivalent of not having the fourth shot of tequila on an empty stomach on a work night, genius.

I don’t think it’s all that strange that we get good ideas while doing something on autopilot. Brain is just busy enough to keep you in the moment, with a little bit left over. That bit is the part that pokes things with a stick. Creative thinking is the shit – but keep in mind, not all of it is good. It leads to cures for cancer, but it leads to crossbows too.

It just proves that every tool is a weapon, if you hold it right.

ROL

A nice hot cup of … brown water?

I get serious about my coffee. As far as stimulants go, it’s one of my all time favourites. Which is why I get so serious about it.

Normally I start the day off with one of those vicious little espresso-make-it-yourself things made from actual coffee grounds and actual water. Put on plate and boil. Wait for scent of freshly made coffee to waft through apartment. Pour and drink.

If it’s one of those mornings I’ll wait until it cools and then shot it.

Once you get to work you get the big pot boiling and then just keep it going all day. Coffee doesn’t give me an ulcer, it just mollifies me. Keeps me happy. Keeps me going. Because of the insomnia people sometimes assume I should be having herbal tea instead, but that’s not going to happen. I mean … tea? It might smell like orange/cinnamon/ginger but it always, without fail, tastes like straw. Old straw with bits in it. Straw that’s been trodden on by farmanimals, maybe.

So, for the past couple of days I’ve been staying in a hotel that has all the amenities. You can even get a little electric water boiler so you can make you own coffee in your room. And as I stand there pouring the powder of instant coffee into my cup I realise I’m fucked. This is so sad. They give you the boiler, the powder and the mug and smile.

Smug bastards.

That is not coffee. That’s what you give people who don’t understand about coffee. I have to pour three of those ridiculous little packets into the mug to even get it to show a little colour.

Coffee should be black, evil and have a serious attitude.

It should smell like coffee and look like tar. It should leave an impression in the mug and give the spoon a run for its money. It should laugh in the face of milk and scoff at lattes. It should not, and I can’t stress this enough, taste like straw.

But, hope springs eternal, so I figure I can get decent coffee at breakfast, right?

I look around when I get to the breakfast. Uh-oh. Not a coffee-pot in sight. No trace of any kind of container to keep nice coffee in.

What they do have is one of those machines. You know the ones. It might say “coffee” on the button, but when you press it you get brown water. Sad brown water, at that. And I look into the cup with dismay. I scan the table and find more instant powder stuff. I add a couple of spoons of that. It’s bad, but it could have been worse. People are giving me looks. I don’t care. I am not yet mollified.

Giving up on the hotel altogether I head for work.

They must have coffee, right?

I mean no office with any kind of desks, and people at the desks, and work going on, can not have coffee, right?

Another machine awaits.

This is one of those pretentious “every cup is freshly made” machines that had little pods that look like poker chips and come in shiny colours. Each colour signifies some exotic and special blend with aromatic features from the region where it was grown. It invariably tastes the same. Brown water. Stay away from the red ones. They’re decafinated. That in itself is a horrible concept, I mean why take the coffe out of the coffee and then have the gall to still call it coffee… Red being the natural warning colour I feel they at least made a smart move there. Stay away from the red ones.

I don’t get homesick. I don’t get bummed out by staying at a hotel and leaving my stuff behind. It’s just stuff. I don’t freak out by starting a new job, meeting new people, being dropped in a  city where I don’t belong and can’t find my way around.

But the coffee… The coffee… I miss my coffee.

ROL

City rat

I’m a city rat.

How do I know this? Apart from the obvious, that is?

It’s been raining really hard the last couple of days. I mean the kind of big, heavy no-nonsense rain you get when autumn rolls around. Leaves are falling, clogging up the drains. I’m wearing two layers and still getting soaked. Damn, even my socks are wet. Time to pull the big boots out of the closet and shine them, I guess.

Falling leaves clog the drains. I was waiting for the light to turn green and saw the bus coming ‘round the corner. There were a couple of incidental pedestrians waiting along side me and I looked them over out of the corner of my eye, because that’s what a city rat does. Ladies in heels and skirts. As the bus pulled closer I took three steps back. Recoil street water is not a good thing. It’s probably on my top ten of things I don’t want down my sneakers.

Just as you might easily predict the bus hit the … puddle, for lack of a better word, with stuff in it (quite possibly dog stuff) and my fellow green-light waiters let out matching squeals that would have delighted a minor director of cheap horror movies. Scream queens in the making. I didn’t snigger. Honestly I didn’t.

That’s how you know you’re a city rat. Constantly swivelling your head and twitching your moist rat nose you know there’s more to making it home in one piece than just stopping at the red light. You’ve got to watch the clouds, and the bus and the gutter water too.

ROL

Welcome to the war zone

People are basically bad.

How’s that for an opening statement? I came to work early this morning only to find I had to wade through a pile of broken glass. It’s not the first saturday morning I’ve had to start off with sweeping up broken glass – but then I’ve worked a lot of different jobs and usually that kind of thing is more common in a bar.

Some unredeemed son of a bitch had broken one of the panes of glass in our front door. Not to break in, not to steal, not for any other purpose then the actual breaking in itself. Bastard.

Random destruction is harder for me to handle than destruction with a purpose. I tend to get angry at any action without premeditation anyway, no matter what the situation, but this shit… it just gets my blood up.

We have security but I don’t know what the hell we pay those guys for. They always show up after the fact too, which is not as helpful as you would like it to be. They quick-fixed the busted pane, sure, but contented themselves with sweeping the glass shards to one side and then buggered off to do whatever the hell it is they do at two a.m. Watch popstars, probably.

I pick up the glass, careful to not cut myself because that would cause my smoldering anger to light into a blaze of raging fury and we don’t want that that early in the morning. I get the vacuum cleaner to get the tiniest slivers so no one cuts their precious little feet. I get no report from security. No report from the night shift. No report from co-wokers who could have a clue as to what the hell went wrong.

We have hardly any staff today, I’m pretty much the only one here, so I get to and work my little ass off for a couple of hours.

And then people give me atitude. My boss gives me attitude. Randoms give me attitude.

That is not wise.

What’s your first instinct when you’re greeted by busted glass? Mine is to do a quick sweep of the whole place just in case burglars are still hanging around doing their thing. I know this is not smart. I know this is not what the police would advice you to do. It’s just that if I catch the fuckers at it it’ll be a good opportunity for me to went my anger. And that is defintiely not a good idea. Theoretically I could get hurt. But it’s much more likely I’ll get into trouble and hurt someone else. It’s not that I’m a violent person. Actually I’m a complete pacifist. It’s just that once the adrenaline gets going the tiger part of my brain takes over and it doesn’t take any prisoners.

I didn’t get to went. So when people give me attitude what do they expect of me?

Smiles? Cotton candy? Lollipops and candy canes? Balloons?

Or – a handfull of broken glass shoved somewhere really personal?

ROL

The Paperless office…

My desk at work is a marvel of order. I keep all my stuff neatly stowed away, arranged in pleasing patterns and piles. Things that need immediate attention to the left, things that might be smart to hang to in their own place. There’s a place for everything and I work hard at keeping it that way. Not that I’ll hunt down and beat anyone who’s borrowed my stapler or anything…

Now, my desk at home is a completely different story. I have a big desk. It’s cluttered beyond belief. Even I feel a little uncomfortable as the steadily growing pile of papers shift and lurch and threaten to avalanche. Post-its tacked to every available surface. And of course the mind-map madness I face as I look up at my notice board. Organic growth has taken over and slips of paper containing random quotes, bits of stuff, lyrics, poems, pictures and maps have slowly started blooming onto the wall.

My apartment has a few too many characteristics in common with the average American serial killer movie for me to be entirely comfortable with it. It’s not so much that it makes me nervous as the fact that I really don’t feel like inviting anyone over anymore. It’s clean… but it looks a bit … unwholesome, frankly. I have a thing about books… So I live in a little burrow of books. My book cases have vomited on the floor. Stacked against the walls… Hmm. I think I might be giving a little too much information here. I’ll stop now.

I go at my desk at least once a week. I mean I sort though the mail, throw out the junk and finished business. I tend to throw out some of the unfinished business too. I just can’t be bothered with caring about absolutely everything. I mean… Honestly – does anyone believe I’ll make it to retirement? Come on – the way I live? And – whatever happened to the paperless office? It seems the more shortcuts we create via computers, cell phones and messenger and what-not the more paper we generate. Still get the junk mail. Still get the forms you have to fill out, surveys, bills, papers about the papers you just got.

So maybe living a bit more nomadic will be good for me. I mean I can’t possibly lug all this stuff around, now can I? And I won’t buy more books as I travel, now will I? Oh, wait… That’s right – I will. I know myself well enough to know that if I have two hours to spend in any town where I don’t live I gravitate towards the nearest second-hand bookshop. And once you entered one of those places you rarely leave without buying. At least I don’t.

I can almost see a hint of wood now – I mean I can almost see a hint of the actual desk under the piles of stuff and gear. The notes I’ve written to myself haven’t been that disturbing this time. Mostly just reminders and pass words and keywords. And I think I have it under pacific control. Time for another cup of the black stuff and then I’m off to work.

ROL