You Heartless Bastard.

In January 2007, a division of the agency where I work published a calendar whose cover photo was a (ahem) husky man lying on his stomach, only the pants of his jeans and his boots visible, investigating a hole in the ground. I was trying to describe this calendar to some coworkers of mine today.

"Oh wait," piped up one, who by God would be three-martini break group material if there still were a three-martini break group, "are you talking about 'the butt calendar'?"

I was.

"It totally reminded me of someone I used to work with!" I exclaimed, getting a few funny looks; so I had to go on and tell the story of the man who fell asleep in high-level meetings, as well as on the floor of his cubicle and in communal work spaces; whose snoring echoed throughout the entire section; who once playfully sneaked up on me in the kitchenette but had dozed off by the time I finished washing my dishes and turned around to find him standing eighteen inches behind me; who finally had to bring in a doctor's note, excusing this and other behavior, on the grounds of sleep apnea.

The thing is, when you work among more or less normal people, it's no longer quite nice to talk about people like this one - who was after all fairly typical for the setting. Try telling straights the quasi-comical horror stories you used to hoot over with like-minded inmates on break, and next thing you know they're glazing at you, smiles politely frozen on their faces, heads slightly tilted. And you realize you've become someone who makes fun of the differently-abled. And you feel like an asshole.

Do you wonder why I never blog anymore?

I recommend not lying around with your head stuck down in a hole in the ground. It limits your options like you wouldn't believe. And it's bad karma to make fun of TPPeople.

The Five-Thing Day

Six things, if you count going on break.

A friend of mine posted this video on her Facebook page yesterday:

Its message reminds me of the 1981 film Looker. This classic sci-fi thriller features beautiful models who have their features fine-tuned by a plastic surgeon in order to reach market-researched commercial-appeal perfection, after which the marketing firm digitally scans them, and can then project their 3-D digitized images onto studio sets, performing exactly as programmed, so that the actresses themselves become superfluous and can simply be bumped off. Haven't I always told you marketers were evil?

And way to not think outside the box, people. You have the technology to reproduce a living being in faultless holography, and program the reproduction to behave in any way you like, but the concept of photoshop is totally beyond you?

Engaging in lengthy, profound conversation about this movie with a coworker does not count as one of the five (or six) things I did today.

I did even less yesterday, but at least I provided lunch relief for our visitor center staff. This is a task I find a little intimidating, because while I like people on general principle, people who ask you questions - and expect you to know the answers, yet - those people frighten me.

"What's the coolest thing to do in Austin?" a guy asked me. A plethora of wonderful activities - exploring the Zilker Botanical Gardens and swimming in Barton Springs, two-stepping at the Broken Spoke, shopping for Halloween costumes at Electric Ladyland, cruising through downtown on the Dillo, checking out the view from Mount Bonnell, eating a spinach omelet at Magnolia, having your picture taken with Leslie, going on a coffeehouse crawl, sipping a Bellini on the patio at Romeo's, taking in an indie film at the Alamo, catching a set at Continental Club or Saxon Pub or, I don't know, anywhere in town, including the steps of City Hall on Friday afternoons - completely failed to come into my head. "Um," I said.

"Okay," he said good-naturedly (he seemed to think I was cute), "what's your favorite thing to do?"

I like to go to Robbie's, eat cheese and crackers, watch a couple Tivo'd episodes of "The Office," and drink cheap wine. But I suspected this was not what he had in mind. Besides, Robbie probably wouldn't let me invite him.

I ended up recommending either the Austin Overtures very comprehensive, informative 90-minute tour or the fun Austin Ducks amphibious tour - both of which I've done, and both of which are great - but when my visitor eventually left, I believe he was planning to do a self-guided tour of Memorial Stadium. I hope I'm not held responsible when the travelers I assist get arrested.

Today began auspiciously, because I saw a rainbow on my bike ride in to work. The weather is lovely and cool, after our long and wearying summer. I sent an email with some paperwork formalizing an agreement between a local government and my agency. I returned a phone call about a hotel contract. I sent another email with suggestions on the redesign for our tourism website. I provided a coworker with some GIS data. Four things.

Then I went walking at lunch, and saw someone in serious medical distress of some kind on the hike-and-bike trail just below the Four Seasons. Paramedics were at the scene, loading the victim onto a stretcher, so there was nothing to do but walk by quickly and not stare. But a bicyclist coming the other direction shouted "Good Lord!" as he passed me, so I assume it was pretty bad. I hope everyone was okay.

I got back to work and Robbie called, on his way downtown for a meeting, and actually running early. Could he stop by?

He could! So I brought him up to my office and introduced him to all my work peeps. Then we went on break with the remnants of the people we knew at our old job for about half an hour, in the Three-Martini Break Group spot, and it was wonderful.

Back at work I was actually called upon to do another thing before I could go home for the day, and had to write up and send out a set of guidelines for our upcoming fam tour of the Fort Worth area. Five things! Six, if you count break. Not bad for government work.

Tomorrow I'm doing lunch coverage at the visitor center again. With luck, I'll get a bit better at it, the more practice I get. Otherwise, Robbie better stock up on cheese.

Bloody Weather

Do you know what I miss most about regular, twice-daily meetings of the 3-Martini Break Group? Well, I'm going to tell you.

It was so educational. Billy will agree with me, having only yesterday been exposed to such phrases as "tramp stamp" and "bullseye" for a lady's lower-back tattoo. Me, I just learned what a "shocker" is, yesterday, from Diane. I can't tell you what it is, because my parents are reading; but I was quite shocked (haha!) to discover that Thomas was already familiar with the term. And I thought he was so nice!

It was also from my time in the 3MBG that I learned about crop-dusting, a deplorable practice familiar to many of my friends but never, I hasten to add, known to me in any but the most hypothetical, or at least purely accidental context.

My parents had never heard a more innocent phrase I introduced a couple of years ago, when I mentioned that a clubgoer in a bar my stepsiblings and I visited looked as if she had been "rode hard and put away wet." I didn't get that one from a 3MBG member - why, I've known that phrase for a coon's age - but I was certainly doing my 3MBGly ("threm-BIG-ly") duty in passing the information along to the uninitiated.

Of course, if there's one topic the 3MBG knows more about than practically anyone else in the world, it's the weather, and I'm no exception, especially now I'm in my current job. Any one of us could step up and be a meteorologist. We'd all look quite fetching in front of a greenscreen. I probably need to work on my "push the weather system away" move, but otherwise, I've got it down. So it was with no small degree of authority that I informed Robbie this evening that a weather system, bidding fair to become Tropical Storm Ana, is loafing around near the Yucatan Peninsula - not yet doing anything criminal, just shouting insolent remarks at passing ships, and threatening to spray-paint gang tags on the coast.

"And what hurricane," Robbie asks, "comes after Ana?"

"I don't remember," I said.

We agreed that the next named storm after Ana will probably draw a bead on the Texas coast, moving purposefully towards it, yet never actually make landfall, eventually coldly informing the bewildered coast that it wants no contact of any kind. "Or it will call up at the last moment and say something came up and it can't make it," added Robbie.

"Nonono," I said, "that'd be Hurricane Greg."

Tony gets his own hurricane in - I don't remember which year without looking it up. That'll be a big beefy one. Hurricane Billy would carefully avoid damaging environmentally sensitive areas, ranches and farms, but would completely wipe out every Wal-Mart in the state. "And Hurricane Beth will have two big, beautiful - eyes," says Robbie, who can be pretty smarmy when he wants to be.

I'm glad to have good friends who teach me more than I ever wanted to know. How else would I manage to put up with this miserable weather?

Here Comes Another One

There's a hole in the ozone layer with my name on it.

Actually, I doubt it. For one thing, I'm not sure that the fumes from printer toner destroy the ozone. They probably do cause some nasty disease I'll come down with later in life due to the months I spent, at my previous state job, with the department's printer in the back of my cubicle. To this day I can only hope I got out in time.

I see a few people from the old place at break now and then - Jason is still there, and Ernest of course, and there's a new guy who's actually 3MBG material - if there were still a 3MBG (sighhhhh). There's still fodder for the group, too; I bump into Coworker-You-Idiot occasionally, though I'm afraid I pretend not to see him. It's not often. I'll pop into the Kwik-E-Mart for a Chronicle, and he'll be there buying State Employee Chow of some kind or another. He's still got the zip-off pants and the antenna coming out of his head, thank God! It's reassuring to know that some things have stayed the same.

As for me, aside from being a little lonely at times, I still feel perfectly normal - but then, I would, wouldn't I?

My recent assault on the environment stems from the fact that I'm teaching a class tomorrow and Friday to a group of employees from other divisions who will come in to help us answer our 1-800 line in case of an evacuation. Most of them are returning, having helped out in last year's efforts, but a few, bless them! are new. This will be our last year to receive their assistance, unfortunately. One of the whimsical outcomes of this past legislative session is that the divisions these helpful people belong to are being removed from my agency and will be set up as an agency of their own.

It puts us in a real bind, because those divisions are really the only ones, besides us, who have direct dealings with the public. Even assuming we could cut through enough red tape to be able to request much-needed seasonal assistance from some other division, I'm not sure we'd want it. Picture Coworker-You-Idiot handling emergency phone calls. You know he'd hit on all the female evacuees. If it were me, I'd take my chances with the hurricane.

So I've done lots of research, I've compiled updates to the manual, I've printed up enough copies that I may now personally be responsible for the destruction of more trees than Ike was, I created handouts, and it goes without saying that I put together a kick-ass PowerPoint. This is the fun part of my job - well, this, and most of the other parts, of course.

Oh yeah, and for the other thing, I can't figure out how you're supposed to put your name on a hole, seeing as how a hole is where something to put your name on isn't, capisce? Still, sorry about the ozone layer.

Let's Get this Party Started

What better way could there possibly be to kick off the 40th birthday festivities, than with a 2:45 afternoon break of epic proportions?

I remember Billy perched on the picnic table in our pavilion, talking dreamily to Robbie and me about a forensics class he'd once taken. None of us were in any hurry to leave: no one watching us and nothing to do. I don't know how long we'd been out before Billy remarked languidly, "You know, we've been out here a really long time."

And yet, you know, I don't think it was much over an hour, hour and a half, tops.

Do you remember the walks to Stevie? Sometimes we'd take them after we'd already been sitting outside a good half hour.

Or some days we'd merely stay in the break spot, relaxing in the shade, talking about everything and nothing, laughing, happy, relaxed; as a group, not particularly conscious of the time, although one or two people might get a little anxious and start talking about going in. The rest of us would mock them. Do you remember? Sometimes we'd mock them so harshly that they'd just go inside, and probably feel fairly silly when the rest of us eventually showed back up 45 minutes later.

Conversation could go anywhere, nowhere, everywhere, and everything was funny. Eventually the "second shift" would show up, a group from Traffic Analysis who generally came out around 3:45 or so. We always knew it was time to go in, though they were friendly, and generally invited us to stay. No: this was the changing of the guard; and we acknowledged the second shift break group as the only other rightful inhabitant of that spot. We were on good terms with them, of course! But it was not our fate to sit and break with them. Their arrival meant it was our time to go back to our desks and work the sudoku puzzle or look at the weather forecast until it was time to go home. Such is the natural order of things.

So, as an early birthday present to me today, Ernest rounded up the people who'd be 3MBG members if the 3MBG had not finally and tragically disbanded: himself, of course; and Jennifer B.; and Jason - poor dear Jason, the only one of our old set who hasn't escaped! - and Butch, who is kind of like the 3MBG's kindly, indulgent uncle; and sweet thoughtful Esther; and Carlos, a new guy. And we went on break. And we took that break. We took a good break. I stayed, and laughed, and talked, and listened, and had a wonderful time, and whenever that little nagging voice inside whispered that perhaps I should think about going back in now, I told it to shut the F up, beeyotch!

The second shift never arrived. I'm pretty sure they still break there; perhaps they sensed something rare and magical taking place, and didn't want to ruin it for us. When at last Jennifer and Esther yielded to the urgings of their ticking consciences, leading the rest of the group reluctantly away in their wake, I was satisfied that it was time: the first real break I've taken since starting my "new" job a year ago February. I got back to my desk today to find no notes on my chair, no papers waiting for me, no emails, no phone messages; and I'd been gone for a full, lovely, wonderful hour.

Tomorrow, we do more or less the same thing, only with more people, alcohol, and no time limit. Then this weekend, Robbie and I are off to Corpus - Dumas and Magda, on our own, since unfortunately our older brother Edwin was swallowed by a whale earlier this week. I'll be curious to see how he gets out of that one.

This is going to be the best birthday ever.

These Shoes Were Made for Sulking

We didn't make it to IKEA, but Robbie did not let me down:

It's good to have friends who will dispense sage advice or drive down from Dallas to spend the day with you. Robbie and I visited old haunts - lunch at the Garden District, where they make a mean organic grilled-cheese, cucumber and onion sandwich; girly-girl shopping for shoes followed by manly-man shopping for electronics; a stroll down SoCo, where Robbie inexplicably purchased some pickle-shaped band-aids; and finally two mocha frojoes and a giant piece of chocolate cake from Dominican Joe, taken to go, and affectionately consumed in the old 3MBG spot.

You know what the break spot needed? Bunnies. That's what it was missing. Our center in Amarillo had lots of little brown bunnies, but most have been lost to the depradations of a big snake, I was told today, and of a coyote. Exterminators came and removed the snake. They tried to remove the coyote too, but coyotes are wily. Sadly, an 18-wheeler accidentally accomplished what the exterminator could not, and the bunnies roam unmolested once more.

All two of them. Still, two bunnies, as I pointed out to the Amarillo supervisor, should be quite enough, provided that one is a boy bunny and the other is a girl bunny. Also provided that the boy bunny is into girl bunnies. And provided he's a nice boy bunny, who treats the girl bunny kindly, and doesn't make the poor little thing jump through hoops just to try to make him happy.

It's so hard to hop in four-inch stilettoes.

Martinis Add Up Fast

Okay. Say you drink three martinis at break, and break lasts fifteen minutes and you go twice a day, right? That's six martinis a day. But if you're drinking martinis at break, you can't very well not have them at lunch; and an hour's lunch break, being four times as long as a fifteen-minute break, entails drinking twelve martinis. Say you have another fifteen at dinner - otherwise you'll just run out of steam - and of course, you really should have one or two at breakfast to warm up. So you drink approximately 35 martinis a day, more if you like a nightcap before bed.

What? It's good for you. Puts hair on your chest.

The reason I bring this up (in case you thought it was completely random) is that, riding back from lunch in my boss' car this afternoon, I saw Andrew waiting to cross South Congress. Andrew used to work in my agency, and though he's long since left, the building where he works now is only about a quarter of a mile away. "Oh my gosh!" I shouted, waving frantically out the car window, "it's Andrew! Hey! Andrew!"

He didn't see me, but my boss' curiosity was piqued. "We used to work together," I explained, "but he left quite a while ago. He's one of the members of the three-martini break group."

"Three-martini break group?!" exclaimed my boss, somewhat alarmed, because this isn't in my job description.

"Well, I don't take three-martini breaks now," I added hastily, "being busy and all. And there were about ten of us back in those days, and now there are only two, so between us we really only get in a few sips."

"I see," she said.

Well, of course she really didn't, but I think if I present the statistics above for her consideration, she might give me a raise. I'll obviously need it to be able to pay my gin bill.

Playing Dress-Up

It came to me in a blinding flash today: I know exactly what to be for Halloween! It's cool, it's clever, it's original, it's sexy, it's cheap, it's funny, and aside from possible damage to the floor, it's even practical. I can't wait!

Margie and I parked at my building and walked down Congress to Electric Ladyland today - or is it Lucy in Disguise? I can never remember which. I never enjoy this store as much as I feel like I should, though it's very cool, and their boot selection always leaves me drooling. But it's close and crowded and hectic, and I think professionally-made costumes all look alike. I've always preferred piecing outfits together from what I could find in the back of the closet. Of course, this means I almost always go as a gypsy. But what's wrong with that?

Once, when I was very little and my mom happened to be enrolled in a belly-dancing class, I got a homemade belly-dancer costume, and some coaching on moves, too. It was way better than the year before when I had to be the Frankenstein monster. The longing to be pretty starts very, very young, I'm sorry to say.

Margie and I went for lunch at Freddie's, which I have to say is much closer than I had realized. I'll never drive there again! Then we strolled back to the car, but having nowhere in particular to go, I introduced her to the Three-Martini Break Spot. "Why don't you just take break at the picnic table over by your building?" she asked.

"Well, we do," I said, "now. But this is our original spot. This place is legend."

"I see," she said.

Well, she didn't, even though I told her the story of the Smoker Wars (and it may interest any 3MBG members reading this to hear that, not only were there no ashtrays in our spot today, but there were also remarkably few cigarette butts in evidence. Could it be that our kind finally won out in the end?); so we walked over to my building and went inside so I could show her my spacious, tricked-out window cubicle. Isn't this nice? This is the kind of work environment that gainfully employed people get to enjoy, little sister.

"When do you get an office with a door?" she asked.

October 31 falls on a Friday this year. I wonder if I can get away with wearing my costume to work? The guys probably won't end up having to work from home, and the carpet is industrial-grade, so it should be fine. I can't wait!

Worst Amusement Park Ever

Robbie and I were just talking about how much things have changed in our old division. Our former lead worker has now given notice – because he found another job elsewhere in the agency, I’m glad to say. Seeing the goings-on in that place is like watching a train wreck in slow motion, only, you know, fast. I’m so happy he could escape before it sucked him down to a watery grave.

It’s a really bad train wreck, okay?

Robbie was suggesting that the last survivor of our new-hire group over there ought to sell tickets for guided tours, and maybe put up commemorative plaques showing where employees of note used to sit. Don’t disturb the remaining denizens of the place, though. They may bite.

So I got to thinking. What if we made sort of a theme park out of it? As far as we can tell, it always was a circus. We could start off with a tour of the cubicle maze, and each paying customer would be given a bag of microwave popcorn to toss to the inhabitants during the tour.

Alas! Like Ralph the Swimming Pig, many of our old division’s star attractions are things of the past. Gone Transportational has gone somewhere else, as has the string of security guards that trailed for so long in his wake. There is no more Coworker-You-Idiot; the section director fobbed him off about a year ago, quietly, on another manager who is a good friend of hers. (Or was.) There’s no more Phantom Pharter, no more Bitching Bubbly Nonsmoker. But we could hire actors to dress up in character suits, and you could get your picture taken with them.

If you happen to be of the female persuasion, I wouldn’t stand too close to C-Y-I.

Speaking of which, there would of course be hands-on activities for kids of all ages. Visitors with a yen for antiques could see what it’s like to 10-key in a page of authentic 1974 pavement statistics, marvel at the greenscreen displays, and thrill to the old-timey bells on the telephones. Feeling a bit more daring? Try entering some data into the mainframe, but be careful: F2 saves your updates. F3 clears the screen. F8 vaporizes the city of San Angelo. So don’t hit the wrong one!

If you’re into really extreme adventure, why not take the “Phantom Pharter Secret Identity” challenge? We’ll issue you a gas mask, which will also provide some protection if you must visit the rest room. Other forms of “protection” may or may not be available there, but a certain amount of psychological damage is practically guaranteed.

Wear a tank top, but bring a parka – the wildly unpredictable AC is an adventure all by itself! And when you’re ready for a break, have a quick one, just 45 minutes or so, in the historic 3-Martini-Break-Group spot. It’s weed-choked and dusted over with ashes now, but if you listen carefully, you can still hear the faint echo of laughter and the rattle of cocktail shakers.

Cap off your visit with a tour of the locker rooms and shower facilities so detailed and thorough, you’ll swear your guide must live there. What could be more relaxing?

We’ll make a fortune! And the best part is that all proceeds go to save the – well, no, actually. Robbie and I are going to spend them all at Dominican Joe.

Don't Panic

The panicmonger has at long last been forced out - unless you want to believe the official story, which is that she resigned voluntarily, suddenly, without any notice, and without another job lined up.

I suspect the former.

Ernest, who is almost unbelievably still working there, came over this afternoon to give me the scoop. The group has been divvied up, the spoils of office politics, between the two rival managers in the section. I wouldn't want to work for either of those guys, especially the cheese-ass used-car salesman who runs the IT branch for the division. Ernest will be working for that massive tool now. He's excited about the change, which I suppose is a fair indicator of how bad things had gotten.

So I told Ernest a story today. I told him of the genesis of the Three-Martini Break Group.

When I started in that division, I told Ernest, our branch was deeply invested in a particular project. However, due to unforeseen technical issues (which really, really, really should not have been unforeseen), the project was on hold. We couldn't work on other projects, because that would entail updating data which would then be overwritten by data from the first project, when/if it ever got going again. So we were at. A. Complete. Standstill.

This is a bit of a hardship when you work for an agency that allows zero personal use of the internet.

So I learned about all kinds of things going on in the agency, or at least whatever was published on the agency website. Also, we're allowed to look at NOAA.com. I learned a lot about the weather. My coworkers - all intelligent, and terribly underemployed; all young, healthy, and funny; all energetic and all just marking time until they could make something better happen - my coworkers took the simple, 15-minute, twice-daily break and developed it into an elaborate art form. You know - kind of like a Japanese tea ritual, only with a lot more sexual innuendo.

Things weren't so bad for me. I was still shellshocked from the vicious day-to-day machinations of a small, family-run marketing company unexpectedly headquartered in Imperial Rome. A little boredom was not a bad thing; besides, pretty much all my new coworkers were young, male, and cute. Life could be a lot worse. A LOT worse.

We were dead in the water for months, so our boss - the panicmonger's predecessor - under increasing and hostile pressure from HIS boss, tried desperately to fill all that empty time with meetings, cross-training, and documentation on documentation on documentation. Nothing was enough. The project we were all waiting on was eventually scrapped altogether, and we all had to start actually working again. Not too hard, though. Every break was still an epic event. But 3MBG members began dropping like flies from sheer boredom. Still, I have to think those first few months after I started, when I had nothing whatsoever to do but spend hours every day hanging out with a bunch of bright, funny, dishy men, were some pretty darn good times.

And what do I have to show for all that now? Nothing, that's what. Well, except for a couple of years of happy memories, several ongoing and deeply rewarding friendships, and a busy, fun, challenging, but not stressful job among pleasant people.

Call it an object lesson on the pitfalls of ambition. The panicmonger doesn't even have anybody to go on break with.

Major Adjustments

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times: the great and terrible thing about working in Totally Pointless Projects was the lack of real expectations. How I miss those leisurely trips across Riverside to Dominican Joe! We won't even get started on three-martini breaks. What glorious times those were, when the 3MBG was fully staffed.

The bad thing about it was when they decided there damn well ought to be some expectations and started making us document everything, only without actually giving us anything to do, except some projects that are - well, totally pointless, to get right down to it. Weekly status reports, monthly status reports, Scotland Yard to document when we arrived and left, and pointless fish meetings every other week - those constituted the bulk of my workload. I don't miss 'em.

The really bad thing about it was the reason I kept trying to get out, despite the often cushy lifestyle: I was so afraid I'd be ruined for actual work. And it's true, though hopefully the effect is not permanent. I'm very busy, I have to get stuff done (though I'm not expected to produce a lot of documentation showing that I've done so, because it would be pretty obvious if I weren't doing my job); more than that, I worry about doing my job well, and I certainly don't have time to loaf about on the break tables or at the coffeehouse. It's not easy to adjust to.

But perhaps the strangest and most bittersweet change of all is no longer working among the sort of people who thrive in the Totally Pointless Projects environment - the people who have been there for years, or even decades, until they bear little resemblance to what you and I know as humans. I don't think I've smelled microwave popcorn since starting the new job, not even at breakfasttime. No Phantom Pharter haunts the kitchenette. No headphone antenna bobs about ominously over the tops of distant cubicles. The sound of snoring does not fill the air, nor does the floor shake violently, sending items tumbling off the shelves, with anyone's thunderous approach.

So I'm stressed out, depressed, and can't sleep. It's either PTSD or withdrawal from some chemical in the microwave popcorn fumes. Whatever it is, I better hurry up and get used to it.

Compil-arrr-tion

I guess the pirate poem is finished now, unless Jason feels like buckling on a swash or two.

She was a fine ship. The Dread Pirate and I have not found a satisfactory replacement in any other realm - since, due to not being completely familiar with the expectations and common practices in my new work group, I am actually sticking to fifteen minutes for break.

Yeah, you heard me, fifteen minutes. And that's without quotes around it.

This chill and windy afternoon, things came to so desperate a pass that we took refuge in the indoor break room, and lost part of our already diminished time allotment to an unusually stupid state employee (you heard me!!!) who insisted on being given an impromptu lesson on how to prepare microwave popcorn in an oven dating from the Eisenhower administration.

Did we demur, telling her we had never used this oven ourselves? Yes. Did we express our personal feelings regarding microwave popcorn, and the consumption thereof? Well, no. Still, upon being informed that no one in the room was familiar with this particular appliance, she threw up her hands in frustration and exclaimed, "Just figure it out for me! Because I haven't got a brain of my own."

Or words to that effect. Anyway, the practical upshot of this is that enough is enough. We're going back to our old break area even if we have to swim for it.

Here be the finished poem. Raise your mug to the lusty buccaneer who wrote me stanza, arrr!

The Three-Grog Marauding Group

Long ago, at home upon the sea,
A pirate band ruled all that they could see;
But, one by one, they fell away,
Alas! ‘til sadly now, today,
The jolly group lives but in memory, arrr!

Tan Justin was the first old salt to go;
We watched his passin’ wi’ much grief and woe;
Shovin’ a litterbug down the plank,
He fell into the drink, and sank;
The first o’ many, little did we know, arrr!

The Bitch o’ Cheryl stuck fast his wooden leg
Sightin’ a ship from ‘top the powder keg.
We witnessed, horrified, his lot:
Alas! Th’ enemy cannon shot
Into the cask, and blew him off his peg, arrr!

Dread Pirate Roberts, sober and austere,
Was ta’en by angels to a higher sphere.
But for the pirate wench whose heart
He stole, he will not yet depart,
And twice a day his spirit haunts us here, arrr!

B.Rrrrrrrrr, he was a brave and salty dog!
Storm downed a mast, and brained him with a log;
His memory we cheer: three cheers!
And toast the noble buccaneer
Wi’ locally produced, organic grog, arrr!

Rummy Greg, he vanished without trace,
One morn we woke to find his empty place;
Betimes some claim to catch a sight
Of Greg, when it be dark at night,
But by day he never shows his face, arrr!

Andrew the Bloody fought, and lost his life
Just as he lived: in never-ending strife,
For though he touched not milk nor meat,
And for Polly always had a treat,
He kept his fellow man at point o’ knife, arrr!

Bold Sara ruled the sea, and should rule yet;
Gold-haired, the fairest lass ye ever met;
But derring-do she, daring, did
And got grabbed by a hungry squid,
Diving from the crow’s-nest on a bet, arrr!

Bryan Redbeard sailed the ocean wide,
And took a pirate maid to be his bride;
They honeymooned in far Siam
And took ill from eating gingered ham,
And wi’ him, aye, our fair hopes sank and died, arrr!

Mad Thomas buckled on a dashing swash,
No man feared he, nor storm waves’ crash and slosh,
But brought down by a tiny foe,
A fire ant bit him on the toe,
Wi’ pain gone mad, he dove into the wash, arrr!

Black Robbie’s creditors complete our fears;
They've seized him bodily to pay arrears.
“Pirates’ worth,” snarled they, “be down!
Ye’ll fetch more booty in Georgetown.”
Then Bess sailed lonely on this sea o’ tears, arrr!

Elizabeth, who led the scurvy lot,
Met her end by way of some cannon shot.
Broadsides, white smoke, hot lead, full bore,
Our pirate wench was now no more.
To soon forget her, surely, we will not, arrr!

So, silent now, the empty ship sails on,
No trace left of its merry crew, all gone;
Pass me the rum: I’ll drink to ye,
And to the day when all will be
Together once again and all be one, arrr!

Long Distance Relationships

I bet you don't remember TeleSuites. I can't find any very recent google results for them, but this article has a picture.

We had one of these installed at a company where I used to work. Conceptually it was really cool. You appeared to be sitting across a regular conference table from the other videoconferencing participants. (The ones who weren't actually there, I mean. Wouldn't make a lot of sense for them to tout how you'd appear to be in the same room with people who actually were in the same room, now, would it?)

But it was really expensive, the technology wasn't well-supported, and it often just didn't work; and you couldn't get the cool effect unless the people on the other end had the same equipment. A few fancy conference hotels around the country had suites installed, but not so many that participants wouldn't still end up having to travel to get to them. For any meeting larger than 10 or 15 people, you needed a larger suite with attendees in stadium seats, and you'd lose most of the effect of being in the same room. And of course if you had more than two sites participating, you had split screens; plus you had that awkward time delay and all the normal stuff that makes videoconferencing suck.

It's a pity, because it occurred to me today that we really need something like that for break now. Fortunately we have a fairly limited number of sites to conference in, because Billy and Sara are both in Colorado (which is just a big square, so I'm sure there's no appreciable travel time involved); Tony, Andrew, and Bryan are at Camp H; Thomas and Greg and Robbie (and me, if I get that job I applied for yesterday!) will be able to conference in from South Dallas; and that of course just leaves those of us at Riverside. Justin's the odd man out in College Station, so he only gets to participate by speakerphone.

That way each of us will just need a four-sided suite with an artificial metal pavilion roof and half an artificial picnic table up against each wall. There should be some artificial cigarette butts strewn about on the artificial concrete floor, for a touch of realism. And if we really wanted to go all out we could also have some CGI break spot intruders sitting at the tables when we turn on the equipment. They'd be programmed to look startled, cut their break short and slink guiltily away when we came swaggering in like we owned the place, which of course we would.

I suppose this seems a bit fanciful coming from someone who works for such a financially strapped organization she might end up having to barter her charms for office supplies. But hey. If nobody ever dreamed big, we'd never have companies like TeleSuite!

Cap'n's Log Arrr-dditional

Black Robbie’s creditors complete our fears;
They've seized him bodily to pay arrears.
“Pirates’ worth,” snarled they, “be down!
Ye’ll fetch more booty in Georgetown.”
Now Bess sails lonely on this sea o’ tears, arrr!

I guess that means I'm the captain, then. But dammit! When I said I'd be interested in going down, I didn't mean with the ship!

Rats.

So, speaking of things that desert sinking ships, Robbie gave notice today; his last day is the 19th, and everyone is invited to the happy hour. I don’t know where it will be yet. Either I’ll notify everyone of the location, or you can just drive around to different bars and listen for double entendres, shouts of "Arrrrrr," and the occasional cry of, “Urban planning! Woohoo!!!”

I'll be the one in the corner, crying into my grog.

Thought for the Day

Don't wear flip-flops to hike on a trail used by horseback riders.

Well, somewhat more to the point, used by their horses.

But I'm glad to be able to tell you that this is an abstract, rather than an object lesson; I only had to pay a little more attention to my footing than to the scenery. The above picture (and, if you click through on it, the others with it - or click on yesterday's link; I've just been adding photos to that album as I take them) was taken from a trail under some powerlines that march up over the hill near my parents' house. Their subdivision sits in a small valley, and was very recently farmland. There are still a few old farmhouses and barns scattered about.

It was an unseasonably warm day, with a high somewhere around 90; very unusual for this time of year. It's enough to make me forget that, come winter, there are likely to be several yards of snow covering pretty much every surface. You might not even be able to go outdoors in shorts!

We went to Thornton Park, to survey Syracuse spread out beneath us from the city's highest vantage point:


We visited the rose garden:


And coming back, we drove up to Tipperary Hill. To give you a very brief, probably wildly inaccurate outsider's description of the story there, Tipp Hill is an old Irish neighborhood, and boasts the *mumble's* only upside-down stoplight. The Irish residents took umbrage at the old red-on-top stoplight because it reminded them of the English, or perhaps because they were drunk; so they threw stones at it and kept knocking it out. And finally they got not only their very own, special, green-on-top traffic signal, but also a rather naffy bronze statue commemorating the event.

That just goes to show you what fierce, alcohol-fueled nationalism can do. Not that there's anything wrong with that: I'm approximately 1/8 Irish myself, and quite fond of wine.


Driving back, we passed so many beautiful old houses, I think the three-martini break group should all move up here and go to work for NYDOT, which probably has a massive budget because they get all of Texas' hard-earned gas tax money and squander it on incomprehensible, very frequently-placed reference markers, of which I have not yet been able to get a clear picture due to the fact that my father insists on driving past them at speeds that won't cause a 15-car pileup.

Some people need to work a little bit harder on their priorities.


Two or three of these adorable places would easily house us all. And if the NYDOT thing didn't work out, we'd have a sitcom just waiting to be filmed. Can't you hear the theme music now?

Every episode would have to end with one of us stepping hilariously into a fresh pile of horse dooky.

Write Poetry Like a Pirate Day

Well - if pirates wrote poetry.

Song of the Three-Grog Marauding Group
(known as the Three-Martini Break Group the other 364 days out of the year)

Long ago, at home upon the sea,
A pirate band ruled all that they could see;
But, one by one, they fell away,
Alas! ‘til sadly now, today,
The jolly group but numbers two or three, arrr!

Tan Justin was the first old salt to go;
We watched his passin’ wi’ much grief and woe;
Shovin’ a litterbug down the plank,
He fell into the drink, and sank;
The first o’ many, little did we know, arrr!

The Bitch o’ Cheryl stuck fast his wooden leg
Sightin’ a ship from ‘top the powder keg.
We witnessed, horrified, his lot:
Alas! Th’ enemy cannon shot
Into the cask, and blew him off his peg, arrr!

Dread Pirate Roberts, sober and austere,
Was ta’en by angels to a higher sphere.
But for the pirate wench whose heart
He stole, he will not yet depart,
And twice a day his spirit haunts us here, arrr!

B.Rrrrrrrrr, he was a brave and salty dog!
Storm downed a mast, and brained him with a log;
His memory we cheer: three cheers!
And toast the noble buccaneer
Wi’ locally produced, organic grog, arrr!

Rummy Greg, he vanished without trace,
One morn we woke to find his empty place;
Betimes some claim to catch a sight
Of Greg, when it be dark at night,
But by day he never shows his face, arrr!

Andrew the Bloody fought, and lost his life
Just as he lived: in never-ending strife,
For though he touched not milk nor meat,
And for Polly always had a treat,
He kept his fellow man at point o’ knife, arrr!

Bold Sara ruled the sea, and should rule yet;
Gold-haired, the fairest lass ye ever met;
But derring-do she, daring, did
And got grabbed by a hungry squid,
Diving from the crow’s-nest on a bet, arrr!

Bryan Redbeard sailed the ocean wide,
And took a pirate maid to be his bride;
They honeymooned in far Siam
And took ill from eating gingered ham,
And wi’ him, aye, our fair hopes sank and died, arrr!

Mad Thomas buckled on a dashing swash,
No man feared he, nor storm waves’ crash and slosh,
But brought down by a tiny foe,
A fire ant bit him on the toe,
Wi’ pain gone mad, he dove into the wash, arrr!

And so we saddened pirates must sail on,
Through choppy, shark-infested seas alone;
Pass me the rum: I’ll drink to ye,
And to the day when all will be
Together once again and all be one, arrr!

I Can Has Coffee?

I'm sick of work, I can't keep going on,
Not a lick of work, if I stay, will get done,
So I must go home, or nowhere,
'Cause I'm sick of work...

I've locked my desk, I'll keep my printouts there,
I have stocked my desk with data dictionaire,
And I'll leave it there till Monday,
'Cause I'm sick of work.

The panicked boss, why must she be crazed?
Don't have profit/loss, and no deadlines ablaze;
I'm feeling stymied, and I need a raise,
Not endless freaking and shrieking from her.

Goodbye, my cube, and all its beige decor,
I won't train the n00bs on mainframe anymore,
And I'm out the door for the day,
'Cause I'm sick of work,
Yeah, baby, I'm sick of work.

There's never a white baby grand around when you need one.

The panicmonger boss told Robbie today that from now on she wants us all to stagger our breaks, and not go as a group. She wants to cut off the flow of martinis.

What. Ev. Er!

We had a celebration for the September birthdays this morning, organized by one of the three new people, and chipped in for by most of the group. There were balloons and cards and gift certificates and food. We've never done this before. To be perfectly honest, I really don't care for office potluck-type things, but that's beside the point. It was pleasant; the woman who put it together is a sweet, sociable, organize-y type and clearly enjoys doing nice things for people. The panicmonger has been talking for months about how she wanted to do a monthly birthday celebration, but everybody was always kind of lukewarm about it. The point is that the panicmonger has always wanted this, and she finally has someone who's happy to do it.

The panicmonger walked into the organizer's office this afternoon and doled out criticism and some suggestions for how to do a better job of it next time. She forgot to say, oh gosh I don't know, how about something like "thank you, our group has not done this before and it was really nice of you to volunteer to take this on, and incidentally the spice cake is delicious."

The panicmonger did something else particularly shitty that I'm not at liberty to go into; it wasn't done to me. I had the good sense to go home sick at 10:30. I hadn't had my coffee.

A Better Place

Robbie and I visited the third floor of our building today. I never have, but he's been there several times before; there's a special, "secret" restroom, whose mysteries were revealed to him by 3 Martini Break Group alumni Justin and Tony. Nobody else on our floor, the second floor, the "middle" floor, seems to be familiar with it.

Come to think of it, apparently nobody on the third floor is either, which is what gives the place its special allure. It's a haven of peace and tranquility for your most secret activities, boys!

I stayed outside, myself.

I was sorry there were no fountains, trees, flowers, or chirping birds up there. The overhead light fixtures did contain a fairly alarming concentration of dead crickets, but I think that's just because the cleaning staff haven't yet been tipped off to the third floor's existence.

Moreover, I think it was pretty natural to assume that the third floor would be entirely populated by tuxedo- and evening-gown-clad socialites wearing top hats and monocles and opera-length gloves. Yet the whole time I was up there, I saw one guy in business casual and a couple of women in jeans. However, I did see a nondescript door labeled "Authorized Personnel Only - Roof Access," which was locked. Oh, as if that weren't a complete giveaway! Obviously, the hoi polloi are all up there making witty banter over Dom Perignon in the roof garden. You know there's not a one of them wearing white shoes after Labor Day, either.

So anyway, that was one great adventure for the day. For the second, I made an attempt - which I know will particularly please Billy, and Justin, and Sara - to recruit a break group member from the new hires in Mapping. I'd seen these guys around for a while. Today I bumped into one in the kitchen, so I introduced myself, and breathlessly explained that, even though his work group and my work group are sworn enemies, we secretly go on break together twice a day at 9:45 and 2:45 down at the picnic tables, so it was really important that he and his fellow new hires come down sometime.

He seemed unconvinced, possibly even a little alarmed. So, just to clarify things, when I got back to my desk I emailed him the 3 Martini Break Group Official Application Form.

Amazingly, there was no response from him by the end of the day. Who would dare turn down an invitation to join the 3 Martini Break Group?! Inconceivable!! I was slightly piqued. So I considered following up by firing him with Tony's WTF citation form, but it occurred to me that (1) having no idea who I was, he might come to think I was really just indescribably weird, and (2) since he hadn't mentioned his last name when he introduced himself, it was possible I was sending these emails to some random stranger, in which case firing the guy would hardly improve matters.

I need to be more careful at work. If I go around terrifying the new hires and issuing threats to complete strangers, I'll never get invited to the cool party on the roof garden.

Careful!

You know your workplace safety meeting has been a rampaging success when someone knocks his iced tea over onto the floor, scattering ice cubes everywhere, while getting up to receive an award. This, in turn, set off a chain reaction wherein I almost slipped and fell in the ice, Robbie nearly brained himself on the monitor hanging low from the ceiling above his chair, and one poor overwhelmed soul set off the alarm trying to get out the emergency exit. Safety first!

3-Martini Break Group alumni Andrew and Bryan now work at the campus where the morning meeting was held, so Robbie and I popped in for a visit afterwards. Bryan's cubicle neighbor had brought in a five-inch-long centipede he'd captured in his bathroom over the weekend. It was confined to a pint-sized terrarium on his desk, and it was Not Amused. It squirmed about restlessly inside, rattling its claws, poking its long, segmented feelers out the air holes on the top, and chittering in arthropodic fury.

Andrew and Bryan seemed uneasy, and I don't blame them. I'm not generally afraid of creepy-crawlies, but the sight of that thing triggered a deep-seated, primal urge to squish it as flat as possible, preferably using somebody else's shoe.

I'm also frightened of the enormous flying cockroaches that buzz around my kitchen late at night, serene in their undisputed dominion. Whacking those bastards with a shoe - anyone's shoe - only stuns them temporarily. I'm sorry, but that's just showing off. If you're able to weather a nuclear holocaust, at least have the courtesy to go "squelch" when you take a size 13 upside the thorax.

And they don't confine their activities to the kitchen, either. Last week one landed on me in bed just as I was nodding off. I don't know how many more times my heart can handle jumping from 65 to 300 beats per minute in the space of .005 seconds, but I'd really rather not find out.

Later Robbie and I had lunch with another 3MBG alum, Thomas, and discovered that the centipede is actually intended for him. For his wife, rather, who's an entomologist, and therefore much less of a weenie than I am. She works as a consultant for a pest-control company, so I was able to get a few pointers on how to deal with my enormous flying cockroach problem.

I think I can pretty much wipe them out by presenting one of them with a safety award.