The Pettiness Pending At Corporate Incorporated

Little Orphan Annie, as her name implies, was but a child. Her tomorrow’s were filled with her ever-loving dog, Sandy; with lollipops and candy and chasing rainbows till she found the old pot o’ gold.

I’m an adult. You’ll be very hard pressed to find me singing optimistic anticipatory songs about tomorrow, especially on Sunday nights. I've been working in the corporate world for some time now and the one thing I can say with all certainty is this: Corporate life, in a word, is absurd.

It’s not that I don’t like my job. On the contrary. While I can be insanely busy at times, the days go fast and I actually enjoy the work for the most part. It’s just the other part of my job I could do without.

The human beings.

Human beings have questions that don't need to be asked. They have problems they intend to make your problems. They have rude, obnoxious children that should be in full contraction. They have comments that don't need to be heard lest spoken. They freely offer advice after eavesdropping on your phone conversation. Some of them consider bathing and breath mints optional. They have a total disregard for your personal space.

I never really had a problem with these creatures before. Occasionally when I ventured outside my office on the way to the bathroom or copier, sure they'd be around. But I'd dodge them ever so carefully like they were land mines. But after the company I work for moved spaces in January, I have no office. I have no door. And now I'm surrounded.

Let me tell you a very distinct difference between having an office with a door and a cubicle. When you're in your office, even when the door's open, people are compelled to knock before entering. There's just something about a door that makes people stop even when it's opened. Since being sentenced to work in a cubicle, it's like being on Madison Avenue during lunch time. You can be slaving away, looking as serious as you wanna look, eyes straight ahead on your computer screen burning up the keyboard and one of them will just come along, plop their elbow down on the edge of your cube all comfy-like and just start up a conversation. And it's usually this guy: you know the person who, when you're having one of those really useless meetings that they tend to schedule toward the end of the day and you're trying to get the hell out, he's the human that when they ask "Does anyone have any questions?" his hand is always the one up. Usually he's asking a question that was just asked or answered but since he's working to 10pm for absolutely no reason, why not make everyone else just sit around anyway? So now he's at my cube.

"Yeah, so this weekend me and the wife blah, blah, blah."

Some years ago, when I was a New Jack, I might stop typing and feign interest. I might even look this person in the eye to give the impression I cared. That was then. Now, I don't have the time to pretend or unravel your logic. Now, I just keep typing. Then It looks over at my computer screen to see what I'm doing. In my office, I could easily switch Windows, no one knew what I was working on. Not in a cube. They could usually just look right at your computer screen.

"Hotmail, huh?"

I just keep typing.

I know he's still there, holding his cup of coffee in one hand, his other hand in his pocket. He's rocking back-and-forth nervously. He knows I heard him. I know he knows I know. At this point it's just a matter of wills. He sees someone else and heads their way to bother them.

"Hey Steverino!"

I live by the Dilbert Principle. If you're not familiar with the cartoon, Dilbert is a working guy, works in a cube, and after years on the job has gotten jaded by the whole corporate schtick. The rule he lives by is simply this: People are Idiots.

When I was 19 years old I was dating this girl in Boston. On weekends I would take the now defunct Trump Shuttle and see her. In Boston, people (especially white folks), have an infamous way of totally ignoring you. I'd be driving her car, get lost and ask for directions and not only wouldn't they answer me, they'd look right through me as if they didn't see me. (I wasted a lot of money when i was 19!)

Now, in retrospect, I'm thinking that it's not that those folks were raging redneck card carrying racists. But it's probably because they've spent considerable time working in Corporate America.

You see, for your own survival in the corporate world, your instincts eventually kick in to ignore people. It's like when you get real cold your body automatically starts to shiver in an attempt to generate heat; when you survive a plane crash, the guy that was sitting in the aisle seat only an hour ago starts to look like one of those Bugs Bunny chickens and you find yourself wanting to eat him. It's about survival, man!

True story: on Monday, February 13 of this year, I'm in the interview room with a candidate. All's well, I'm thinking where I might have room for this guy and then he asks me "So, do we get paid extra on our birthday?" He started saying something else but at that point my corporate survival instincts took over and all is dead silent. Without me even realizing I was doing it, I just calmly starting gathering my stuff - my papers, pens, business cards - looked through him, smiled, got up and left the interview room.

How was I supposed to answer that?!?

Also, it never hurts to let them think you're a little bit crazy. Not postal crazy. But just enough so they'll leave you alone and won't want to talk to you unless it's totally necessary. Every so often, about every quarter or so, I usually walk around with a legal pad, go up to a group of three or so humans and ask an insane question. Then I act like I'm jotting down their equally unintelligible answers and when they ask why I'm asking them I'll just mutter something like 'psychological profile' and walk away. That usually buys me about 2.5 months without having to deal with them. (Totally unassociated but going through the drive-through and stressing repeatedly that your order is "to go" is a good one too).

I work. You work. You know. There aren't nearly enough sick/vacation/personal/mental health days or Fridays. There's gonna be some call. Something. Some crack headish question. Some human being. A man. Someone's interning kid, an idiotic nephew, a manager that boasts how good she looks for 40 when you thought she was 55.

That's what's waiting for me tomorrow. And it's only a day away.

The Last Reunion

There would be no sack races; no ring toss, no basketball or name games at this one. And almost everyone was there this time around. To say goodbye to the matriarch of the family, Olga Pastor. Grandma.

Grandma, I felt like calling you today. Just woke up with you on my mind. Tried to recall your number 302-323...it was every day or every week even that we spoke. But I called when you were on my mind, spontaneous, like almost everything I do. I always seemed to make you laugh and you'd call me a rascal and although you had scores of grandkids I always felt like we had our own thing. It became our tradition for me to bring you a coffee mug from whenever I went away and you always seemed so interested in my trips; even wanting me to call you from Africa when I landed to make sure I was safe.

I admired the fact that you seemed to be always there. Attending all of our graduations, putting an emphasis on education. I admired the work you did with children with health problems and AIDS. Even getting interviewed on the radio, TV and in the newspapers for your efforts.

You got me hooked on Ovaltine, my favorite even today. You told me not to say "hi" to adults, but to say "hello" instead. You told me how important it was to have 2 voices: one I use with my friends and another one when I wanted to be taken seriously. You taught me things just by observing you and your interactions with people and nature. You were good for bringing in the stray dog and cat and calling him your pet and taking care of them.

I remember when I got to teenage years, I tried to make it a conscious effort to always take some kind of lesson from you when in your presence. Like at aunt Sylvia's funeral, I remember you telling me, while staring blankly ahead: You should never have to bury your child.

I remember when David and I came by your place in Delaware just to speak to you, to interview you about your life some years ago. I was really glad we did that. When we left there was a big rainbow out front and I took that to be a good omen. I remember asking you about your father that you hadn't seen since you were 12 years old. You told me the story about him and your mother being divorced, but he came by and you asked him to buy you a dress for a catillion you were to attend. He was to bring the dress for you that following Wednesday. Then you told us "You know, that nigger never came back!" You never saw your father again and the pain that experience caused you was so evident some 70-something years later! Lesson taught: keep my word to my children. Always.

I have a question Grandma. We were at Melanie's wedding and I came by you to say hello and you took a look at my head and said "Oohh, Askia, please don't head-butt me". What the hell was that about, Grandma? Have you always had that concern about my head? Even the way you said, Ooh Askia please don't head butt me? Did I ever head butt you before and forgot about it? Was I coming at you too fast, head first? Okay, so that day's lesson was not to head-butt Grandma. Lol!

I remember the last time seeing you. It was at aunt Marcella's house in June, a couple of months before you passed. You were sitting in the living room chair and you seemed very tired. I immediately recalled hearing or reading something years earlier that said people get very tired when they're ready to go Home. And there you were. I knealt down next to you and knew I was saying goodbye and tried to tell myself it was a good thing but it was very hard. You knew what I was doing, what we were doing, and you held my hand laughed and called me a rascal.

I got up today trying to recall your number to give you a call. Just woke up with you on my mind; to hear your voice and make you laugh. Instead I'm relegated to write this blog and it's a crude consolation prize.

And the lesson I take from today is about tide and time.

Quit Clownin'!

It never fails to amaze me. More than amazed really; I'm astounded actually. Befuddled. Confused. Bamboozled. Run amok and lead astray as to why people, in busy metropolitan New York City during rush hour in the subway actually stop - stop! - what they're doing, stop hustling to where they're going, and crowd around some whack, lame-ass break dancers and actually seem like they're being seriously entertained by it?! These guys are not even break dancing really. They're doing the initial steps BEFORE you start to break dance. You know, like "I'm warmin' up to do some shit now" and they keep doing that step before you get on the ground and spin on your head but instead they keep doing that step over and over and they might freeze with their hand on their head or their crotch and then just abruptly pass it to their man who's just as whack?

Then there's a mime artist or whatever they're called. Freaks with makeup, berets and horizontal stripe shirts. And he or she is doing their I'm-stuck-in-this-glass-house routine and I can't talk or scream for help because I'm a mime bit and again there's this crowd in awe. What's that about?

(The only one saving grace about clowns and mimes is the hand held horn. Probably just the concept of it though. Imagine you're slaving away for massa at CSS - Corporate Slave Ship per my West Coast homie Supasister Lil B Wafflebuns - when one of Massa's underlings comes up to you and's like "Yeah, I can see you're busy and you know how I really hate to bother you but"

HONK-HONK-HONK.

"I'm sorry I don't underst-"
HONK-HONK-HONKHONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK!!!!

I don't know, but I just really believe that would be some incredibly, hilarious shit. But you'd have to do it with a serious face, almost annoyed actually until they just go away. HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK!!!! In fact, holla at your boy if you come across a hand held horn or if you wanna surprise me for my birthday. I'd love that shit!)

But I digress.

I was in Amsterdam a couple of summers back and I'm on the second floor of a Coffee House with this outdoor patio. We're kicking back, blazing with some guys from Scotland and all of a sudden this mime appears in the courtyard downstairs and starts doing his thing. Now a couple of hours earlier someone in the same place was on their cell phone and a bouncer told them that wasn't allowed. I asked the guy why and he said, you know, people come here to get high, they don't wanna hear someone making arrangements for later or on the phone arguing with their girl. Understood. So now a mime appears downstairs intentionally, I believe, trying to kill everyone's buzz. So one of the guys from Scotland, this rugby player dude just loses it and tries to get downstairs to try to kill this mime and his friends are basically tackling him and trying to talk him out of it, telling him it's not worth it and I find myself screaming "let him go!" This guy - yeah it looks likes he's taken a fair share of blows to the head, is missing a few teeth and basically resembles Woody Harrelson's character from "Wag The Dog" - understands something that the average circus-going, child toting adult does not fathom. And it is this: clowns, mimes and vantriloquists and their dummies are inherently evil. They must be stopped by any means necessary and at any cost to yourself, family, country, and fellow man.

Case in point: John Wayne Gacey. Need I say more? One of the worst serial killers this country has ever produced. Side note: the good 'ol US of A has the world's market cornered as far as serial killers. No other country can even come close to touching us in that category. Doesn't that do you proud?

Now, John Wayne Gacey was a fun guy to be around. Perhaps he'd meet you at a bar or maybe you were unfortunate enough to be a clerk or stock boy at his store. So he'd say, 'hey Ray. When you finish stocking, why dontcha come by my house to watch the game and have a couple of cold ones?' Now, maybe he seemed innocent enough and you don't wanna say no to your boss too many times, so you go by his house have a few beers and then John asks you if you like magic. You hate magic, naturally, but you say you don't mind so John goes in the back and comes out dressed like a clown. Full makeup, big red nose, floppy shoes the whole nine yards. Me? I wouldn't be at dudes house from the get go but when I see him decked out in the clown regalia I automatically figure he's threatening me so I just start swinging. But that's me. You, Ray? Well you don't have anything against clowns so when he shows you the magic handcuff trick you oblige him but abra-cadabra there is no key, next thing you know you're getting "Marcellused" Pulp Fictionized and there aint no Bruce Willis to save your stupid, trusting ass and either they find you years later in storage bags in the freezer or under the floor Tell Tale Heart, Edgar Allen Poe style. Trust me on this, there has to be nothing worse than getting killed by a clown. Nothing funny about that.

And he didn't even have the courtesy to have a hand-held honker!

I know I'm not crazy because a clown has never made me laugh. Also, there's a word for hating/fearing clowns and it's Coulrophobia. Why would there be a word for it if clowns weren't direct spawns of Satan?

I remember being punished by my mother and sitting in Madison Square Garden during a Ringling Bros. Barnum and Bailey's Circus show - at least it felt like I was being punished - and just never liking anything about the show. Then the clowns would come out between the segments and do their ten people in a Volkswagon bit, throw a bucket full of confetti "water" and people would just roar with laughter and I just felt they were annoying and nothing else. And it always seemed like I was near the front row so they'd fuck with me and try to get me in on the act and I always brought an extra sharp pencil in case I'd have to accidentally stab one of them to death. I abhorred everything about the circus. I was afraid the tiger would go tiger and maul Gunther; a trapeze artist would fall to their death; the elephants seemed like they were abused; the bears on the little tricylcles wearing the stupid little hats seemed pissed the fuck off, the whole vibe was just wrong, man.

And do you remember the movie "Magic" from the late 70's about that vantriloquist dummie that was evil. I can remember the commercial like it was yesterday. It was a pitch black and all of a sudden it was a closeup on the dummies face and he'd say:

Abra-Cadabra we'd take her to bed, magic is fun....when you're dead!

Vlad the Impaler, the ruler of Romania and the person it is believed the fabled "Dracula" was fashioned after, once had a huge banquet for all the poor and sick people in his kingdom. It was a feast that none of them had ever had or could imagine. When they were done Vlad stood up at the head of the table and asked them "How would you like to be rid of your ills and concerns forever?" He then proceeded to have the castle boarded up and burned to the ground killing every single one of them.

I'd like to do the same to all the big red nose wearing, hands up the back of a little wooden doll having, lips not moving but still speaking members of our society. It would be my version of Michael Jackson's "Heal The World". Then I'd like to get on a tiny tricyle wearing a little hat and cape and circle round their evil remains. Then, in a final show of victory, I'd get my hand held honker out: HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK!

Coffee Is For Drinking Only

God is a busy person, er, entity.

What with the wars, pestilence, famine, New York Knicks fans - myriads of people are vying for His time. (Love the word "myriad").

That's why I try not to bother Him unnecessarily. You know, I don't pray for things like a pay increase or a World Series victory...anymore. Sometimes you just gotta work with whatcha got.
But there are instances where you just find yourself immersed in justifiable supplication.

So I'm at this lounge in downtown Manhattan with my boy Tim. We're kicking back, catching up and it's time for work so I only have time for a few more, you know how it is. The bartender is someone that Tim knows so we're getting all these buybacks and next thing you know it's like Happy Hour and my frame is getting...a little...shall we say...bent.

Next day's phone conversation:

"Tim."
"Yes, this is Tim."
"Yeah, I know that's why said 'Tim'. Listen, the girl at the bar last night. How was she?"
"What girl?"
"You know, the sister we were with at the lounge, how did she look? Do you remember?"
"We were talking to girl at the lounge?"

So, the very next day the girl calls me. I forget her name so let's call her Olga. And I gotta tell you, Olga's got the goods over the phone. I mean, calling me the next day usually sends up signals of desperation but I know I could be a great conversationalist when a little toasty. I may not remember little details like your name or anything we spoke about but we seemed to have a good time so I somewhat disregarded the next day phone call rule. But the Shallow Hal in me still has no idea how she looks. Maybe she could help me out a bit.

"So, would you consider yourself light-skin or brown-skinnded because most people consider me light skin though I think I'm brown skin. What about you?"

"Oh, I'd say you're brown skinned."

OOOOkay.

"You have a nice body, you got to the gym?"
"You know, I was pretty much born this way."

She's not biting.

So now I'm committed to this Friday night date with someone that has a great voice and great personality and usually if a girl is too good to be true over the phone head for the hills, man. That ain't a good sign. (Why isn't "ain't" not really considered a word yet it's abbreviated?)

The plan was to meet in front of the theatre on 23rd street. I'm a block away and decide against praying for bionic vision for the reasons I stated earlier. Plus it would probably take about a week to kick in anyway. As I get closer to the box office, I notice a very light skinned woman, with a scrunched up face like something smells bad wearing coffee stockings in July with a cherub-like doesn't-say-no to dessert type chubbiness. Then I notice the very light skinned woman, with a scrunched up face like something smells bad wearing coffee stockings in July with a cherub-like doesn't-say-no to dessert type chubbiness waving at me.

"Hi, Askia. Have you decided on a movie?"

God I know I don't come to you too often because I know you have a lot to do and millions of folks are trying to get at you right now so I appreciate the time. I realize I should come to you more often just to thank you for certain things and I promise to do better in that department. But please don't let this be my date. For her sake, of course. I don't want to waste her time because I'm really not interested. I would be really, really, really, be appreciative if that wasn't her, again, for her sake. Please! Oh, and thank you for waking to another day.

There are so many things that shot through my mind other than "hello".

Here's a Public Service Announcement for the ladies. You don't have to read my blog, but you do, I'm very appreciative and occasionally I like to give back so here's a little something free of charge: there's not a single reason or occasion EVER where coffee stockings are acceptable unless someone calls you Grandma and you pay a discounted bus fare. By the way, Olga was my grandmother's name.

We decided on a movie.

"So what are we doing afterwards."
"Well, Olga on Saturdays I usually like to get up early and go to my uncle's farm and help him milk the cows. He's a paraplegic you know and needs my help so I usually like to get there around 3am so after the movie I'm gonna have to get you a cab."
"My name isn't Olga."

On top of everything else, I had to endure sitting through a 2-hour flick with a date wearing coffee stockings during a heat wave in the front row of the theatre!

I literally threw myself in front of a cab after the movie. I spent the rest of the night in a bar next to the movie theatre watching the Yankees lose to the Baltimore Orioles drinking nothing but Diet Coke.

Olga and I kept in touch for a while after that but eventually, for some reason, she lost interest.

Another thing about God - He has a wicked sense of humor.