A while ago I worked in an office where we had this woman who was as dumb as they come. Look: I can be pretty judgemental about people, and for the record, I am incredible tough on myself more than others. I call myself "dumb ass" or "stupid" and don't to other people.
This one particular co-worker, though she was generally nice to me and everyone else--as far as I can tell--she was a complete imbecile. Forgot about the skill sets matching the job description or her attitude and disconnect between her job tasks and skills needed to do clerical work, she was just a freakin idiot. I felt bad at the time for thinking that about her. I was nice and not condescending and spoke to her as an equal. I gave her stuff to do but she didn't do it well and her attitude towards the work was terrible. Basically, she sat there and answered the phone and stapled and paper clipped. That's it. She has a kid now. Poor thing, he has some stupid genes in him. Maybe he'll be lucky and it will skip several generations.
What is it with dumb people having kids? Don't we have enough dumb people? Of course they don't really know the scale of their stupidity but can't their DNA forge a synaptic connection with common sense? A lot of them have multiple kids and then multiply that by some being poor and we have a recipe for disaster! And why is it that dumb people use Jesus and religion as a basis for intelligent talk? Having faith does not make you smart. Arguing or discussing religion particularly Christianity, and arguing over the Bible's lessons, is not interesting fodder.
I made a dentist appointment on 9/8/09 for a regular cleaning. I took the open 9/17 appointment and gave the dental assistant my name, information and requested Dr. C. She calls me on 9/15 to confirm. First, she asks if "Palmer, Matthew" was there. I said, "yes, that's me." Second, she re-confirms the wrong time with Dr. C. I'm thinking, she's over worked or dyslexic. Everything's fine. The next day, however, she calls and tells me that the doctor had an emergency and needs to reschedule. I said okay. I reiterate it's a regular cleaning and that 9/25 is fine. On 9/25/09 she calls and asks if "Palmer, Matthew" is there. I answer, "This is Matthew Palmer." She tells me that the doctor he has the flu. I said, "what do you mean, he? You mean 'she.'" She said, "no, Dr. W is sick. Dr. C only works on Tuesday and Thursday." All this time, she got my name and appointment wrong! "Fine," and I told her. I called her back to say I found another dentist. It's not worth my time and energy to communicate any further with dumb people.
When your employees are this dumb that they can't figure out a surname from a first name and a patient gets re-scheduled twice, then it's time for you to choose another professional. I worry about employers who hire dumb ass employees. What does it say about them? And, why not pay more money for someone who has greater potential and brain power? Is it an industry standard to hire dumb dental assistants? Is it an attitude we have towards menial tasks like clerical workers and kitchen staff? These jobs require different skill sets and there are plenty of people really great at it. Not everyone is a PhD or expert but we can be experts in our jobs. That includes getting names and times correct and learning more skills than stapling! And what does it say about me writing this blog entry when I'm supposed to be working at my desk! Damn hypocrite!
Friday, September 25, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Does Capitalism make it all civil?
Why do I have the feeling that so much of our interactions are disingenuous? I was at the post office today, and some student was so emphatic about thanking the male clerk for his help that it made me think about the societal rules that govern our interpersonal interactions. “Thank you, so much! Thank you, so much! Thank you, soooo much! Thank you, so so much!” I guess the latter would be a double-negative, the “so, so” part and it would just be as efficient to say “so much” instead. Anyway, where the fuck was I? I had just gotten there and looked at his reaction and looked over at her and thought: there was a major disconnect, between his services versus her enthusiasm. For Christ sakes, it was just a roll of stamps! Whatever! He didn’t bother to look up as she left. I thought that she was one of those pain in the ass customers, with their innumerable questions, their picky piquant demands interrupting another customer because she wants special treatment. I have no way of knowing. He was the sole clerk amid a line, ten deep. He looked miserable. Was she trying to cheer him up? Was she really thankful? She reminded me of one of those customers who always seems to be in front of you at the supermarket.
Remember the time you were running late to your relative’s house and you stopped by Ralphs on Sunset, for some Aunt Jemima syrup, some Kaiser brown foil and a pair of blunt scissors? And some old biddy, her hands shaking from Parkinson’s and knuckles bent from arthritis, was in front of you, slowly counting her change, finding more coupons, getting her shit double bagged and arguing with the cashier over the price of cat food? You were the one, behind her, tapping your foot, arms folded; face red, exhaling and sighing wondering when you’re next?
The clerk at the post office was definitely over worked and he hated his job—at least today he did. But my feeling from the customer’s inflection was this fake, disingenuous “thank you.” It said, as I am an expert interpreter of bitch language (mostly from my failed relationships) that: “I am a bitch and I know it but thank you for putting up with it, you lowly postal clerk...” Maybe I am off on my assessments but I pride myself on being a keen observer of the human condition and though I may go too far in my enthusiasm for humans who do show bright spots of generosity in between the dark episodes of maiming and raping each other, I think: Hey, I’m right on about my observation at the post office today. Look: Even Hitler was good to his wife, right? I often hear this “thank you, so much” epitaph as part of the lexicon of Los Angeleno’s dialect that I have developed my radar for this crapola.
It hails from the under paid actress cum waitress who survives on tips from the well-to-do women who seem to have it all; it comes from the crowd of yuppie pilate mom’s of Beverly Hills who just gave the valet a two dollar tip; I hear it from office workers who tell UPS-- who fucked up a delivery. Are all these banalities necessary to make our lives better? For our society to operate just above inch worms, do we really need to utter these provincial proverbial provocations? These “thank you” formalities are sound bites, filler for the undercurrent of dislike and keep us in control of our feelings so that we remain civil. We use it to convince ourselves that this interaction matters. Politeness is reinforced and for us to keep up the social interaction; our give and take constructs alive and operating so that our society remains kind. But we’re not. It is in these situations, of commerce, of dollar transactions for goods and services; we have learned to keep things civil to keep the machine going. What about the other situations?
You can see it when people ignore each other, pretend that the other is invisible when walking down a hall way or at a meeting. The uppity professor, the unfriendly co-worker. The person we “don’t know.” If the President was walking down the East Wing, and some lowly handler for Senator So and So was standing there, do you think he would ignore the President? How about the neighbor who’s barking dog is heard every night, across the street? When you approach her and tell her about it, she counters and says, “he barks a little.” You feel that your rights and comfort are secondary to a dog’s! In fact, we spend billions on dogs each year while there’s a homeless dude you walked by in Westwood last weekend, who eats worse than your neighbor’s dog. People don’t take responsibility for these interpersonal interactions because there’s no monetary association. How about the person who takes the last cookie from the corporate kitchen and does not take a quick moment to throw away the doily or put the dish in the sink? Humans are steaming turds on the sidewalk of life! This is the world we live in. If we want to build successful social constructs or ways of being nice to each other we should put a monetary value on them. Then, perhaps, the world might be more civil.
Humans find loop holes and when chance happens, they operate in their true form and these behaviors have consequences. People are wishy-washy unless there’s money associated in the transaction. Then, they’re charming and nice. I rather have those then assholes. We can monetize each behavior, make it some sort of economic interaction and reward others for being nice to each other. Like a Good Samaritan who prevents a robbery from happening or reward the person who takes the last cookie by giving her a little Peet’s coffee card. If we make each transaction, like in the post office, between customer and clerk, a real economic one, rather than the failed social ones we currently have, then we could possibly make this world more civil. Would that be disingenuous? Does Capitalism make it all civil?
Remember the time you were running late to your relative’s house and you stopped by Ralphs on Sunset, for some Aunt Jemima syrup, some Kaiser brown foil and a pair of blunt scissors? And some old biddy, her hands shaking from Parkinson’s and knuckles bent from arthritis, was in front of you, slowly counting her change, finding more coupons, getting her shit double bagged and arguing with the cashier over the price of cat food? You were the one, behind her, tapping your foot, arms folded; face red, exhaling and sighing wondering when you’re next?
The clerk at the post office was definitely over worked and he hated his job—at least today he did. But my feeling from the customer’s inflection was this fake, disingenuous “thank you.” It said, as I am an expert interpreter of bitch language (mostly from my failed relationships) that: “I am a bitch and I know it but thank you for putting up with it, you lowly postal clerk...” Maybe I am off on my assessments but I pride myself on being a keen observer of the human condition and though I may go too far in my enthusiasm for humans who do show bright spots of generosity in between the dark episodes of maiming and raping each other, I think: Hey, I’m right on about my observation at the post office today. Look: Even Hitler was good to his wife, right? I often hear this “thank you, so much” epitaph as part of the lexicon of Los Angeleno’s dialect that I have developed my radar for this crapola.
It hails from the under paid actress cum waitress who survives on tips from the well-to-do women who seem to have it all; it comes from the crowd of yuppie pilate mom’s of Beverly Hills who just gave the valet a two dollar tip; I hear it from office workers who tell UPS-- who fucked up a delivery. Are all these banalities necessary to make our lives better? For our society to operate just above inch worms, do we really need to utter these provincial proverbial provocations? These “thank you” formalities are sound bites, filler for the undercurrent of dislike and keep us in control of our feelings so that we remain civil. We use it to convince ourselves that this interaction matters. Politeness is reinforced and for us to keep up the social interaction; our give and take constructs alive and operating so that our society remains kind. But we’re not. It is in these situations, of commerce, of dollar transactions for goods and services; we have learned to keep things civil to keep the machine going. What about the other situations?
You can see it when people ignore each other, pretend that the other is invisible when walking down a hall way or at a meeting. The uppity professor, the unfriendly co-worker. The person we “don’t know.” If the President was walking down the East Wing, and some lowly handler for Senator So and So was standing there, do you think he would ignore the President? How about the neighbor who’s barking dog is heard every night, across the street? When you approach her and tell her about it, she counters and says, “he barks a little.” You feel that your rights and comfort are secondary to a dog’s! In fact, we spend billions on dogs each year while there’s a homeless dude you walked by in Westwood last weekend, who eats worse than your neighbor’s dog. People don’t take responsibility for these interpersonal interactions because there’s no monetary association. How about the person who takes the last cookie from the corporate kitchen and does not take a quick moment to throw away the doily or put the dish in the sink? Humans are steaming turds on the sidewalk of life! This is the world we live in. If we want to build successful social constructs or ways of being nice to each other we should put a monetary value on them. Then, perhaps, the world might be more civil.
Humans find loop holes and when chance happens, they operate in their true form and these behaviors have consequences. People are wishy-washy unless there’s money associated in the transaction. Then, they’re charming and nice. I rather have those then assholes. We can monetize each behavior, make it some sort of economic interaction and reward others for being nice to each other. Like a Good Samaritan who prevents a robbery from happening or reward the person who takes the last cookie by giving her a little Peet’s coffee card. If we make each transaction, like in the post office, between customer and clerk, a real economic one, rather than the failed social ones we currently have, then we could possibly make this world more civil. Would that be disingenuous? Does Capitalism make it all civil?
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Minion
No disrespect to the slaves of the world but your jobs suck! Being a minion is working for the master—your overseer. Anytime your job involves booking, calling, scheduling, coordinating, organizing, reminding and purchasing…that is minion’s work. A call to arms you Slavic fools and cubicle drools! All minions cast off your modern chains of cell phones, SMS FaceBook and Twitter updates, your Myspace accounts and free yourselves.
I am a realist; almost all jobs require minion work. Most lower and some higher. It’s the lower minion class that irks me. We can be a minion to our kids or parents or loved ones—that’s fine. It’s healthy to help them. But a minion to your job is not. I would say being a minion is now a disease, like that of alcoholism. Minions are growing because the service sector (the key housing statistic of minions like me) keeps expanding, and we’ll still be in demand ten years from now when our parents are too weak to wipe their asses!
You know that movie scene in V for Vendetta when actress Natalie Portman is imprisoned and tortured by her mentor, V? She thinks the bad guys have her but the ensuing days of interrogation break her down mentally and physically until her capturer, V, thinks she has had an epiphany and suddenly releases her. She discovers, to her disgust and dismay, as well as the audience, that she’s been held in V’s cramped New York apartment all the time! What a mind fuck! Of course, at the end of the film he dies (oh! the sympathy of tears) and she cries (“I really do love him!”) and has more respect for him despite her beat down. Here’s the small analogy: being that we’re her (Portman) and our employer is him (The Vster), and at the end of the film or our day at work, we are still indoctrinated and fight and defend the status quo. Minions reject this!
V wanted her to understand the feeling of being a minion and well, she did, perhaps but we who also may gripe and grumble about the injustice of it all, are still seduced by the big, fat pay check: the rewards of servitude to the master. My paycheck is about 41,000 a year. That’s barely enough to live without a car, in a shared 3-bedroom apartment on the Westside of L.A. V wanted to start a revolution whereas your humbled and chained writer, dear reader, doesn’t. He wants to be a minion. I can’t follow or be a follower and besides the economy is expanding!
If I was a caring, Che Guevara type of revolutionary (I like him better than Mao because facial hair looks cooler than a clean shaven revolutionary face), I would gather the forces and fight. But for this minion it’s particularly discouraging and evident to me that when I do organize something revolutionary, like a simple breakfast run to the cafeteria at work; my three coworkers respectfully decline and politely say no. So, ha! to the revolution! And, if you’re not hungry for it because you’re still full from yesterday’s leftovers from the “big meeting” in which we quietly pecked at the leftovers like vultures, then you won’t go. I still picking my teeth.
I am a realist; almost all jobs require minion work. Most lower and some higher. It’s the lower minion class that irks me. We can be a minion to our kids or parents or loved ones—that’s fine. It’s healthy to help them. But a minion to your job is not. I would say being a minion is now a disease, like that of alcoholism. Minions are growing because the service sector (the key housing statistic of minions like me) keeps expanding, and we’ll still be in demand ten years from now when our parents are too weak to wipe their asses!
You know that movie scene in V for Vendetta when actress Natalie Portman is imprisoned and tortured by her mentor, V? She thinks the bad guys have her but the ensuing days of interrogation break her down mentally and physically until her capturer, V, thinks she has had an epiphany and suddenly releases her. She discovers, to her disgust and dismay, as well as the audience, that she’s been held in V’s cramped New York apartment all the time! What a mind fuck! Of course, at the end of the film he dies (oh! the sympathy of tears) and she cries (“I really do love him!”) and has more respect for him despite her beat down. Here’s the small analogy: being that we’re her (Portman) and our employer is him (The Vster), and at the end of the film or our day at work, we are still indoctrinated and fight and defend the status quo. Minions reject this!
V wanted her to understand the feeling of being a minion and well, she did, perhaps but we who also may gripe and grumble about the injustice of it all, are still seduced by the big, fat pay check: the rewards of servitude to the master. My paycheck is about 41,000 a year. That’s barely enough to live without a car, in a shared 3-bedroom apartment on the Westside of L.A. V wanted to start a revolution whereas your humbled and chained writer, dear reader, doesn’t. He wants to be a minion. I can’t follow or be a follower and besides the economy is expanding!
If I was a caring, Che Guevara type of revolutionary (I like him better than Mao because facial hair looks cooler than a clean shaven revolutionary face), I would gather the forces and fight. But for this minion it’s particularly discouraging and evident to me that when I do organize something revolutionary, like a simple breakfast run to the cafeteria at work; my three coworkers respectfully decline and politely say no. So, ha! to the revolution! And, if you’re not hungry for it because you’re still full from yesterday’s leftovers from the “big meeting” in which we quietly pecked at the leftovers like vultures, then you won’t go. I still picking my teeth.
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