From The Desk Of E Ellery Nygma

I started a new work assignment today. Pardon me if I'm light on some details, or even on most of them, but I think it's safer to borrow a cue from Jack Webb, and change the names to protect the innocent. (Or something along those lines.)

I had this feeling that this first day was going to be one of those where it was "hurry up and wait" all day long. And it was, to a point. The first hour or so was spent waiting while Ms. Frankie, the representative from the Agency, checked everyone in and sorted out who was going where.

After that, though, there wasn"t much waiting for the rest of the day. In my section, it was heavy lifting and moving things -- a LOT of heavy lifting, and a LOT of moving things. For my section, it was all preparatory work -- getting things ready for when the real work starts in a few days. Not too much fun at the moment, but it is going to get easier.

One of the perks of this assignment is that the client is providing lunch for everyone. Let's just say that it's easier for them to provide lunch than it would be to let everyone scatter to the winds in search of sustenance. And the food is pretty good, too.

At the end of lunch, when everyone was in the process of going back to work, I came upon "Mindy," who I think is one of the people overseeing the entire project talking to "Gigi," one of the people in charge of my section. Mindy wanted to know if Gigi had seen one of the other temps (let's call him "Binky") assigned to the section.

Long story short; no, she had not.

This is where it starts to get interesting. It seems as though Binky has pulled a Houdini, not once, but twice. He first disappeared soon after work began. Gigi had thought at first that he was one of several temps who had been pulled to work in another section. BZZT! Sorry, wrong answer, but thank you for playing.

Binky was spotted in the cafeteria at lunch, but afterward, he pulled another disappearance. Want to guess who was getting just a little irritated by this? Actually, it was probably everyone who was hearing this little exchange, which included four or five of the temps. We had been working pretty hard all morning, and I don't think any of us was particularly happy by what Binky was trying to pull.

I know Ms. Frankie well enough that I can state with some certainty that she is even less amused by this little turn of events. (And by now, I feel confident that she knows about it.) On more than one occasion, I have heard her stress the importance of showing up and doing the job, or letting someone know if something happens.

I'm not much of a gambler, but I think it is a safe bet that the Agency will not be paying Binky for his non-work. I think it is also a safe bet to say that the Agency will not be availing itself of his services in the future.

You screwed up, Binky. You screwed up big time.


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It happens that I am visiting one of Louisville's malls earlier today. And as I am walking past one store, I notice that it is conspicuously decorated with signs announcing that the store is closing.

Now, this is no great unusual event. If you are the type of guy or doll who enjoys frequenting shopping malls, I am certain that you are seeing stores opening and closing all the time.

What I am finding unusual, though, is one little thing that I am seeing as I stroll past the store. Among all the signs announcing the store's imminent closing, the fact that everything in the store is on sale, and the bargains that customers will be finding, there is one sign at the front of the store that catches my peepers more than anything else.

There are two words on this sign, in very large letters indeed:

NOW HIRING

To use a line I am hearing quite often in instances like this, what is wrong with this picture?

This sign is contradicting everything every other sign hanging on this store's walls. If the store is indeed closing (which I can only assume that they are), why would they be wanting or even needing to hire someone? And why would any guy or doll want to apply for this job, knowing that it will not be long before they finds themselves having to start the whole process all over again?


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Smoking. I am more than certain that if you are looking carefully, you will be seeing any number of cutesy posters that either are telling you not to light up, or are trying to get you to stop smoking. Personally, I am finding the vast majority of these posters on the annoying, because they are trying too hard to be cute in getting across their message.

There are always exceptions, of course. I am remembering seeing one such poster at work a few months which manages to be amusing yet not annoying. This particular poster features Fabio, that model over whom all the dolls are swooning when they are seeing his likeness on the cover of a romance novel. (I personally am not understanding why they would be swooning over him, but then again, I am not a doll.) Besides featuring Fabio's mug, this poster is also featuring the statement, "Lips are meant for Kissing . . . Not for Smoking" in what I once hear someone say are large friendly letters. (Well, large for the poster, anyway.)

In much smaller (but no less friendly) letters is what they claim to be a quote from Fabio. Personally, I am thinking that it is really the effort of some scribbler working for the American Cancer Society, and whatever other group of non-puffers might also be behind the poster. I am even willing to lay down a sawbuck on the matter, but that is a matter for another time:

"When I first look at a woman, I look into her eyes, unless she has a cigarette between her lips. Smoking hides her qualities of tenderness, passion, and loveliness. If you smoke, call the American Cancer Society. They'll help you to quit, and bring out that inner beauty."

Now, I am not remembering whether this happens during before work starts one day, or during a break, but I point out the poster to some of my co-workers, and I mention that if you read it enough times, you are almost hearing Fabio's voice actually saying the quote. I am then attempting to do what I think might be a passable impression of Fabio. Although as I am looking back on this, it seems that my impression is falling somewhere between Fabio and Arnold Schwarzenegger. It is passable enough, though, that my co-workers find it at least amusing, and they are chuckling over the poster.


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My assignment at the department store has ended. That doesn't bother me; it had lasted twice as long as I was originally told it would, and it was all right while it lasted. What bothers me is how I learned it had ended.

I went to work as I had for the past few weeks. I walked into the receiving area, and as I said hello to the supervisor, she asked me, "What are you doing here? Your assignment has been cancelled."

I replied, "This was the first I heard about it." The agency had neglected to do something minor, like, for instance, calling me or leaving me a message that the assignment was over. According to the supervisor, I wasn't the only one. One of the temps on dayshift had come in that morning only to be told that the assignment had ended.

Out of curiosity, I asked the supervisor why the assignment ended so abruptly. I knew I was hired to help with the influx of spring merchandise, so I assumed that we had taken care of it to the point that the regular staff could deal with the rest. The supervisor had much more mundane explanation -- the store had budgeted just so much for temps, and that had run out.

I told the supervisor that it had been a pleasure working for her, and shook her hand. From the way she responded, she seemed to have been pleased with my work.

I walked out of the store just as Ossie and Blackbird were walking in. I told them, "Don't bother going in; the assignment's over." I gave the a quick rundown of what had just happened, and the three of us walked out. As I suspected, they hadn't been told, either. We talked for a few minutes, then it was Vaya Con Dios as we went our several ways.

I think that line from the movie Cool Hand Luke says it best: "What we have here is a failure to communicate."


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I checked my answering machine when I got home last night. I finally got the message that I had been waiting to hear for more than a few weeks. It was from Mr. Wiggles's manager, and he was wanting to schedule an interview for the position Mr. Wiggles told me about several weeks ago.

This morning, I called the manager. The first time, I was sent to his voicemail. I left the standard message -- Hi, I'm Ellery Nygma, I'm returning your call, and so forth. About an hour later, just as I was about to go out, I decided to try again. This time, I got the manager. We talked for a minute or so, and scheduled the interview.

Said interview is tomorrow morning, 10.00 AM.

I think I have said this once or twice before, but keep your fingers crossed.


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As I mentioned, at my current assignment, I have very little in the way of supervision. For the most part, this isn't a problem. Once we get our instructions for what needs to be done that day, we get on with the job.

Of course, there is always going to be someone who is going to take advantage of a situation like this. On this assignment, it's "Houdini." When he's around, he will do the work. There is just one little problem -- he has a tendency to disappear when you least expect it, and he disappears for up to 20 minutes at a stretch.

I don't remember who first gave Houdini that nickname, but since it fit so well, it stuck. And I'm not the only one who finds his disappearing act annoying. All of the other temps feel the same way, starting from mildly irritating, and going up the scale from there.

It's really very simple. The rest of us feel that Houdini isn't pulling his share of the load. We're also hoping that someone in charge is keeping a closer eye on us than he (or any of us, for that matter) realize.

I summed it up for the rest of us one day during one of Houdini's vanishing acts. "To borrow phrases from both the late Allen Funt and Donald Trump, Don't be surprised if somehow, somewhere, some day when you least expect it, someone walks up to you and says . . . YOU'RE FIRED."


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On occasion, I have heard something that could be considered a Bad Idea being compared to giving a box of hand grenades to a chimpanzee. I received a firsthand experience of why this comparison is so apt last night at work.

For the most part, I and the other temps working with me receive minimal supervision. There is someone there when we arrive to tell us what we need to do that day, but once she leaves, we don't have anyone hovering over us.

Yesterday, however, one of the managers told us how to use the store's intercom to call someone should the need arise. (He also mentioned the person we were supposed to page, should the need arise.)

After he left, Stoney started talking about a previous job. The manager had given similar instructions on how to use that facility's intercom. The job ended with an entire shift being laid off, and on his last day, right before he left for the last time, Stoney went on the intercom to recite a little poetry he had composed:

"I'm a stoner with a boner, and I want to get fucked,
I'm a stoner with a boner, so please bend over."

Look, I said it was poetry. I didn't say it was GOOD poetry.

Stoney managed to make it to his car, and drove away before the manager could take umbrage at his impromptu poetry reading. If I'm remembering the story correctly, Stoney waved to the manager as he was driving away. As he put it, he wasn't coming back, so what did he care?

All the time Stoney was telling us his story, I got the impression that he would love to give a repeat performance. So far, though, he has restrained himself.

Now I can see why the chimpanzee and hand grenades analogy is such an apt one.


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I suppose the best way to describe my sense of humor is that Charles Addams has been a pretty strong influence. I find things funny that others . . . don't. I learned that at work last night.

At the moment, I'm working a temp assignment at a department store. I'm helping handle the arrival of the new spring merchandise.

I'm working with four other guys. It started with one of those conversations that goes from topic to topic, and you're never quite certain how you arrived at any particular topic. Somewhere along the line, the subject turned to Anna Nicole Smith. Never one to let a perfect opening pass by, I asked, "What would Anna Nicole be doing if she were alive right now?"

One of the other guys, whom I shall call Stoney, said, "Drinking and doing drugs?"

"No, she would be pounding on the lid of the coffin and screaming, 'Get me out of here!'"

Stoney was half laughing, but he was also shaking his head and saying, "That's just not right." He went on to say that it would be all right to make all sorts of Britney Spears jokes, but cheap shots at Anna Nicole just wasn't right.

I decided to pick up on the opening he gave me, and continued with, "Speaking of Britney, I've heard that she's getting a commercial endorsement."

"Oh?" At that point, I think he was almost afraid to give even that short of a response.

"Yeah, Victoria's Secret. It should improve her image." In response to the quizzical look I received, I said, "Look at it this way -- at least we'll know that she's wearing underwear."

"I thought you were going to say that she would be doing Rogaine commercials."

I thought about it for a moment, then said, "I hadn't thought of that one. It's a cinch she won't be doing any shampoo commercials for quite a while."


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I'll start with a quote from The Beatles this time, because it seems appropriate. "I get by with a little help from my friends." Last night seems to be a perfect illustration.

It was late last night, and I remembered that I hadn't checked my answering machine since I got home. When I did, the last message turned out to be from Mr. Wiggles, a former coworker. This was something of a surprise, since I had lost touch with Mr. Wiggles since I was downsized from the place where we worked.

As I listened to the message, I was especially pleased to hear from him. I had heard that he had also left our former employer not long after I did. He was calling from wrok, and told me that a couple of positions had opened up there, and he wanted to know if I was interested.

Was I interested? Does Horatio Caine have red hair? Does Abby Sciuto have a spiderweb tattoo on her neck?

I wrote down the number, and immediately called. Mr. Wiggles works second shift, and I was hoping that I would catch him while he was still there. No luck. According to the person who answered, he had just left for the day (or night).

I'm not certain when he does come in, so I will have to wait until this evening to call again. It would be nice if I could get the job. My skills at that job are a little rusty, but I don't think it would take too long to blow off the rust. It would be great to work with Mr. Wiggles again, plus there were a number of others from our former employer working there. It would be nice to see some of them again, too.

Keep your fingers crossed.


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Scroll down for a minute, and take a quick look at the last entry. As I mentioned in that entry, last week, I took a bunch of pre-interview tests for a position, and as I also mentioned, I made it through the tests. Today was the second step -- the actual interview.

How well did it go? I'm not certain.

I won't bore you with the logistical matters, but I arrived for the interview almost an hour before the scheduled time. The choice was either an hour early, or about 15 to 20 minutes late. I figured getting there was the better choice. And I was in something of a semi-somnolent state when the person who would be interviewing me came down to get me.

The interviewer first gave me a brief tour of the facility (showing me among other things the cafeteria), and took me on a brief walk through the work area. He then found a vacant cubicle to conduct the interview.

As I said, I'm not certain how well the interview went. Most of that stems from the format of the interview. Most of the questions started, "Tell me about a time when . . . " These fall into the same category as the personality assessment I took last week. I get the impression that they want to hear a response that falls into their own narrow range of what a response should be.

It wouldn't be so bad if the interviewer took my response, and then used it as a springboard for follow-up questions. But he was following a script the entire time, never once deviating from it.

I've had questions like these before. There are a few that I have heard enough that I have my own stock responses to them. But I really suspect that the interviewer walked away from that interview probably knowing as little about me as he did when he walked up to me in the lobby. And if I'm right, what was the point of holding the interview in the first place?

I have had good job interviews in the past. While the interviewer may have had a checklist of certain things that he (or she) needed to ask, none of them had an inflexible script to which they rigidly followed. If I said something that they felt required a follow-up question, they asked it. And none of them left me with the disquieting sense of vague dissatisfaction after it was over.

If they're going to make a job offer, they will do so within a week. I suppose that will be the real test of how well I did on this interview.


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Today, I started the process that I hope will lead me to a new job. No, not an interview -- I haven't made it to that level just yet. Today, it was testing.

Sorry, you don't get to know where I was applying. To paraphrase a line from the late Jack Webb, the names have been eliminated to protect the innocent.

In any case, I arrived bright and early at the location. Make that dark and early; I arrived somewhere around 07:45, and sunrise was still in the process of taking place. Just beginning, as I recall. I signed in at the front security desk, found a seat in the lobby, and waited for another 45 minutes or so (the testing session began at 08:30).

This wasn't the first time I had tested at this place. I had gone through the testing at least one time before (maybe twice), and about a week later, I received an oh-so-polite piece of boilerplate which essentially said, "Sorry, you didn't make it this time. Please feel free to try again."

At 08:30, a lady from the HR department came to the lobby and collected the two dozen or so of us who would be testing today, and led us to the testing room. The first item on the agenda was the showing of two videos giving a brief outline of the jobs for which we would be testing.

I had seen these videos when I previously tested. They did not improve with a subsequent viewing. Even the HR lady called them "cheesy." (She was being far too complimentary.) Somewhere, I think I heard someone making a reference to Mystery Science Theatre 3000, and I realized that these videos would have made wonderful material for skewering on that program.

Once the videos were over, we started filling out the applications. Now, I have filled out numerous job applications over the years, just as I am sure many of you have. Trust me, I know how to fill out an application. Still, the HR lady thought it necessary to tell us how to complete said application.

I completed the application without any difficulty, thank you very much. I then turned it in to the HR lady, along with a copy of my resume.

Once everyone had completed their applications, we had a quick break, then the testing part of the testing began. They gave us several standardized tests -- math, reasoning, and a couple of similar tests. None of them took very long.

The last test was a personality assessment. I really think this was what disqualified me on my previous attempts. The people administering the tests always tell you to not think too much about the answers, to go with your first instinct. Let me tell you that this is NOT how you should approach this type of test.

I have taken this type of test while applying for other jobs. One time, I was told that my score on the personality assessment had just missed the score the employer required, and that I needed to take it again. The second time, I decided that instead of giving my first instinct, I would give it just enough thought, and give the answer that THEY wanted to hear.

I decided that was what I needed to do here. I'm more than confident in my ability on standardized tests, and I'm more than certain that I have done well on these tests every time I've taken them. I really think what kept me from going to the next step previously was the personality assessment.

Unlike the other tests, the personality assessment wasn't timed. I took the time to read each question carefully, and I did my best to figure out what response they wanted. I suppose that might be a somewhat cynical approach to take, but then again, I'm a fairly cynical person. If a company is going to be using a test like this to determine who they want to interview for job openings, it's probably in my best interest (and the best interest of anyone applying for a job there) to subvert that part of the process as much as possible.

When I tested here previously, once I turned in the last test, I was free to go. This time, they asked everyone to stick around. It would only take 15 minutes or so to get the results of everyone's tests, and they wanted to let everyone know right away if they were going on to the next step. (Probably also wanted to save money on mailing out the letters.) It wasn't a particularly pleasant 15 minutes; none of the people sitting around me wanted to talk. I think it's fair to say that everyone was just a little on edge.

Finally, the testers came back, and began calling everyone's name in alphabetical order. When my name was called, I was handed a letter. It had another piece of paper stapled to it, covering the body of the letter. I went out in hall, flipped over the covering sheet, and looked at the letter. It was mainly oh-so-polite corporate boilerplate. The one thing that drew my attention was the single word in boldface in the middle of the letter:

Qualified

Once all the letters were handed out, those of us who had qualified were led back in the room, and they started calling names again. This time, it was to set up dates for interviews. My interview is next Wednesday. wish me luck.


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There are a couple of reasons behind this entry. The primary reason is that I asked a question of the inimitable Debra, aka barmaidblog. I asked her if any customer had ever ordered a Spayed Gerbil. She replied, "Er, no. Dare I ask?" I'm posting the explanation here, rather than having it lost in the various comments that she receives on her LiveJournal.

Now, the reason I asked her that question. I was recently at a friend's house, and while browsing his bookshelves, I started reading a restaurant guide for ConJose, the 2002 World Science Fiction Convention. I found it a fascinating, if occasionally puzzling, tome. I'm still pondering why a restaurant guide for a convention that was held in San Jose, California would have reviews for restaurants in Beverly Hills, Las Vegas, New York City, and London. (My theory is that some of these science fiction fans have built a working transporter like the one on STAR TREK, and they aren't telling the rest of us.) But then again, I also noticed that the guide was written by two people who live in Minneapolis.

Interspersed between the reviews of various restaurants in the San Jose area (of varying distances from the convention venue) were a number of anecdotes from different science fiction authors, all on the subjects of food, dining out, and cooking. The one that really caught my eye was from Joe Haldeman, talking about an incident that happened at Chambanacon in the mid-1970s. (My friend informs me that Chambanacon is a convention that is held in Illinois -- Champaign-Urbana, to be precise.)

As Mr. Haldeman said in his story, during the toastmaster's speech, that year's toastmaster, Andrew J. Offutt, said that the way to discover whether or not a bartender was honest was to ask him (or her) for a fictional drink -- like a Spayed Gerbil. A good bartender will admit that he (or she) has never heard of the drink. A bad bartender will just throw something -- anything -- together, and if you complain, will say, "Well, that's the way we make them here."

Some time later, a number of the convention attendees were in the hotel's bar, and one of them decided to test the theory that Mr. Offutt had offered in his speech. He asked the waitress for a Spayed Gerbil, and a minute or two later she returned saying that the bartender had never heard of this drink -- how was it made? The person who had placed the order pointed to Mr. Haldeman and said, "He knows."

Up to now, I have been paraphrasing Mr. Haldeman's anecdote. For the last paragraph, though, I think I will quote Mr. Haldeman verbatim, because quite frankly, he told the story much better than I ever could:

"I made up a drink on the spot, of course, based on a Negroni. Two shots of Beefeater gin, a shot of Campari, a squirt of bitters, and the juice of half a lime, if I remember correctly. Shaken and served in a tall glass on the rocks. All 15 people ordered one, and must have liked it, because it became the official drink of the convention. We drank them out of Campari; the bartender had to go to the liquor store across the street and buy a couple of bottles retail."

To answer your question, Debra, THAT is what a Spayed Gerbil is. I thought this would be a story that you would appreciate. I'm a little curious, which is why I originally asked you if you had ever heard of a Spayed Gerbil. Does this sound like a drink that any of your customers would find appealing?


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Some people can tell you where they were and what they were doing when they heard that Pearl Harbor had been attacked. Others remember the day that President Kennedy was shot, Apollo 11 landing on the moon, or the day of the Challenger disaster.

Do you remember what you were doing five years ago today?

I was at work. During the mid-morning break, we went into the break room, and the TV showed the smoke pouring from the first tower of the World Trade Center to be hit. As we were watching, we saw the plane hit the second tower. I don't remember if the towers had collapsed by lunch time, but they had definitely fallen by the mid-afternoon break.

After the morning break, and especially after seeing the second plane hit, I think the collective feeling of everyone was that we had taken a blow from a 2x4 to the gut. I think most of us were in something of a daze. I do remember the supervisor telling us that regardless of what was happening, we still had to get the work done.

During lunch, I tried to call my then-girlfriend, but she was in class. I tried again during the afternoon break. She answered, and the first thing I said was, "I love you." I don't even remember what the rest of that short conversation; I just remember that first thing I said, and the feeling that I had to tell her as soon as possible.

So, what were you doing five years ago today?

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From what I can tell, this is one of those lists that gets passed around. You might have seen it in an email, a newsletter, a Usenet posting, or something similar. I have no idea to whom the credit (or blame) for this belongs, but I thought it was worth passing along at least one more time.

MY FAVORITE THINGS TO SAY AT WORK:

1. I can see your point, but you’re still full of crap.

2. I don’t know what your problem is, but I’ll bet it’s hard to pronounce.

3. I see you’ve set aside this special time to humiliate yourself in public.

4. I’ll try being nicer if you’ll try being smarter.

5. Ahh . . . I see the screw-up fairly has visited us again.
[NOTE: I have a button that says this, but it uses a word that’s a lot stronger than “screw-up.”]

6. I like you. You remind me of when I was young and stupid.

7. I’m already visualizing the duct tape over your mouth.

8. The fact that no one understands you doesn’t mean you’re an artist.

9. What am I? Flypaper for freaks?

10. And your crybaby, whiny-assed opinion would be . . . ?

11. This isn’t an office. It’s Hell with fluorescent lighting.

12. Whatever kind of look you were going for, you missed.

13. Can I trade this job for what’s behind Door Number 1?

That’s the list as I found it. It appeared on some free newsletter that they give away at restaurants. As I looked over it, I started thinking of a few others to add to the list:

A. That’s not a hairdo, that’s a hair-don’t.

B. I would like to see things from your point of view, but I can’t get my head that far up my ass.

C. Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like it when I’m angry.

D. Would you like some cheese with that whine?

I'm sure that there are more that I could add to this list, but nothing else is coming to mind at the moment. Repeat -- AT THE MOMENT. Give me 24 to 48 hours, and I am certain that a few more will start trickling through my subconscious.

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It is a long time since I first sit in front of a keyboard, and place the fingers of my right hand on JKL; and those of my left hand on ASDF. It is so long ago, in fact, that the keyboard on which I first begin to master my skills is a Royal manual typewriter. I do not recall what model it is, but I remember that it is quite a hefty piece of equipment.

Eventually, I get a typewriter of my own. It is a Smith-Corona Coronamatic; an electric typewriter that is somewhat more portable. Even so, it stays on my desk for many years, and when I recently consider the possibility that they may no longer be making ribbons for it, I think a small piece of my soul may be dying. Of course, now when I say I am pounding away at the keyboard, it is a computer keyboard on which I do my pounding.

Now, some of you may be wondering why I am waxing nostalgic for keyboards of days gone by. Well, I am doing this mainly to give you a little bit of background so that the rest of this entry will make a little more sense.

I am certain that all of you are familiar with a computer's keyboard, and that it takes but the merest twitch of your fingers to put the words on the screen. If you use an electric typewriter, it takes a little more effort to put the words on the paper, but it still takes only a minuscule effort to make the keys start clacking.

But a manual typewriter is quite a different animal. If you never use a manual, you do not know that it takes some physical effort to makes those words appear. If I am using a manual typewriter, and I say that I am pounding away on the keyboard, I am quite literally pounding away on the keyboard.

As I say, I first learn to type on a manual typewriter, which requires some exertion to get the typebars moving. I quickly learn that I have to punch the keys somewhat forcefully to get my words to appear on the paper. And though I may graduate to a keyboard that requires much less force, old habits die hard, and I still pound away as though I am still sitting in front of that old Royal. It is also something that is automatic after all these years, so while I may be banging away, it is likely that I am not even aware of how much I may be banging away.

All of this seems to be a topic for conversation among my coworkers, and perhaps a cause for amusement and/or consternation. One day, I remember hearing Ginny In A Bottle wondering out loud just how long it will be before I need a new keyboard. Ginny In A Bottle also tells me that if the keyboard could talk, it would be screaming in pain. I think this is her way of trying to be funny, but if it is, she is not doing a very good job of it. I try to explain things to her, and I think I make her understand.

On the other hand, there is another doll who is more than a little rude with her comments. She is one of those dolls who likes to put a rather snippy tone in her voice, and her comments are usually along the lines of, "Why do you have to be banging on the keyboard like that?"

The first time she asks this, I am not even aware that doing anything out of the ordinary, but it seems that I am hitting the keys much too loudly for her tender sensibilities. I try to politely explain why I might be pounding the keys a little harder than she likes, but she is not understanding. In point of fact, she does not want to be understanding, and affects an even ruder and more haughtier tone with me. At this point, I realize that it is useless to even try to discuss the matter with her, so I ignore her and get back to the job at hand.

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Like many of you, I have an ID badge for work. It serves two very important purposes. First, it lets the rent-a-cops know that you actually belong there, and that you are not part of the great unwashed riff-raff that they are underpaid to keep out. Second, it allows me access to the rest of the building once get past the rent-a-cop's checkpoint.

All in all, this little card is an amazing little thing, but there is always one little problem. What about your first day on the job, when you have not yet been given this wonderous little card?

At the current job, my first day was probably not too unusual. I arrived at the security checkpoint at the entrance, and told the rent-a-cop both who I was and to whom I was supposed to report. He made a couple of calls, and a few minutes later, the team leader -- the person who would actually be supervising me -- arrived to welcome me, give a quick tour of the lower floors, etc.

There was one other new person starting that day, and just before work actually started, the team leader took us by the security office. The idea was to get our badges first, and not have to worry about them for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, the security office had a different idea of when work started, because no one was there. So that plan was scrapped, and instead, we went to our work area, and the team leader started training us on what we would be doing.

We tried getting our badges at the 10:00 AM break, and made a half-hearted attempt during lunch. As you may have already guessed, neither was successful. We finally got our badges during the 2:00 PM break. I think what was most irritating was the fact that it was all so anticlimactic. After numerous attempts to learn if the right person(s) were there in the security office, when we finally received our badges, it was simply walk into the office, get our photos taken, and less than five minutes later, we had the badges.

I suppose the worst part of the day was lunch. I had to ask a couple of the people who had already been there (but only for a few days) if I could tag along with them, just so I would be able to get back in the work area after lunch. Fortunately, they were more amused by the whole matter than anything else. I tried not to intrude more than necessary. I sat at another table, just close enough so that I knew when they were ready to go.

The best part? The badges were active as soon as we got them. We tested them on the way back from the security office. Which meant that the second day on the job, I flashed my badge at the scanner, and I went through without any of the problems I had the day before.

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Sorry, no Damon Runyon pastiche this time.

Oh, I will return to the pastiche style on other occasions. As I mentioned in my first entry, Runyon had a certain flair when writing about his guys and dolls of Broadway. And I rather enjoy mimicking his distinct syntax. (I at least hope that I am doing him justice.) But this time, I want to be more straightforward, and mimicking Runyon would only get in the way.

As I mentioned in my initial entry, it seems as though the corporate world doesn’t quite know what to do with this medium. This is just from my own observation and impression, but I get the feeling that the corporate world is more reactive than active. And it seems as though they react only when something happens that makes them look like less than sterling examples of the community, business or otherwise.

Come to think of it, I think I may have heard the most about corporate interest in blogging is when some employee has been fired because he or she has an online journal. They’ve written about their work, and have done so in a way that the employer finds less than flattering. I know that I’ve heard several stories in this vein, but the one that sticks out most in my memory was that of a flight attendant for one of the major airlines (I think it was Delta, but I wasn’t paying particular attention at the time it happened).

Which, after some convoluted meandering, brings me to the point of this particular entry. Suppose that, for whatever reason, you have decided to start an online journal, and you are going to writing about work. Perhaps you have a group of coworkers who have a knack for making every day memorable, and you want to record and share their exploits with the world (or at least the World Wide Web). Perhaps you have reached the conclusion that some members of management make Dilbert’s pointy-haired boss look like a insightful, intelligent individual who actually cares about his subordinates, and you want the rest of the world to commiserate with you. Or perhaps you are looking for a way to maintain your sanity, and LiveJournal, Xanga, and Blogger are all considerably less expensive than psychoanalysis.

There remains that one nagging little question: How do you write about work without attracting the attention, and quite possibly incurring the wrath, of those higher up the corporate food chain?

Let me know if you have an answer to that question. I’m trying to figure that one out myself.

[RIMSHOT]

Seriously, though, I’ve been giving this a lot of thought ever since I began thinking about starting this journal. And while I hardly think this will qualify as The Ten Commandments For Blogging About Work (there may not even be 10 on this list), I would like to think that they do qualify as a few common-sense suggestions for same.

First and foremost, DON’T POST TO YOUR JOURNAL WHILE YOU ARE AT WORK. If you want a fast way for the upper echelons of your company to become aware of you, this would probably qualify as one of the quickest.

For many of you, this probably isn’t a consideration. If you work at anyplace like where I currently work, you have to deal with filtering software. Where I work, access to LiveJournal and Xanga are both blocked. I’m guessing the same holds true for any other site that hosts online journals. (For some strange reason, the Tech page on SciFi.com is also blocked as “Weblog.”

Second, THINK FIRST. If I’m not mistaken, the moral to one of Aesop’s Fables was “Look before you leap.” It’s a good thing to keep in mind.

Do your research before you even create your weblog. The Electronic Frontier Foundation has a whole section on their website about blogging. The article I would most recommend is “How To Blog Safely (About Work Or Anything Else).”

And finally (for the moment, at least), keep in mind something that one of my professors told me many, many years ago. The First Amendment gives you a right to free speech (at least it does here in the US). It doesn’t give you protection from the consequences once you have said something.

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There are times when you wonder whether or not management has its collective act together. And then there are times when you know for certain that they don't.

Today was a perfect example of the latter. I managed to make it to work on time, as did most of the rest of my team. (One guy wasn't there, so I will assume that he called in sick.) The starting time came, we were ready to start -- only there was no work.

Our team leader was in a class today. She told us this last week, and said that there would be someone taking over for her. Well, someone (not the team leader) forgot. We were sitting around for two hours waiting for work to appear. And since no one knew how to get in touch with someone who could bring us work, waiting was our only option.

It was two hours into the day -- and after our first break -- when the team leader's supervisor finally appeared with both work and a stand-in for the team leader. As I said, someone forgot.

It would be nice if someone got their signals straight.

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I am quite certain that if you are a businessman here in Louisville, you will not be conducting much in the way of business for the next few days. Yesterday is the start of Derby Week, and it is a safe bet to say that most people are thinking about anything but business. In fact, a lot of people are getting Derby Fever, which seems to me to be something along the lines of spring fever, but ends on the first Saturday in May.

As lunch is ending yesterday, I hear from several co-workers that a karaoke DJ is set up on the first floor of the building. Presumably, this is someone that the company is hiring for the day, as you will not normally find karaoke DJs plying their trade in the building. I especially hear about this from Johnny The Cow. Now, Johnny The Cow is something of a karaoke canary. He tells me that he enjoys participating in karaoke contests. In fact, a few days earlier, he tells me that he wins a contest the night before, and that his prize is $400, which I think you will agree is not a bad haul.

Well, I hear from my co-workers that the DJ will be set up for the rest of the day, so during the afternoon break, I go to the first floor to take a look for myself. There is only one person waiting to sing, so even though it is a while sing I sing karaoke myself, I decide to give it a try.

I look through one of the binders which lists the songs the DJ has available, and I am a little disappointed that the DJ does not have a couple of my favorites. I know I can do a great job belting out "Earth Angel," or "Hooked On A Feeling," but neither is anyhere to be found.

After much thought, I decide on "Fun, Fun, Fun" by The Beach Boys, and I tell the doll assisting the DJ of my choice. I then start having second thoughts. Part of these second thoughts come from the fact that I am still not completely certain of the first line in the second verse, and I do not want to stumble over it and make a fool of myself. Another part is that as I go over the song in my head, I am remembering a version of the song that is about Buffy The Vampire Slayer. I quickly realize that I do not want to have to face the blank stares that will happen when I sing "And he'll have fun, fun, fun, until the Slayer takes Acathla away."

So I take another quick squint through the book, and I see several Billy Joel songs. At first, I think about "Uptown Girl," but then I remember the part where you sing "Oh . . . " for about 16 beats all over the scale -- twice. I always have a little trouble hitting the notes right on that part, and the last thing I want to do is sing this wonderful song in the key of off in public. I then notice that the DJ also has "Tell Her About It," and my mind is made up. I tell the DJ's doll that I have changed my mind, and show her the new selection.

As I am waiting for the doll in front of me to finish her song, I go over the song in my head. And as I do so, a slight change takes place. Now, I am never a leatherneck, nor a member of any other branch of the military. But while I don't walk around as though I have an iron rod shoved up some place better left unmentioned, I do try to stand up straight, not slouch, and generally keep good posture.

From listening to the song many, many times, I know that a slightly more relaxed posture works with "Tell Her About It." A bouncier posture, one where you let most of your joints ( and the rest of your body) just bounce. The balls of your feet, your ankles, knees, hips, and shoulders -- everything. If you are remembering Ray Bolger's performance as The Scarecrow, you should begin to get an idea of how I am loosening up as I remember the music -- and even more, once it starts playing.

As the first words appear on the screen, and I start singing, I am a little surprised at how good I am sounding. As I have said, it is a while since I try singing karaoke, and this is the first time that I try this particular song. I loosen up a little more, and begin bouncing with the beat.

I know that I have an audience watching me, but since I am busy watching the lyrics on the monitor, I do not have much more than a squint out of the corner of my eye. I do not see people running madly away, so I take that as a good sign.

As the song comes to an end, I am receiving a fair smattering of applause. It is only then that I discover that more than a few of my coworkers are among those listening -- including Ms. K, one of the team leaders. And when break is over, and we return to work, they are saying quite a few nice things about my performance, and I am hoping that I am not blushing as much as I think I may be.

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Riddle Me This: What is something that everyone hears, but you hear it in a way that no one else ever can?

The answer is the sound of your own voice.

All right, that might not make much sense at the moment, but it will. I've been trying to find the right way to start both this entry and this journal. Until now, though, the right style -- the right voice, if you will -- has been a little elusive.

Damon Runyon had a wonderful voice to his writing. If he were writing this, he would have one of his Broadway characters -- Harry The Horse, for instance -- wondering why I am talking about a pair of docks when we are so far from any shipping ports. And to which pair of docks am I referring, anyway? And then he might have Brandy Bottle Bates saying, wait, I am thinking that he is talking about a pair of ducks, and why am I going on and on about a couple of quackers? Finally, you might have someone like The Sky, or perhaps Mrs. Sky (nee Sister Sarah Brown) trying to explain that both of these guys are hearing it wrong, and that I am not talking about either a pair of docks or a pair of ducks, but instead, I am talking about a paradox.

As I am assuming that you probably know what a paradox is, I will not go to Mr. Webster for a definition with which to bore you. Instead, I will attempt to answer the question that I am sure you are asking both yourself and me: What is this paradox of which you speak?

In the past couple of years, the corporate world is becoming both aware and enamored of the medium in which you are reading this post. Online journal, weblog -- whatever you want to call it, the corporate world is suddenly discovering that this is a Really Cool Thing.

I am thinking that they discover this Really Cool Thing at least in part due to Howard Dean's campaign for the White House. Naturally, this is probably not the only thing that brings about this awareness; however, I am willing to bet even money that a major factor is news reports of how Dean's supporters use these blogs to create grass-roots awareness of their candidate. (This is, of course, before Dean proves that his support is not so widespread as everyone would have you think by doing so poorly in the early primaries. It is also before he gives the screeching rant that all but self-destructs his campaign, and would have Damon Runyon himself [were he still alive] bestowing upon Dean a nickname such as "Howling Howard" or "Howie The Howler.")

It really does not matter how the corporations learn of this new Really Cool Thing, though. The important thing is that they are now thinking about how they can use this to their advantage. They are seeing it as yet another tool to let consumers know about the products and services that they provide. And they are especially seeing it as another way to reach that 18-to-35 or 18-to-45 demographic.

But SuperBig Conglomerate does not want just anyone putting out information on a new product on just any old blog out there. They are not wanting John or Jane Doe Consumer telling other John and Jane Doe Consumers how good (or not) SuperBig's wonderful shiny new product is. And they are certainly not wanting some random SuperBig employee to be talking about the shiny new product, especially if they are being less than complimentary about it. What SuperBig Conglomerate wants is for you to get all this information ONLY at the official SuperBig Blog, which of course you can find at the SuperBig website.

Unfortunately for the SuperBig Conglomerates of the world, I don't think that will happen. They are arriving to the blogging phenomenon a little behind everyone else, and those who are here first are not going to go quietly away.

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