Strike is over...

Well, its late.
The strike ended yesterday. I still had to go into work for an hour or two today,
but we were allowed home by 8:30.
I prett much spent the day sleeping with a short break for lunch, and to take
Ian (home from Iraq) to the airport. He's been moving his stuff out of
the basement all weekend he's moving into an apartment in Seattle with his "wife" (can you stand the scandle) Mary Kay. His wife sent out a e-mail on the subject. I included it for shits and grins.

For the record, I'm not her mother.
--------

Dear Mom,

I'm moving in with Ian. We're in love and we want to mingle our silverware, mix our tee-shirts in the laundry basket, have waffles for dinner, and read the same morning newspaper.

I know that you're against men and women living together, and what will the neighbors say and all that, and while I'm grateful for the decades of food, shelter, education and moral guidance, I'm 31 years old and I'm ready to make my own decisions.

And so, Ian and I are moving in together.

Our new home is a one-story duplex in Ballard, the ancestral home of Seattle's Scandinavian fishermen. Interestingly, the house is part of a row of houses built for soldiers returning from World War II. It's not fancy, but the inside is pretty and bright. It's a one-bedroom (because when you move in together, you only need one bedroom), but has a large basement.

Here's the address should you want to drop by, and phone number, if you'd like to call first:

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Seattle, WA XXXXXX (Yeah you don't get this, you're not her Ma)
(206) XXX XXXXX

While we're talking about big changes, I also want to mention that Three Ring Communications will be running on low power for a while.

Seattle Mayor Greg Nickels has hired me as a writer for his communications team. I'll be writing all kinds of stuff behind the scenes, and working with a whole bunch of really smart people. And while the dress code is a little more rigid than the "Pajama Day, Everyday!"-ethos that I've become accustomed to, the opportunity to work for the Mayor is too good to pass up.

I start June 2, which gives me just enough time to go to Colorado with Ian (where there will be-- you guessed it-- ONE hotel room). We will be attending the Third Armored Cavalry Regiment memorial service and ball, as well as reuniting with Ian's army buddies, a.k.a., the Council of Captains.

I know that me living with a GUY and working for a DEMOCRAT is coming as a big shock, and I'm sorry about that. I just want you -- and everyone -- to know that you could not have been a better mother. Sometimes, you just get a bad seed.

Lots of love,

Mary Kay

Strike Day 3 (Make work for everyone)

Orders from on High, Work everyone 12 hours so
there is no back log.

No one is to go home early. Regardless if there is
work on not.


Problems --
Most systems are down.
We got in at 7:00AM must customers resent being called at 7:00AM
on Sunday. So we sit on our buts for 2-3 hours waiting for a decent time to call. Once we call we realize that or the same
problem is being worked again and again.
One customer was called seven times today to followup
on the same problem. (Note the problem was never solved.)


Suggestions for work --

Give half the crew shovels, dig holes.
Switch
Give the other half shovels, have them fill in holes.

General Mood: Getting worse.
Rumours: Abound, simple e-mails get cascaded.

Chorus to a song I wrote this morning:

You take 16 calls and whadda ya get?
Another day older and people that fret.
Saint Peter don't you call me 'Cause --
I can't go…Some Texans and a Union
Have imprisoned my soul.

Strike Day 2 (a.k.a. what it must of been like to invade Iraq)

So, all nothing broke loose today. Got to work at 7:00AM. Turns out there is no plan for what we should be doing, or for that matter when. Call Center is scheduled to open at 8:30. Lines come on at 8:30. We are instructed to log on at 7:00. We then sit for 90 minutes with silent headset waiting for calls which are not coming.

8:30-10:30 we take calls from customers.
10:30 We are instructed to stop and we should call customers who we could not help yesterday.

11:00 Tool/Database with customer follow-up tickets goes down. We are instructed to log out.

11:15 we go to lunch.
11:45 We come back from lunch and look at each other till 4:00PM.
The lines close at 1:00 PM. We really start to look at each other.
We cruise the web, e-mail co-workers, make fun of each other.
4:00 We start to ask the point of us being at work.
4:05 We are told we must stay till 7:00PM stop raising a stink.
4:06 We cruise the web some more.
6:35 Straw boss(buck sargent in Iraqie Army) gives us sheets of paper orders us to
call two customers before we go home.
6:36 We consider shooting our sargent.
6:37 I send e-mails to my right wing employees, ask if they are pack'n.

6:55 Declare anarchy. (I out rank everyone in call center) We go home.

Plans for tommorrow.

7:00 AM Go to work
(Hide shotgun under trench coat.)
9:30ish Shoot Sargent
9:35 Go to brunch.

Strike Duty Day One

Twelve hour shift from 7AM to 7PM.
Job Assignment - Service Rep.
Duties: Answer phones, explain our kooky bills. Write orders for new phone
lines etc.
Problems:
Couldn't find my badge this morning, almost got counted tardy.
I put my feet up on my desk while working. Was scolded by a manager three levels below me.
I smiled. I wonder if she knows I do that to my mahogany desk?

Needs: BEER!

Tomorrow: Wearing Short T-shirt and Sandles. If I'm going to be called a scab, I
might as well look the part.

STRIKE THREE WE are OUT

So, the union at my company called a strike. Tomorrow at what seems like the middle of the night to me: 7:00 AM. I have to be a customer care agent. The Union has the brilliant idea of a four day strike. For this reason I have to work Saturday and Sunday 12 hours. 7AM-7PM. I guess this is like a demonstration strike or something. Net result I give up my serious beer drinking and home repair time.


GRRRRRR!!!!!

I'm a marked man

I was in the park in SF the other day. I had went to the Bay to Breakers. Pretty much the Bay to Breakers foot race is more a walk, with a lot of beer. So it seems. I got to the race at 9:30. One hour after it started, got off BART, walked through the Civic Center to Hayes and picked up the end of the race. By the time John (my fellow observer) had reached Golden Gate Park two miles away, we’d passed half of the participants. (Note, we were just walking normally.) It was easy to pass them as most seemed to be pushing various contraptions mainly outfitted to carry kegs. This required lots of stops to fill cups, mouths, etc. Also, stops were needed to find bushes and trees. I’ve only drank beer at 8:00 in the morning once in my life, and I was at the Santa Rosa Highland games. Call me conventional, but it felt just weird enough, I haven’t felt the need to repeat.

I bring up beer and the resulting need for bushes and trees, because later in the day, sitting in the Mission Delores dog Park, with a great view of the Bay, peacefully watching pooches frolic with each other in the midday sun, one walked up behind me, lifted his leg and marked his territory on my back. His owner just said, “Sorry about that,” and quickly left. I never actually saw her or the annimal. I was too busy taking my shirt off. So, by the time I looked around, she and the mutt had gone over the hill. Probably afraid I’d loose my cool. At least, the owner probably did, the dog just probably felt relieved. But, I didn’t loose it, I just took off my shirt and put on the fleece I had in my backpack. But as I walked down to the 16th and Mission BART station for my ride back to Berkeley I did muse with John what the greater meaning of the event might be.

First, I hoped that had been marked by an exotic breed, a Mastiff --a Sealyham Terrier. --No, not a terrier, a St. Bernard or a Basset hound. John assured me it was just a mutt. Great, I was marked by a mutt. Not even something of breeding. I was no better than a tree stump or a bush to a mutt and an inconsiderate owner.
If the dog needs a bush to mark, I know a Bush he can mark. That’s if the dog is taking appointments.”

But in the meantime, nobody can give me a hard time for upper middle class life style any more. I know what is like to be tinkled on.

Cost Benefit Analysis of an Experiment

As of yesterday May 11, 2004, 772 U.S service people have died in Iraq.

I was thinking about that figure the other day as I was watching about 13 or 14 dead people’s faces flash before me on TV. Hardly a day goes by were there aren’t at least one or two shown at the end of the news broadcasts. I don’t really have a comment on the right or wrong of our nation building experiment in Iraq. It’s too late for that. I had an opinion 18 months ago when we as a nation were thinking about conducting that experiment . I even wrote my congress women about it. (Barbara Boxer, Barbara Lee, and Diane Feinstein) They sent me their opinions back. Two (the Barbara’s) agreed with me, Diane did not. Senator Feinstein said she had special knowledge that I did not. So, she had to disagree with me. –It turns out her special knowledge was wrong. I haven’t asked what her opinion is now.

But I have a question or two for her now. It’s more an open question for all of our leaders we elect. What is the limit of Americans we are willing too kill, one or two daily, to stop the occasional terrorist attack? There were 2948 people killed by Al Qaeda on 9/11. George Bush told us that the reason we needed to invade Iraq was to stop Saddam Hussein from giving weapons of mass destruction to Al Qaeda. If Al Qaeda got those weapons they’d use them on New York and kill a million people! Now, if Saddam had just had those weapons to give. But he didn’t so the people of New York are relatively safe. But that aside, now we are now bringing, ah…ah… Democracy and stability to the region. So what if it costs us a few lives a day? One of my less enlightened co-workers said, “Hell, that many people get shot on the streets of Oakland a day.” I wonder if the administration thinks that way? I hope not.

But back to the experiment limit question. Today May 12, we have American Service Personnel body count of 772. We won’t discuss the other two-three thousand injured or maimed. We also won’t discuss the 20, 000 or so Iraqi’s also killed. We won’t discuss the fact that for every one or two Marines that die, 10-15 Iraqi’s die a day. Sometimes a hundred Iraqi’s with well placed car bomb. I know, I know, we aren’t planting the car bombs. We are just the catalyst in the experiment. You can’t blame the catalyst for a reaction, just for enhancing it. So we’ll ignore the dead Iraqi’s. They are just a by product of the reaction in our experiment that creates democracy. So let’s just look at the dead American by products. We have 772 going up at an average of 2-4 a day lately. When do we decide this is a bad reaction? 1000? 2000? 2948? At 2948 we will have killed more Americans than Al Qaeda. What do we do then? Declare war on ourselves to save democracy?

The Pink Panther is no longer Pink.

For those who have visited my house (known as the Pink Panther) over the last five years, you will be quite familiar with my pink issues. The house “was” (operational modifier here being “WAS”) covered with rather interesting cake frosting/whipped cream layered stucco. This had been then painted “Pink”. Pink like Pepto Bismo. There have been various theories offered over the years as to the origin an purpose of this style of stucco. Most of us thought it was added at some point in the 50’s or 60’s as a cheap method of hiding previous sins in remodeling or cracked stucco. It is well known, that the late fifties and early sixties were a time of simple cheapness when it comes to architecture so it seemed a good explanation. Plus this house was broken into a rental triplex at some point around 1960 or so. Cheapness rules when it comes to rentals. Also the previous owner of the abode, had a fascination with pink. There was pink wall to wall carpet, pink wall paper, pink toilets, and pink waste paper baskets. Need I go on in Pink? I pink not. I even wrote a poem about my houses pinkness just after I bought it.

Mrs. Pink:
A year has gone, since I gave green for these walls.
For that flush red you embedded in this house.
Pink petals on pin striped paper took some gall.
I can not live in this jail you built for your spouse.
These sweet rose rooms have thorns of little bold.
How can a man stand erect in such a place?
Pink fucking carpet, pricks me into a cliché' mold.
I do battle to save the dignity of my race.
Forgive this sledge I strike upon your child
Don't screech at the crowbar in the womb.
This quick bright pain will be relatively mild,
But I will tear this pink from every Goddamn room.



Well, about 10 days ago tomorrow a very nice guy named Amir, showed up with a bunch of guys that work with him on a regular basis and knocked all pink off the sides of my house. (For a small fee.) --And I do mean knocked. Starting at 7:30AM each day, they beat on the stucco with hammers for a week., it was a great alarm for the whole neighborhood. As it crumbled, they trucked the pink away. All that is left is the redwood grooved siding that the stucco was embedded in. They neighbors comment on how much better the house looks now.

Now I mention this as we discovered a couple things.

1. The stucco was the original stucco on the house from 1910.
2. The stucco only had one coat of paint on it. Pink.

Apparently the house was left in a natural cement color for years. This is a common style in the Elmwood Park part of Berkeley, or was, most people painted the stucco after WW II. Now, I know this because, there are about ten coats of paint on the wood trim of the house, and only one of the pink on stucco. This led to me to wonder why anyone would want a cake-frosting house that colored natural cement. I guess there were people with weird tastes in 1910 too.

However, as you can tell from the poem there is another character in this pink story. The man of the house of the family that dwelled here before me. He was a bit of a lunatic. When he sold the house, he left me all his furniture, saying a young guy like me could use help getting started. (He also left me an in operable wringer washer.) Subsequent discussions with him revealed he had converted his profit from the home sale in to gold and he was moving to Fort Bragg CA, because he thought the economy was going to collapse in the Y2K fiasco. It took me nearly to Y2K to get all the crap he left behind out of the house. (Think 25 trips to the dump on Saturdays.) But as I went to the dump with wringer washers, pink waste paper baskets and pink curtains, I would wonder about this guy. He was married to a Asian wife who he met through a “foreign dating service”. Both of his daughters were white, so the mail order bride came later in life. At some point between his marrying his wife and me buying this house, his wife converted him to pink.
Why would a man go pink? Was the sex that good? Was he a frustrated cross dresser and could only bring himself to paint stuff pink? I don’t know. But I do know this, that last vestige of pink got loaded up in a truck last week and went to the dump by a gun name Amir. It took me five and half years, but there ain’t no pink left in or on my house, and I’m pink with joy.