Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
November 11, 1922 — April 11, 2007
Here’s hoping everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.
Half-Baked Scheme
Somebody poke a hole in this.
It’s my new* theory about how businesses should pay workers. I just thought of it in the shower this morning, so it’s probably a little flaky.
First, we stipulate that the best way to hire workers is that you find the smartest, most competent and trustworthy candidates. All other things being equal, this should give you an edge against your competition in the marketplace. (If you happen also to have a great idea, or the best technology, or a huge head start, all the better.)
Once you’ve got your smart, competent staff that you trust, how do you determine salary structure? I suggest that you pay your people the most you can afford. You should run the numbers, find out what your revenue is and what part of that is profit, and allocate as much as possible of it to your labor force. The process should be as transparent as possible, so that the workers can be assured that they are, indeed, participating to the fullest extent in the wealth that they are, after all, helping to create.
As the owner, you should resist the temptation to pay yourself or your executives a hugely disproportionate piece of the available cash. You deserve something extra for taking a chance with your money, and the managers do, too, responsible as they are for making groups work together efficiently. But you must not go overboard, or you’ll lose the trust and respect of your employees. (For example, I would have to work almost 200 years with no vacations in order to make what the CEO of “my” company made last year. And I wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire, much less contribute more than the bare minimum of my abilities to his bottom line You see how that works?)
In this way, you’ll find yourself with a happy, highly motivated staff who will do their best to make things better at your company. And qualified candidates from around the country will flock to your recruiting office to join your organization. Because let’s face it, when it comes to work, we’re in it for the money.
Supply-siders and free marketeers and “invisible handers” will argue that No, you should cut costs as much as possible to maximize profit, and you should try to “win” in your negotiations with labor by getting them to settle for less than they’re worth. Salaries are costs, after all, and should be pushed as low as possible. This is the perennial mistake that Capital makes. In fact, it seems to me that survival in the marketplace is much more likely when you’ve got the best people on your team. The focus should be not on reducing compensation, but on paying well and getting the most for your money: The most talent, the most loyalty, the most productivity and stability.
But then I’m working class, so I’m probably wrong.
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* I confess I have not read the classic works of communism and socialism, but I’m guessing this is more or less what they say. If you’re a baby boomer, as I am, think about it: The most horrible monster in the universe, the thing to be feared, fought and avoided at all costs throughout most of your lives, was communism, a way for people to get what they deserve in exchange for honest work. To save ourselves from this scourge, we have built 10,000 hydrogen bombs and lived in fear and isolation for generations.
Do You Live In A Mansion?
You may have found yourself living in a mansion, depressed, confused or alienated.
You may not know how you came to be living in a mansion, and you may fear that you will be trapped forever in a gigantic house or estate, surrounded by other gigantic houses. You need to stop and take hold of yourself, pull yourself together and start living on a human scale, in a normal size house.
How do you know if you are living in a mansion? Often, the person living in a mansion is the last person to know. Here are some warning signs. You may be living in a mansion…
- …if it is more than four hundred feet from your front door to the street.
- …if you occasionally wake up in rooms you didn’t know you had.
- …if there is an intercom near your toilet.
- …if you are paying Social Security tax on the person who brings you your coffee in the morning.
- …If there are golf carts parked in your family room.
That’s all well and good, but I don’t live in a mansion. Denial is a common symptom in the early advanced stages of living in a mansion. Sadly, the healing cannot begin until you admit that you have a problem with living in a mansion, and prepare to confront it.
A lot of people live in mansions. What’s the big deal? If you live in a mansion, chances
are you are surrounded by other mansions in your neighborhood, and it may, indeed, seem to you that “a lot of people” live in mansions. However, statistics do not bear this out. In fact, less than two percent of all Americans live in mansions. Worldwide, the proportion is even smaller.
So what if I do live in a mansion? People who live in mansions may develop a tolerance, 
and find that they are spending too much time in search of ever larger rooms, longer hallways, more grandiose staircases, and so on. Living in a mansion affects the central nervous system, resulting in a decrease of activity, anxiety, tension, and inhibitions. Even a medium size house can result in a decrease in the ability to think clearly. Concentration and judgment become impaired.
OK, but I can move out any time. Once you have grown dependent on living in a
mansion, you may experience painful withdrawal symptoms. When the great big ol’ house is taken away, symptoms of withdrawal may include elevated temperature, increased blood pressure, rapid heart rate, restlessness, anxiety, psychosis, seizures, and rarely even death.
Maybe I do have a problem, but how can I tell? Ask yourself these questions:
- Have you ever felt that your house is unmanageable?
- Is someone in your family concerned about the size of your house?
- Have you ever been absent from work or lost a job because of the size of your house?
- Do you find that you “need” a bigger home than before to achieve the desired effect?
- When everyone else has left, is it “OK” with you to just stay in your mansion, alone?
- Do you try to hide your mansion from others?
Many people who live in mansions don’t recognize when their houses have gotten out of
hand. In the past, treatment providers believed that mansion-dwellers should be confronted about denial of their problems, but now research has shown that compassionate and empathetic counseling is more effective.
If you’ve been living in a mansion, don’t despair. You’re not alone. There is help. Living in a mansion doesn’t make you a bad person. You might want to join a support group, seek therapy from a psychiatric professional, or even enter a rehabilitation clinic.
But please, do something.
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(This public service announcement brought to you by revision99, the Ad Council and Americans Who Can’t Afford to Live in Mansions.)
Deal or No Deal?
I need some philosophical advice.
Here’s the sitch: My latest boss (eight months now) is a smug, obnoxious, strutting, self-involved and ruthless stuffed shirt. Of course it goes without saying that he’s also incompetent. And, I have to assume he knows I don’t like him. He was hired from outside as the top executive at our location, and since he joined the “team,” the team has disintegrated, with more than half the staff walking out or — even worse for him — transferring to other locations within the company, which is like saying “I’m OK with the company, I just don’t want to work for you.” During his short tenure, profitability and morale have plummeted. So in addition to being an asshole, his job is probably on the line. Trust me, I’m doing all I can to expedite his departure, but that’s another story.
All of a sudden, HugeCorp has decided to restart a program they abandoned a few years ago, and here’s where the fun begins. The program is called ESI, or Employee Satisfaction Index. Yes my friends, Hugecorp now says it wants to be an “employer of choice” within the industry, and to that end they are going to survey the current employees regarding their experiences and attitudes about their jobs, and their supervisors. They want to find out what we all think about our bosses and how the place is being run, so they can keep us satisfied. This may or may not be bullshit. Certainly they have shown no inclination in the past to care about what anybody thinks, but that doesn’t matter, does it, because now I am going to get a chance to have my say, and I will surely poke a sharp stick into his puffed-up ego.
So the day after we all find out there’s going to be these ESI surveys (the week after next, by the way), Mr. Potato Head calls me over to his desk and lets me watch him fill out my own Employee Evaluation form. Without even reading it, he gives me the top score in every category straight down the page, and then writes a nice complimentary note at the bottom (even if I did have to spell “meticulous” for him). So I am now the perfect, model employee (as if I weren’t already!).
Over the past week he’s been stopping by my office periodically, to make sure I have everything I need, shoot the breeze for a moment, see if if I’ve had lunch and just generally schmooze me. Remember, he knows I don’t like him, and our relationship to date has been, shall we say, cool. So the obvious conclusion is he knows he’s a jerk and he’s got about a week and a half to get on my good side so I don’t torpedo his ass in the survey. Of course I will torpedo his ass anyway, because he royally deserves it, but here’s what I need help with:
I could ask for a raise.
I brought the subject up several months ago, and never got an answer (which means “no,” I guess). But he’s now somewhat more motivated to make me happy these days. My dilemma is that this kind of extortion would be wrong, even if I do royally deserve a lot more money. Also, this walking sack of rhinoceros dung should be fired for the mess he has made of our operation. He should have to wait in the unemployment line in hell for all eternity, and if I make the kind of diabolical bargain he wants me to make he will get a reprieve from HugeCorp, or maybe even a promotion (yes, they are that clueless).
Plus, whatever money I got out of the deal would be Satan’s money, rotting and putrefying in my pockets and stinking up my soul. I already feel like I need to sponge off after every one of his glad-handing visits to my office. Could I stand to be in bed with this arrogant shithead?
Of course there’s a chance I wouldn’t be able to get the money anyway (HugeCorp might decide to block it, for example), but assuming I could, should I? I mean, I have had to enter into a suicide pact with a coworker, because I hate the job so much. I don’t know if I could stand closing ranks with management and becoming the “right” kind of person.
So that’s my dilemma. What do you think? The Devil’s Bargain, or The High Road to A Squalid Death?
Rockin’ In The Free World
Holy cow, check this out.
Today on the drive home from my crummy job, I heard a story on NPR about people with home recording studios. I know all about recording studios, home and otherwise, but this story had a twist: You can hire session musicians, even big-name players, and they will play on your tracks long distance! So you (or I) could assemble a band of top-level cats for your next home project, and it wouldn’t just sound professional, it would be professional.
Of course you’d have to spend some dough on it — nobody rides for free — but isn’t modern technology just super-dooper?
Click here for the story. I think there’s a transcript there, but you can also listen to the story, and you should.
As always, my heartbeat’s thumpin’ like a big bass drum.
PS:Â Blue Girl and Neddie Jingo have already done this.Â
Where Have I Been?
Lucky for you I couldn’t finish the post I started the other night.
I was trying to say I felt kinda bad about not posting, then I got to explaining why I wasn’t posting, and part of the reason was my crummy job, so I had to go into details there, and that was bringing me down (and it would have brought you down, too), and then I was going to explore just why I should feel bad about any of this, or why I would be explaining it to my imaginary friends, and, well, let’s just say lucky for you I got too sick and tired of myself to finish, and I went to bed and now I don’t feel like any of it needs to be said.
The short version is, I’m not cut out for any kind of real job. I have one, and I do it well, but I don’t care about it and it’s taking up too goddamned much of my life.
As if the crummy job isn’t enough of a time sink I’m organizing a band in my spare time, which means I don’t have any spare time. I’m picking songs, learning them, making charts, booking rehearsal time, geeking with the electronics — it’s like a second job that I do for free. I know, you want to know more about the band. My Craig’s List ad for a bass player should cover it:
Do you play bass?
Can you sing?
Do you appreciate rock/R&B/blues/pop/country music?
Have you been around for a while? (i.e., do you remember Rick Danko?)
Do you love to play, but you’re too busy with job or family to devote full time to a heavy rehearsal and gigging schedule?
Are you NOT down with hip-hop, grunge, death metal, emo and the latest fad-rock?
Are you too old to play kid stuff, but too young to quit playing?
Do you have a sense of history AND a sense of humor?If you see yourself in there even a little, give us a call. We’re putting together a working-class band of like-minded players to make some noise, work out a few sets, jam a bit, play some parties and do an occasional club gig. Right now we need a bass player. If you can sing, even backup, it’s a big plus. Male or female, we don’t care (but you’ll have to carry your own gear).
You’re busy — we’re busy too, so it won’t be too intense. We’re serious about the music, but we’re in it for the fun and the escape. We might make some money, but if you need a gig to pay the rent, this isn’t it.
Ready to rock? Leave a message at (XXX) XXX-XXXX.
This yielded a couple of calls and the first guy we jammed with was the guy we went with, so now we are two guitars, bass and drums. I’m loving it, but I don’t have time to blog. I’m reading your blogs, though, and I expect you to keep up the high standards I’ve grown accustomed to.
So, you slackers with only one job: Get busy with the keyboard, OK?
Friday Night Random
A few thoughts, that I may keep in touch with everybody:
- Valerie Plame — an articulate, telegenic celebrity spy, now unemployed. The networks must be drooling over the prospect of signing her up. How long before she has her own TV show, or is at least a regular commentator somewhere?
- Halliburton is moving to Dubai! Where do you think Dick Cheney will be when the subpoenas start to fly?
- Alberto Gonzalez. Hey, his initials are A.G., just like in Attorney General! President Bush is saying he fully supports his boy, so maybe it also stands for Almost Gone.
- Note to Presidential Primary voters across the nation: Just send your choices to us here in California, as we will now be selecting your candidates. Also, if it gets a little quiet in your state for the next 20 months, it’s because all the candidates are here.
- This was the warmest winter on record, since they started keeping records in 1880, but there’s really nothing to worry about at this time.
- Who thought it would be a good idea to fire all the U.S. Attorneys at the same time? The other day White House Press Secretary Tony Snow said it was Harriet Miers, but now he says “At this juncture, people have hazy memories.” I take this to mean that at some later juncture, after they’ve had a sitdown and worked out what they’re all going to say, their memories will become clear.
- I tried to find a bass player on Craig’s List recently, and I’ve decided that I will be one in my next life. Those guys are rare! They must be working all the time, and naming their own price, too.
- I’ve entered into a suicide pact with a woman at work. Don’t be upset — it will probably prolong my life. Here’s the deal: If either one of us becomes so fed up with the job that we feel we simply can’t go on another day, that person has to kill the other one first. This means no suicide for us, as neither of us would ever shoot the other. At least I don’t think so.
- Today in my glorious hometown we had exactly 12 hours of daylight, and tonight we’ll have exactly 12 hours of darkness. It doesn’t get any more symmetrical than that, my friends.
As always, my love knows no bounds.
Losing Sheep
I feel like I’ve lived too long.
Like a guy who has made a deal with the devil. I get to live as long as I want. Heh, heh — only eventually I discover what Satan knew all along: that immortality is hell, and after a few hundred years I’ll be begging to end it.
I started this blog just a couple of years ago, so you’d think I’d have some reasonable expectation that my magical, invisible, virtual “friends” that I made in the early going would still be with me. And some of them are. I won’t list them — you know who you are, and you are the wind beneath my wings.
But my mind keeps wandering to the friends I’ve lost. Some have simply vanished, leaving no way to reach them or find out how they are. Some have made announcements, ranging from “I’ve been discovered at work and I have to shut down” to “I have nothing more to say,” to “I’ve got a book deal, so long, suckers!” Some have deleted their blogs and pornographers have taken their blog names and planted pages of nasty links where once were the writings and art of people I sort of knew.
Each time one of them departs I get that “deal-with-the-devil” feeling: I seem to be going on and on, even if a bit sporadically lately, but my bloggin’ buddies are departing the blogosphere, leaving me behind, feeling lonely and a little desperate. In self-defense I become more withdrawn. After all, why make friends if you know they are going to leave you? This is a little weird and pathetic of me, I know, so I’m trying to buck up.
In the meantime, I hope all you lost sheep are OK.
Running Away
In another room, a glass shatters.
Jarred from my work, I am angry, jangled. It’s nothing, really, just a broken glass, but heat rises in me anyway. Why isn’t she more careful?
I resist the urge to go see what happened. It’s nothing, but seeing it would only make me grind my teeth. And I’d have to clean it up.
I should have run off with the circus when I was seventeen. Except I can’t do any circus tricks, and clowns give me the creeps. What’s up with the crazy makeup and the big shoes? Is that supposed to be funny?
Maybe clowns are pathetic people, so desperate for attention that they will wear big rubber noses in public and put on baggy suits in outlandish colors, just to keep all eyes on them.
But no — they must be hiding. Hiding in plain sight. They must be horribly, painfully shy, and they are hiding under the heavy makeup and oversized costumes. Why do they want to be clowns, then, doing pratfalls, tooting their little horns, cramming themselves ten at a time into impossibly tiny cars? There’s a sad, frightened little person in there, isn’t there?
I guess in a way I did run away with the circus. I ran away with a rock band. Actually, a series of rock bands. They took me first to the homes of friends, where we tried to figure out the songs we were hearing on the radio, using pawn shop guitars, all plugged in to one overloaded second-hand Standel amplifier, everybody sharing a single six-dollar Radio Shack microphone.
We graduated into backyard parties in the next town, where we played crude versions of the songs we had taught ourselves, using borrowed and rented gear. We played “Battles of the Bands” for cheesy prizes at car lots and shopping centers. Some of us disappeared along the way and newcomers who played better (or had better equipment) were recruited to replace them. At some point we found ourselves organized into groups that actually sounded OK and had real gigs at real parties and dances and nightclubs and saloons and pizza joints.
We got more sophisticated and more into it and inevitably some of us hit the road, which I guess might be a little like running away with the circus. You go to strange towns far away, and you have only the stuff you brought with you and the people you work with as touchstones to your old world. You stick out as aliens. The locals treat you bad, or they treat you good, but you can’t ignore the fact that they treat you different. Because you are different.
You live with the band, maybe not in trailers or circus tents, but when you venture into the street during the day you might as well be wearing a bright red wig and a clown suit, because everyone knows you are not one of them.
At night you stand up in front of them and do your act, and most of the time they let you do it. Sometimes they show you a little love, sharing that small part of themselves that can be shared with someone who won’t stay long, can’t be part of anything. You will be there only a short time, and the End of Your Gig waits there at the stage door that opens on the alley, smoking, patient, persistent. The End of Your Gig says there are other bars and bandstands, other sights, other women in the next town, and now that you have run away, the deal is that you have to keep on running, even if you can’t remember why you’re doing it.
