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8.27.01
. . . back to work
I'm
sipping coffee at my regular place, thinking that in an alternate universe
I'd be at Burning Man right
now. More specifically I'd be at Infant
and 8:30 with the Snuggledome
Competitive Ladies Day Spa.
In my
current, actual universe I'm moments away from strolling into work to
confront what I expect to be a torrent of unread email and random issus
that demand immediate attention. I thrive on the buzz at Real and since
I received a promotion a couple weeks back ("Group Manager for
Media and Infrastructure Solutions") I can only expect the pace
to rachet up a few notches. I've avoiding being saddled with a pager,but
my cell phone is ever present these days and I try to not let 12 hours
go by without checking email (which has made the last few email-free
days a treat).
I will
file this summer under "lost" right next to the summer of
1998 when I spent my non-working hours finishing my dissertation. No
complaints, you understand, I've made my bed and I'm lying happily (though
perhaps a bit wearily) in it. I've always felt that trying to accomplish
extraordinary things takes extraordinary focus and commitment and as
long as I feel that what I'm doing at Real matters, I expect it to gobble
up most of my waking time. Unhealthy denial? Faustian bargain? Maybe.
But I don't think so.
8.26.01
. . . clifford willis
I have
no idea who Clifford Willis is, or rather I know nothing other than
the fact that he is in prison, and today he called me collect.
Apart
from that, I read and wrote.
Ate cold ribs from last night. Took the bus downtown to meet Dia for
a drink. Elaine showed up later. We hacked at the Sunday crossword.
And Dia shared that yesterday she'd received not one, but two collect
calls from Mr. Willis.
8.25.01
. . . starts and stops
I talked
with Brian
today. Yesterday he taught his first class at University
of Kansas, lecture #1 of "Sociology of Law and Law and Criminal
Justice."
We
got to talking about Connie. I went to her
company website to send the link to Brian and noticed that since
the funeral MP3s of Connie singing have been posted on the memorial
page. I hadn't known she sang.
8.24.01
. . . markabout
Today
is my last vacation day, but only the first day I've had free to tackle
the overly-ambitious list of projects I'd lined up for this week. But
I'm just not gonna do them. The sink leaks, curtains need to be hung,
photos demand to be organized, the basement needs cleaning, but fuck
it. I'm on a markabout--a semi-regular dayoff routine that involves
wandering the UDistrict, a place that for
me always
has a comforting, shabby allure. I'll type on my laptop until I finish
my tea at Allegro,
prowl the University
Book Store skimming interesting books I know I will never read if
purchased, duck into record stores and thrift shops, and wind up with
a sandwich, stale corn chips and a beer at Big
Time. This is my idea of leisure time.
8.22.01
. . . rnr
My attempt
to take a vacation has been interupted by various work items. I suppose
that were I taking a true vacation (e.g. skipping town, eschewing modems,
abandoning cell phones) none of this would be a problem. But I can't
feel bad, not
everybody takes a vacation.
8.21.01
. . . sandy shore road
Dia
and I had a lovely 30 hour or so anniversary getaway to Port Townsend.
We made up our plans as we went, avoided purchasing any cute items in
the various cute stores in town and decided that the meanest insult
one could level at a Port Townsend establishment--a city that banks
on it's charm--was to label something "charmless." Given my
low tolerance for cute, and a non-standard definition of "charm,"
I hurled this word a lot. We did, with minor sleuthing, suss out the
best bar (Sirens) and the best meal (Lonny's) in town. We also discovered--through
torrid necessity--what I have been told it the best local makeout spot,
a certain Sandy Shore Road.
8.20.01
. . . six years and counting
I have
the week off. Today is our anniversary. Number six. I do not expect
us to exhange any iron
or candy. We're heading out of town for a day or so. I'm quite happy.
8.18.01
. . . connie
My college
girlfriend Connie died last week. That's what the email I received this
morning, from my freshman college roomate, said. You read news items
like this everyday: Very bad traffic accident. SUV swerved off a winding
road. Fell forty feet. Rolled over. 2:30am. No seatbelt.
We had
a turbulent year and a half together before we went abroad together
sophomore year and the relationship swiftly imploded. It was one of
those relationships where all the unattractive qualities you possess
come out, an observation that you make only years later when you finally
notice that you have them. The memories that come to mind: her laugh,
her yell (we did a lot of yelling), her penchant for "well done"
french fries, and the surreal feeling of whirling through Beverly Hills
in her BMW, smug with the sense that I had infiltrated the subculture
of the rich. Later, I recognized this as the sort of high minded rationalization
at which I'm particularly adept. The truth is that though I was just
a boy, for a short while I was also a kept man.
Hadn't
seen her in fifteen years. Don't even recall when that was. Must have
bumped into her somewhere. Some years ago I read a blurb in the alumni
magazine that noted she'd married. The obituary filled in other details
I couldn't know. Her dad must have died--he drove a goofy car, an Excalibur,
and owned a house in the hills I remember for being covered inside with
white marble. She was survived by her mom, who lived in a towering condo
on Wilshire. Visiting her was the first time I had ever encountered
a doorman. She was also survived by her husband and two little children
Hunter
(6) and
Skylar
(4) .
She and her husband ran a business that sold an award winning tote designed
by Connie that conveniently carries all your scrapbook hobby items--clippings,
scissors, corner mounts, glue.
I haven't
thought a lot about Connie in the last several years, but just last
night I brought her up in conversation while having a drink with Elaine
& Dana. I can't remember why. I called my mom and dad today and
told them the news. Mom said she and Brian had been talking on the phone
earlier in the week and for no particular reason the subject of Connie
and proper french fry doneness came up. People stay with you.
8.15.01
. . . what the hell is this?
Departing
from a work dinner tonight, I climbed into a cab only to discover the
strangest piece of, I guess, equipment. <pix link> I have no idea
what it is.
8.10.01
. . . i am sore and have bruises
Learned
somethin' new: one downside of male aggression is the general soreness
and large, ugly bruises that follows the next day.
8.9.01
. . . barfight
I feel
like such a man. After spending the last thirty-odd years avoiding any
sort of physical confrontation and scratching my head in dismay over
male aggression, I found myself in the middle of a barfight last night.
The scene in five acts (elapsed time, maybe seven minutes):
Act
I: Enjoying evening at local pub with Dia and friends. Elaine
attempts to keep a mutual, casual, terribly drunk acquaintance from
driving home. Acquaintance, having a very bad day but nonetheless
being an asshole, reacts theateningly.
Act II: Complete stranger lunges across three bar stools to
attack acquaintance, animal-like aggression spilling from his every
pore. Mark grabs acquaintance wrestles him to the floor, uging him
not to make a bad day worse. Appears the melee is over.
Act III: Acquaintance verbally taunts stanger. Stranger throws
punch which dislodges Mark's glasses (deftly caught in mid-air by
stunned bartender). Mark now wrestles stranger to floor with help
of young pizza maker. Appears the melee is over.
Act IV: Glasses retreived, Mark sips water while police quiz
acquaintance outside establishment. Nasty, angry woman (stranger's
girlfriend, it is later revealed), pushes Mark and attempts to start
new fight. Mark demures.
Act V: Acquaintance is hauled to jail. Stranger is let free.
Mark walks quickly to car to avoid any legal entanglements ("I
can't attend this morning's meeting--I'm in jail--can you please give
me the conference call number."). Dia is nonplussed.
7.29.01
. . . the rules
I've
been keeping this log since the beginning of the year. As the year has
gone on I've often pondered what the 'rules' were. I mean, I know I
set the rules, but it did occur to me I've never really articulated
them fully (here or in my head). So here goes:
- Sometimes
times the date of entry corresponds to when I wrote and posted the
entry, but not always.
- Sometimes
I will write something on the fly--in email or on my Visor--but don't
get around to posting it for a while.
- Sometimes
I will write something over a period of time and then post it when
I think it reflects what I intend to say.
- Sometimes
I will write whatever flies off my head and post it immediately, commemorating
the firing of some combination of neurons.
- Sometimes
I will write something with the express hope of having friends or
others read it.
- Somethimes
I will write something and hope nobody reads it, but I still feel
a need to submit the comment to the record.
- Everything
I write is true.
7.27.01
. . . the day after
Twenty
hours after people were escorted into rooms filled with HR staff, guards,
tissue boxes and 'separation packets,' those of us who received the
email saying "If you've received this you have not been laid off' gathered
to hear from our CEO, Rob, what had just happened.
The interim hours had been spent triangulating. Cell phones ran out
of battery power as people called each other, reporting what they knew
or had heard. Who was laid off, who wasn't laid off, and so on. It was
a weird exercise to be sure. I was impressed that there was very little
rumor mongering and people carefully chose the words despite the fact
that everyone, even those of us who'd figured this would happen (most
everybody, I'd guess) were shellshocked.
The
consensus is that the company did what it had to do, and it did it right--no
mass meetings to tell people they were laid of (everyone had a one-on-one
with their manager), generous severance (6-15 week) was required by
law, lots of 'transition services' (three months access to a business
center & career assistance) and health insurance paid through October.
Most folks seemed suprisingly focused, though understandably shaky.
7.26.01
. . . layoffs
It's
been weird all week. On Monday the word spread that we'd been featured
on fuckedcompany.com in a "report" claiming RealNetworks was
about to layoff 150 people.
As is often the case on the Internet, you just can't believe what you
read--we only laid
off 140. (Had I been laid off I suppose I would have written "they
laid off 140"). But "layoff"
does not really capture the surgical nature of the proceedings.
A
weird buzz apparently had been flowing through the building most of
the morning, though I was heads down with two colleagues (one of whom
still is a colleague), staring at Excel spreadsheets and PowerPoint
slides. The first sign that something was different should have been
the fact that the network began rejecting file attachments, but I didn't
notice this.
Grabbing a sandwich to eat at my desk from the cafeteria, I noticed
several people I'd never seen before, some who could have been club
bouncers, each with a walkie talkies. It was about 1:50pm. With sandwich
and salad in tow I returned to my office only to realize that I'd forgotten
to get a fork. I was apparently a bit scattered. On my way to the fork
dispenser I noticed that the corridor to the CEO's office was in the
process of being obstructed by screens which made it impossible to see
into the corner of the building in which ultimate power resides. And
there was a guard, armed I believe.
A bit unnerved, I
sauntered down the hall to retrieve a soda and again run into people
with walkie talkies, this time escorting a graven face employee into
a conference room that, I see through the window, holds boxes with manila
packets, four people from HR, and a box of tissues.
I nervously kibbitzed with a colleague, tossing out my untouched lunch.
I went to my office just as an email arrived from the CEO which said
in essence: "If you've received this, you haven't been laid off,
please watch the attached video and leave the building immediately."
I rushed to my colleague's office:
"Let's
watch the video in your office"
"Video?"
"In the email!"
"I didn't get an email! Fuck!"
"Of course you got the email--the network must be slow."
"Oh shit."
"There is NO WAY they'd lay you off. Uh, let's watch the video
in my office"
<We went to my office, watched part of the video, but then the
network went down.>
"I got the email!!"
"I'm so happy to hear that . . ."
We gathered
our stuff, collected others who's received the email, and swiftly went
downstairs--the only place to go as the building interior was tightly
cordoned off. So incredibly odd and unnerving to live through the process
of being sifted into human "keep" and "reject" piles.
The final bit of drama occured in the line to exit the building. Logan's
Run-like, we each scanned our cardkey. A green light meant you were
still employed and were allowed to leave through the good door. Elapsed
time: 15 minutes.
About
500 not laid off Real employees hit the streets of Belltown shortly
after 2pm, looking for a
place to drink.
7.16.01
. . . breath deep
Sometimes
when I leave work I'm overwhelmed with the briny smell of the Sound
that's carried on a gentle breeze. Today was one of those days.
7.7.01
. . .just married
Brian
and Natalie got married. They tied the knot, pledged enternal love,
entered into a state-sanctioned contract, barefoot, and had their family
in tears on the shore of Lake Michigan.
I love
weddings. I just think the whole concept of calling all your friends
and family into the same place at the same time to recognize the loving
commitment of two people and then following it up with a big intergenerational
party is a wonderful idea. In the past year or so I've been the fortunate
guest at:
- Two
gorgeously traditional church weddings followed by formal sitdown
dinner at country clubs
- A funky
hybrid non-demoninational Christian and traditional Indonesian ceremony
complete with bride and groom throwing sacks of rice at one another
to ensure that each was not marrying a ghost
- An
adventurously remote wedding at a winery on an island, ceremony next
to the vegetable garden
- A deeply
spiritual buddhist wedding on shores of Alaska with fish jumping in
the background and the best salmon in the world (caught by a friend)
grilled while guests drank beer and dogs played
But watching
my brother get married was something else. Just the families, married
on a rock on the lakefront outside their apartment, the ceremony performed
by their friend David, newly annointed minister in the Universal Life
Church. Flies were biting my legs, but it was still perfect.
I've been
in love with Brian since he was born, though I think I forgot that part
for too many years once I hit Junior High. Before that happened I would
roll him down our backyard slope in a barrel as part of carefully choregraphed
"astronaut training," and he was a willing test pilot of the
zip line that I strung across a deep ditch. We ended up in the emergency
room after that one.
He married
Natalie, whom he's known since they were teenagers. They went for years
without being in contact with each other. Now they're married. I love
how things work out.
7.5.01 . . . basking
Dia
and I flew to Chicago a couple days ahead of Brian and Natalie's wedding.
One of the side benefits of my work travel are all those various points
and miles that you accrue from hotels and airlines just for the privilege
of being away from home, eating meals irregularly, sleeping in strange
beds, and being jetlagged. Putting them to work, I upgraded us to first
class, bartered for a plush hotel room and generally worked to ensure
48 hours of econo rock star living. I love eating a meal on an airplane
off of china. I love hotels. I love room service. I love hotel bars.
And so does Dia.
We
left the room only briefly to meet up with friends of Dia from Chicago--Simon,
Bernstein, and their friend Maria--and had an excellent time. Watched
O
Brother Where Art Thou (brilliant) cozied up under the comforter,
and delighted in a shower that didn't require a stoop to accomodate
a sloping roof.
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